Fort Mason, San Francisco, 1989: It was late night, and the air cool in the parking lot beside the bay. Over the murmer of the movie set, I could just hear the gentle sound of the water, lapping beneath the wharf.

I’d just emerged from Blue Bear School of Music, where I played touch-style bass in a “learn how to play” band, and outside I suddenly found a movie being made. I wandered among the movie folk, striking up a conversation with the sound man, who was bundled up heavy but shifting from foot to foot from the cool air. Hah! Tenderfoot to San Francisco!

As we spoke, Sigourney Weaver walked around a corner, and stood waiting a few feet away.

If, since that night, you’ve seen the movie “Copycat”, you’ll remember that she’s not made up super-glamorous, and in fact she looked like any pleasant-looking woman you might know, a neighbor, a friend, a co-worker.

Though I’m inquisitive and not very shy, something in the abstracted way she stood seemed to say she’d not welcome conversation, neither from fans nor movie-folks. Maybe she’s a method actor. The movie people didn’t speak to her, and I didn’t either.

But the startling thing was my sudden realization how much she and my once-wife Lori resembled each other.

Perhaps it was the makeup or the moment. Or perhaps it’s the surprising way that seeing someone from television or the movies, often they look different in person. Some years previous, in a bowling alley downtown, I’d seen Clint Eastwood enter the door as Dirty Harry in the making, and it was odd. He was strikingly handsome in real-life where on screen he always just looked grim.

So Sigorney, looking like Lori in a long black coat, stood pensive and waiting. Nothing happened for a long time. Everybody was quiet, except for a small group huddling over some paperwork. The sound man shifted in the cool breeze.

Then there was some calling out, and Ms. Weaver went inside to be filmed above the street on a balcony. More standing around ensued. Finally something seemed to happen, though I didn’t actually see anything happen.

“Does this just take forever?” I asked the sound man. He bade me to silence with a wave, listening to his headphones, then turned some knobs on the small console.

“Yeah,” he said. “Forever. Paul Newman once described making a movie as the Ten-Yard Dash.”

The ten-yard dash.

I don’t think I’d like it. Acting is not for me. I’d rather watch apple slices turn brown.

Perhaps it’s just as well I’m not Paul Newman.

Mount Shasta, March 14, 2004: Today is bright and clear and the air fresh, promising Spring. Our dog Tulip, retrieved from the animal hospital with terrible blood tests, spent a bad night. Tulip cannot sleep, will not eat, throws up bile. Her body is failing; overnight she is ancient. Thin and gaunt, she shivers and trembles. Tulip is dying.

Because of blood and bile, she had to sleep in the kitchen. She wanted her own bed. She wanted her life back, but that life is gone now, fading as we watch.

Today she visited beside me in the office. This is her job, and comforts her, though she shivers, gasps, rail-thin.

I had to lift her up the steps. She is weak, and fading.

Adrienne and I spent much of last night, and most of today, sitting with Tulip while she is dying.

Tulip fades.

[From Bankrate.com:] More responses for your telemarketer-calling pleasure —

CHARLES THE POET
Answer with: “I am so glad you called, I just finished some poetry that I wanted to try out. I will be glad to listen to the rest of your call if you’ll listen to my poem.”

“Sometimes, in life, you find, that if you try, as you will and have before, you may be …”

Now fill in the rest with rambling nonsense for about a minute; then stop. When the telemarketer starts to talk, cut him off and start rambling again for another few minutes. Continue this as many times as is necessary until he hangs up.

If the telemarketer is persistent, you ask:

“Did you like the poem?”

If he says yes, ask which part he liked the best. Demand specifics, and then comment at length on the emotional angst and spiritual juxtaposition of the part he has chosen.

NO PHONE
“I’m sorry, but we don’t have a telephone.”

SANTALAND
Answer: “One moment.” Make pausing and clicking sounds. Then answer: “This is Buddy the Elf.” Then talk very very fast about a shipment and some problems in the workshop, so that they don’t understand you when you then say, “Loser says what?” Repeat as needed.

RADIO STATION
You answer: “Caller number nine, you’re on the air. What song would you like to hear?”

January 1979: R.J.’s mother had been a music major, and so when they joined the small rural church, perhaps it was natural that she volunteered to lead the music, since they had nobody to play piano or organ.

However, since she’d been a vocal major, in fact she couldn’t play piano or organ either, but that didn’t slow her down. She got a three-ring binder, and wrote in the lyrics, and above the lyrics she wrote the chord symbols such as “C”, “D7”, and “G”. Then, she’d strum her autoharp and lead the choir, singing sweetly together.

About that time, two brothers who were truck drivers started attending the church, and in a rural church, since it’s the custom for everybody to pitch in, it soon developed that they were standing behind R.J.’s mom with their two guitars.

She’d start playing the next song, and they would listen for a measure or two, and then they would follow along. And follow along they could, quite well.

One day, she saw them huddled around her three-ring binder, and she overheard their discussion.

“What are those letters written above the words?” asked one of the truckers. His brother gaped at him.

“What’s wrong with you?”, his brother replied, “Can’t you read music?”

[From Bankrate.com:] Further responses for your telemarketer-calling pleasure —

TRIXIE’S
Assuming that you have caller-ID, and know it’s not your friends or your mom, you answer: “Trixie’s Call Girl Service. Press ‘one’ for an appointment. Press ‘two’ if you are seeking employment. Press ‘three’ if you are a law enforcement officer.”

Then, no matter what they say, or what touch-tones they press, repeat the above.

QUALITY CONTROL
After they’ve started, you say, “This is good! Hang on!” Make a clicking sound, then say, “The rest of this call is being recorded for quality assurance.”

If they stumble or say anything, jump on it suspiciously. Interrupt more and more, and begin to ask for their name and callback number and the name of their supervisor. If you wish, pretend to yell to someone offline, saying, “Joyce! Pick up line six. It’s one of our guys. You won’t believe this!”

THE FEDS
Interrupt them and demand to know how they got this number. Before they can reply, tell them to be quiet and listen, because there’s not much time.

Tell them federal agents are en route to their location, and to follow your instructions to the letter if they want to avoid being shot. Tell them to shut down their computer and all other devices in their office, hang up and unplug the phone, then to kneel down in the middle of the room. They are then to cross their ankles and place their hands on their head and stay that way until the agents arrive. Then hang up.