An #SDCC2015 Artists Alley Volunteer Friend in Need: Clydene Nee

Dear Friends,

Our friend Clydene Nee has been the angel helping #comics #artists and creators at #SDCC2015 San Diego Comic-Con International for decades in Artists’ Alley. Today, she needs our help. Here is a link and below is her story – she is a diabetic kidney dialysis patient who is the victim of an administrative error, so she is not being covered with disability from her work and she can no longer work, as she is losing her vision. If a LOT of people donated even a couple of bucks and skipped their Starbucks for today, it would make a world of difference to her. Here is her Go Fund Me link:

http://www.gofundme.com/xuredg

#SDCC2015 Artists' Alley volunteer Clydene Nee needs our help!

#SDCC2015 Artists’ Alley volunteer Clydene Nee needs our help!

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My Friend Peter Harper’s First Solo Album

The immensely talented artist, musician an all-around ridiculously handsome PETER HARPER.

The immensely talented artist, musician, and all-around ridiculously handsome PETER HARPER.

Peter Harper is one of my friends whom I don’t chat with for a while, but when I do, it’s always invigorating and feels like no time has passed. He and I first connected when he was doing his amazing art project, “Faces of Life” Masks (which he’s still curating) and I was scheduling UFC Champ client Bas Rutten, TV attorney client Jeffrey Brown, and True Blood/Magic Mike actor Joe Manganiello to get their face masks done. (I think Bas was the only one brazen enough to do his with an open mouth.)

I feel bad about it, but somehow I had totally missed out on the fact that Peter produced an album and has been touring all over the place. To rectify that, here’s an iTunes link to his album: https://itunes.apple.com/us/album/peter-harper/id73107349 If his last name is familiar, Peter is brother to musical talent, Ben Harper, but Peter totally holds his own musically. What a ridiculously talented family! If you watch the “Take it Home” video, you’ll discover a unique guitar…which Peter crafted himself. Like I said…ridiculously talented.

Peter’s music is easy. Soul soothing. Pour yourself a glass of (insert your favorite mellow beverage here) and give it a listen. Here’s your link to do so:

http://peterharper.net

 

This Morning: The Weird Baby Incident

A few of my non-Mormon Sister Wives and I decided to have breakfast and go see the new ENTOURAGE movie today. In a rare twist of fate, this was our second Sister Wives adventure this week, the first being a paradise pool party on Tuesday, a few doors down from Donnie Wahlberg and Jenny McCarthy’s new abode in the Chicago suburbs. This adventure didn’t end well for one of our Sister Wives…who awoke on a poolside chaise lounge at 9:30 p.m. in a Chardonnay-induced haze and is likely just now eating solid foods again. I hope the new neighbors weren’t offended that we blasted Marky Mark’s “Good Vibrations” vs. Donnie’s vintage croons.

Towards the end of breakfast, four of us Sister Wives were deep into a conversation about botox when a stranger in her late 40s to mid 50s–we are still debating her age–approached our table with a 6-month-old in a baby carrier. She looked at my friend Ophelia (we think so, anyway–we’re still puzzling over whom she was actually addressing) and said, “Do you want to see Baby Bentley, too?” We all looked up, with our collectively confused, WTF facial expressions. Did we know this woman? And why was she was foisting her baby on us? “He’s my sister’s twin baby,” she continued, by way of some nutty, non sequitur explanation. “There’s another one just like him,” she added. And then she abruptly walked away, baby carrier in hand, off to pay her bill. Once she was out of earshot, the table erupted into a mad scramble of a debate, trying to figure out who among us knew her. None of us did.

Since I’m the freak magnet who attracts every Gary Busey-type within a 10-mile radius without even trying, and Ophelia is my rare equal in this odd magnetism trait I’ve grown to accept over the years, we’re doubly charismatic-dangerous when we’re together. A reality TV show with Ophelia, me, and Gary Busey would be something to watch, I assure you. Of course my writer’s mind goes into overdrive, building a tale where this woman’s a child trafficker who dresses up like a nurse and grabs newborns from the local hospital. She did have crazy eyes, maybe just a little bit.

SO NOT me, or Sister Wife C, either.

SO NOT me, or Sister Wife C, either.

“Apparently my baby repellant is no longer working,” snarked Sister Wife C. I burst out laughing. She and I are so on the same page about this. We aren’t proud to admit it, but we deplored that whole baby mama stage of life. I’m probably the only person I know who doesn’t relish the smell of new babies. They always smell like oily hair to me, which is not a smell I enjoy. Neither is that sickening sweet baby powder smell. I never used it on Jack for that reason. Jack barely makes it out of the shower with his noxious AXE hair products and I’m already smelling oily hair on him and sending him back in for a second try. The whole baby mama thing didn’t get fun for me until Jack was probably about 1 and could walk and talk a little. Prior to that, he had his flashes of genius, but mostly, I was impatient for the next phase and bored, bored, bored. There are only so many cute moments to make up for All. That. Poop.

We finally made it to ENTOURAGE at the fancy pants theater, where you sit in a recliner with a pillow and blanket while they serve you Death by Chocolate Cake drizzled in caramel with extra whipped cream on the side (I’m not so big on the chocolate, so thank you, Sister Wife Ophelia, for putting that whipped cream on the side just for me). ENTOURAGE was such a fun, funny, and occasionally poignant movie. Jeremy Piven‘s Ari Gold character was perfection. I liken ENTOURAGE to a class reunion–all the familiar faces you miss, minus the awkwardness of actually having to be there. And then one of the main characters had to go and have a baby. And that got me wondering… I sure hope there aren’t any babies missing from the local hospital roughly six months ago…checking…

Lesson Learned: Don’t Ever Say The Chicago Blackhawks “Made a Point!”

Marovich and I played our first round of tennis last night for this season. It felt so good. We decided to serve and volley for the cardio, rather than play out actual points…except that Marovich couldn’t stick to the script…she cannot resist abruptly ending a great back-and-forth volley with one of her decisive killer shots. Sadly, in neither racquetball nor tennis is my 1.5″ height advantage over her 5’4″ Mighty Mouse physique any advantage at all.

Tennis Bitches

Tennis Bitches–We belong on a Wheaties box!

Post-tennis, Marovich tried schooling me on hockey, since our Chicago Blackhawks are once again in the Stanley Cup play-offs, and we were watching the game. “They made a point!” I squealed, caught up in the excitement of the last minutes of the tight game. Marovich’s head whipped around faster than Regan in The Exorcist, scowling at me in disgust and shaking her head. “Promise me you will never utter those words again. They scored a goal.” My sports vernacular is sorely lacking, but at least I didn’t ask “How many quarters are there in a game?” like her brother Joe once did, which I brought up right away, attempting to make myself look like less of an idiot. It feels like for the past several months the Blackhawks been in some form of play-offs, and every time I specifically asked, “So when do they actually play for the Stanley Cup???” Marovich would deliver this long-winded explanation of all of the play-off games and series they’d have to complete…with my ADD, it was forming this confusing, infinite M.C. Escher painting in my mind’s eye, and sounding a lot like Charlie Brown’s muffled teacher…I think there was something in there about having to sacrifice albino virgins during high tide in a harvest moon. I know nothing about hockey, but I did have my Blackhawks brush with greatness back in the early ’90s when the Hawks were playing for the Stanley Cup. Blackhawks player Chris Chelios lived in the same Oak Brook neighborhood where I was working out of Jan Gabriel‘s home, writing and producing motorsports TV series, “The Super Chargers.” Jan even shared the same cleaning lady, so I knew which house was Chelios’. (She steadfastly refused my requests to steal a pair of his boxers.) The morning after they lost the Stanley Cup, I drove past Chelios’ home and there was this guy passed out on his front porch. I was actually concerned he might be dead, so I pulled over, got out of my car, and poked at his unconscious body with my foot. He stirred a little, and I recognized who he was, and that he was just drunk. I rolled him over so he wouldn’t aspirate on his own vomit (Hey, with my anxieties, SPINAL TAP is a cautionary tale).  The snoring carbon life form was one of Chelios’ Blackhawks team mates, who shall remain nameless. I didn’t follow the Blackhawks too closely after that, but perhaps my random act of kindness was some sort of tipping point, like George Bailey saving his brother from drowning, or preventing the grieving pharmacist Gower from that deadly pill prescription error in “It’s a Wonderful Life.” I’ll never know… and I’ll never know sports speak without the benefit of Marovich’s incessant, stern coaching.