When Bad Times Are Actually Quite Good

I spoke to my friend Rhonda back in DC yesterday, and asked her about the mood in America right now. I had already heard from my friend Lisa that the economy was all everyone in the states was talking about. Rhonda agreed that the mood in DC was not the best, and since she's in the event sales division of a high-end restaurant group, she's waiting to see what happens. Many companies may not book a restaurant for this year's Christmas party, and have it in their office cafeteria instead. She worries about her job. But, the interesting thing she said was something like, "This will make Christmas pretty bad for most people."

Having lost mostly every "thing" in my life, I can watch the economic downturn in America, and in the world, with a bit of emotional distance. It's the comfortable position of someone who has nothing else to lose. I have no investments to worry about. My load has been lightened, by choice, as well as by circumstance. But last Christmas was not a bad one for me, and as the weather gets crispy here in Paris, I look forward eagerly to this Christmas. To the blue lights that are strung across the streets, to the amazing displays in the specialty food store windows, to the fois gras booths set up in the markets. I love to just look at it all!

I think the assumption that Christmas will be bad this year for some people in America, is based on the culture of consumption. If we don't have a beautiful tree in our living room with hundreds of wrapped gifts underneath it, the world, as we know it, will come to an end. If that's true, then maybe it should end. All of the "stuff" that we consume doesn't fill our emptiness of spirit. We buy so that we can have a quick emotional fix. We get excited about a new jacket or shoes, and then wear them once and they no longer have the energy they had when we first bought them. We buy more and more stuff and we struggle to find a place to put it all. The more stuff we have, the more we have to worry about losing it.

I feel very free without all my stuff. I feel so free of stuff, that when I'm tempted to buy something, I think twice about it. I usually walk away. I think about my tiny apartment and the lack of storage and the fact that I already have enough stuff, so unless it fulfills a critical NEED, it ain't coming home with me.

My joy right now comes from the people in my life, and the times we can spend together laughing, crying when necessary, and sharing our insights and dreams. The true gifts in my life are the friends and family I have, and the memories of our times spent together. They give me gifts of love and support on a regular basis. And I try to send them love, and listen to their hopes and fears too. These gifts are lasting, nothing else is.

Last Christmas was lovely. And there was very little money. But I found a tiny live Charly Brown Christmas tree abandoned on the street near my apartment, and there were lights here to string upon it, and I had a feast up here, looking out on the Paris skyline. We drank cheap bubbly and ate steamed lobsters at some ridiculous price like 3 Euros each! We had a big cake that cost nothing, and we warmed up vanilla cream sauce to pour on top of it. Somebody brought a bottle of Poire William, and we toasted the season.

This Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years, cook a simple meal at home, invite your friends and family, and leave the TV off. Sit across from each other, look each other in the eyes, and tell them how much you appreciate the fact that they are in your life. If you must give gifts, give only one gift to each person. Make a big deal about presenting it. Stand up and sing them a song, write them a poem, or a short story, or draw them a picture. Make a collage for them, cutting out pictures and words from magazines that you think represent the best parts of them. Hand it over to them and say, this is a picture of all the wonderful things I see in you.

Then, if you have a piano, or some musical instruments, sit around and play easy songs that everybody knows. Let the kids bang the tambourines or drums. Don't try and be perfect, just try and play along. Sing easy and fun songs.

I promise you, that instead of this being the worst Christmas you ever had, it will be the best. You may never want to go back to the never-ending hampster-wheel of corporate consumption. Maybe it's finally time to get off of the shopping train that never stops, until you are in terrible debt, and yet still unfulfilled. Stop letting unconscious advertising drive you to wanting more and more and more. Slow down. Look around you at all the natural beauty, and at the faces of your loved ones.

Then, not only will the 2008 holiday season be full of lasting memories and joy, but 2009 will be the best year you ever had.

Lullaby Puts Puppies To Sleep

I found this on Radioloab. If not for the scientific interest, watch it for the cuteness factor. My lullaby is the theme song for Mystery Science Theater. I just start one of those shows on Google video or YouTube and before the song is over, I'm asleep. But I can never be as cute as these puppies. (If you are reading this post in an email, click through to my blog to watch the video.)

What I've Learned About Smoking

This little habit that I've taken up, after at least ten years of abstinence, continues to be an interesting journey. It fascinates me that I'm still smoking when I hate the taste, hate the smell, and it makes me dizzy. I wouldn't be surprised if smoking contributed to me passing out in a restaurant this summer. Plus, I'm paying about $8.00 a pack. When I was smoking in my 20's, one pack cost 75 cents. These days, I have to skip a meal to justify my habit.

Well, that won't kill me.

On the train ride down to Biarritz a few weeks ago, I had the pleasure of reading David Sedaris' book When You Are Engulfed In Flames. He is a funny guy, to say the least (even though saying the least is not my strong suit). And, he talked about how smoking made him dizzy and he liked that. I'm not one to dismiss somebody's legal high, but I don't look forward to my next cigarette just so that I can have that delicious dizzy feeling. I keep thinking that I get dizzy because I'm just starting out (for the third time in my life). And as soon as I become hard core, the dizziness will stop.

But Mr. Sedaris was an accomplished smoker. A sophisticated, transatlantic smoker. He bought multiple cartons every time he traveled, and asked his friends to bring him more cartons when they visited him in Paris. I wondered where he stored them all. Under the bed? In the attic? Maybe he had a special room, stacked to the ceiling with cigarette cartons. He would go in there, alone, from time to time, and gaze upon them with pleasure, and stroke the boxes lovingly. If this paragon of smoking was still getting dizzy enough to write an ode to his first-drag dizziness, then I better get used to being dizzy.

On that train ride, I noticed other smokers for the first time. I didn't see them when I wasn't smoking. They're pretty quiet. But they know all the stops along the way, and as the train comes 'round the bend and into the station, they walk down the aisle towards the end of the car, steadying themselves by gripping the seats along the way, so that they can jump onto the platform for the very few minutes that the train will be stopped. They don't know each other, but they share a common bond. They nod in a businesslike way, and offer their lighters. Then they stand silently, looking down at their shoes or far down the tracks into the distance, and take quick, long puffs. There's not enough time for a whole cigarette, so when they hear the bell, they toss what's left of about forty cents onto the tracks, and climb back into the car.

I thought about joining them. After all, it was a five hour ride. A long time, in cancer years, to go without a cigarette. And I sort of wanted to feel like I was a member of this furtive but exclusive club, if at least for a few moments. In the old days, it would have been a great way to meet men. But these days, my jowls seem to get in the way. That's ok, I had visions of me getting dizzy and missing the bell anyway. There I'd be, out on a platform somewhere between the vineyards of Bordeaux, La forêt des Landes and Dax, with the sound of my train fading away in the distance. My longtime fear of being lost or stranded trumped my desire to be one of the smokin' boyz.

I also wanted to pride myself in the fact that I wasn't as addicted as them. I didn't need to step out for a smoke, I just thought it would be a nice thing to do. Those poor guys have such a desperate need, such a jones for their addiction, but me, I just have a casual, social habit. I can quit any time.

I can quit the kind of casual, social habit that kills you, evidently. In France, they're not so subtle about their anti-smoking messages. In America, the focus is on the interests of the corporation (I'm sure many of you have figured that one out in the last few weeks), and not on consumer interests. So, their death threats are small, easy to miss. In France, it's exactly the opposite. Therefore, tobacco companies have a tiny place on the pack for their logo, maybe two or three more lines for ingredients, and the rest of the pack is covered with huge dire warnings:

SMOKING KILLS.


















SMOKING CAN DRAW AWAY A SLOW AND PAINFUL DEATH.

















Alrighty then! Certain death stares up at me, in big black block letters, as I go through the ritual - the only thing I really remember about smoking in my youth. There's so much pleasure in the buildup, the foreplay. Opening my purse, searching for the pack. Opening the flap of the box, sliding a fragile stick out, putting it in my mouth. Then searching for, and finding the lighter. It's now that I look up, and around. I don't see anything, but I want this moment to last a second longer. Me, with my fresh new unsmoked cigarette in between my lips, my right hand wrapped around the lighter, my left hand cupped protectively around the future flame site, right thumb poised on the flick switch, hovering just below the business end of the cigarette. A perfect stance. One to hold on to. The deciding moment. Just before the climax of the cigarette, the lighting of it, and the first inhale. That first inhale is heaven on earth.

After that luscious moment, everything else is shit. Blech. Pull after pull of noxious fumes, the brown stain of poisonous, addictive nicotine growing darker on the end of the once-pristine filter. Hard evidence of my folly. The chemical additives make it burn faster. Thank God. When can this be over, I start thinking. When can I justify throwing away this disgusting, expensive thing? Or must I finish it to the bitter end, making sure I get the best bang, shall we say, for my buck?

If I had servants hovering behind me, holding the tailings of my silk gown above the mud and slush, I'd pass the fucker on to them and let them have at it.

Instead, I wait for the dizziness to reach its zenith. It takes about three hits. Then, my eyes blur a bit, my stomach turns. I carefully flick off the molten end of the cigarette, and put the butt back into my pack. There are pennies there, you know. Pennies I need to save. But the next time I start my foreplay ritual, it disappoints. Because all of the fresh, unsmoked sticks have now been tainted by the insertion of their ashen, stunted brother. Everyone's embarrassed. Including me.

In this most recent book of his, David Sedaris decided that he needed to quit smoking. I don't remember why. For someone who cherished every moment, even the dizziness, I would think he would smoke until he put down his humorous pen for the last time. But, par for the course for Mr. Sedaris (one book and see how familiar I get?), he decided he couldn't just quit quietly. No. He needed to quit big. As big as his room full of cartons. So, he and his lover moved to Tokyo. Japan! That's where smoking is a status symbol. If you don't smoke, there's something wrong with you. Why, this is the perfect place! He also spent a fortune on nicotine lozenges (5 boxes!) and invested in 80 patches and, maybe a few cock rings. I don't know. Whatever works. But he didn't use most of them. He just got all wrapped up in the talking appliances in his Japanese bathroom, and all the places on his body that they so gently, so politely, offered to clean. In hopes of avoiding the washing out of the wrong crevasse, he started taking Japanese lessons.

I've already accomplished step 1. I've run off to a foreign country. Perhaps now I need to take some time and get to know my French toilet. It refuses to speak to me, which I'm sure does not surprise you. Those snooty Parisians! The bath tub, unaccustomed to people who bathe on a daily basis, is currently feeling overworked and is pouting. I'm suspicious of the sink. It tends to run hot and cold. I expect une grève du bain at any moment.

I think I'll have a quick cigarette, and contemplate my strategy.

October 11th: National Coming Out Day

I believe that all human beings are one at the cellular level. Our cells align themselves in different ways, which makes some of us blue-eyed, some of us brown-haired, some of us dark or light skinned, some of us gay, some of us straight. But at the very root, we are all the same.

We have certain rights as human beings, some of which have been made into law in order to protect us from abuse. Like the right to habeus corpus (oops, we lost that one), the right to a fair trial (oops, some of us lost that one too), the right to know who our accusers are (oops, that's gone too), the right to our privacy (Gol-darn! That's gone too!), the right to peaceful protest (Um. Ok, after the Republican National Convention, I guess that one's out the window too), the right to free speech (that one's teetering on the brink). Well, ok, we don't have many more rights left, so let's make sure we appreciate the ones we do have.

It took way too long for women to get the vote, for black people to win equal rights. Someday soon, I hope that America grows up and gives all rights to gay people: all the rights associated with marriage (no, civil unions are NOT enough so don't even go there), the right to be protected from discrimination because of our sexual preferences.

Today, because of a post over at pandagon.net, I found out that it is National Coming Out Day. So, I decided I've been in the closet for way too long. I need to be bold and declare:

I am coming out as a straight person who is an ally of gay people. I went over and signed The Straight For Equality Pledge. I did this because I love my fellow man and fellow woman. I want the best that life can offer to be available to each and every one of us. I'm not talking about material things. I'm talking about the freedom to love one another as we see fit. I stand steadfast and support my fellow human beings and will defend them, at every turn, against ignorance and abuse.

I urge all of you other straight folks out there to do the same.

And for those of you who are gay and have not yet declared yourself, I wish you the courage to do so, in your own time. As a person who just decided to start being myself at the ripe old age of 50, I can tell you that trying to be someone you're not can make you depressed, and physically ill. And while trying so hard to please others in order to be accepted in whatever silly game that was currently being played, I was depriving the world of my most exquisite uniqueness. So, be gentle with yourself, and be bold when you are ready. I'll be there in spirit, cheering you on.

For my friends in Arizona, California and Florida, please...

California: Vote No On Prop 8
Arizona: Vote No On Prop 102
Florida: Say No 2 Campaign

The Paris That American Tourists Rarely See

I recently hosted an old friend of mine and her guy friend when they came to Paris for four days. I'll call her Wanda, and call her friend Reynaldo. (They will be amused, I'm sure.) I met them at the airport so that I could help them navigate the train and Metro to their hotel in St. Germaine. I was so excited to see Wanda, as I have been friends with her since 1985, and even though she faithfully reads my blog and sends me email comments on a regular basis, it's not the same as seeing her skinny little ass right in front of my eyes.

We've had our ups and downs as friends, but mostly ups. She's a Republican, and well, if you've ever girded your loins and wandered over to my political blog, you'll know that I'm not exactly a Republican. On the train ride, Reynaldo, who is a Mormon, said, "This election is so difficult, because there's no good choice available." To which Wanda quickly responded with a big grin, "I told him we should NOT talk politics on this trip." And then I said, "I agree with you Reynaldo, but for different reasons. McCain is definitely not a good choice, and Obama is not liberal ENOUGH." He paused and his face registered surprise. Wanda laughed out loud and said, "See? I told you so."

But she and I never came to blows about politics, as she is an experienced and calm debater. She enjoys a feisty conversation. I have gone off like a shot gun in response to her ill-conceived ideas (always stated with authority but unsubstantiated with facts - nah nah Wanda!) about immigration, for instance, but she has maintained her dignity throughout. So, politics has never been a problem between us. Nor has it been the elephant in the living room, a subject to avoid. She has taught me some interesting things about back-room politics and the realities of political campaigns, and I have taught her, well, nothing. Otherwise, she wouldn't still be such a fool to remain a Republican.

In the beginning of our relationship, she was ten years older than me, and my mentor of sorts. And this type of relationship transitioned naturally, after I became more independent in my thinking. It was at that point when I wanted more depth to our friendship, versus just having an adviser. I got tired of having her always in a superior position, and wanted her as a peer instead. It was when I realized that she "didn't need me" as a friend, that I dropped out.

Time went by, and Wanda experienced the shit that happens to all human beings. She found resistance where previously she had experienced none. She started a new career where public slaughter and humiliation was a regular occurrence. She got divorced from a marriage that was easy going for many years, started dating, and then she had her first heart break. I remember how honored I was when she called to tell me about how sad and confused she felt. She became more human, I think. And she needed me as a friend. I preferred, and still prefer, that form of relationship. She's still older than me, and more experienced and successful in many ways, but what I enjoy the most, is our equality as human beings, and the sharing and mutual support that happens because of it.

In the emails we exchanged prior to her trip, I asked about her objectives - what she and her friend wanted to do or see. She surprised me and said that she didn't want to do any of the typical tourist stuff, she just wanted to meet the people and go to the places that I have written about on my blog. I was delighted, as I didn't know if I could stand another trip up the Eiffel tower, or another meal in a restaurant where the menu is in French and English.

And so, I took them to Chateau Rouge, also known as la Goutte D'or, which means "the drop of gold." It's an ethnic enclave, teeming with North Africans in their colorful costumes, as well as Muslim women in Hijab. Not the first place one would take conservative American tourists. But, I've always been a rebel.

We walked up boulevard Barbès from the Barbès-Rochechouart Metro station, and turned right onto Rue des Poissonniers, so that I could take them into the back end of the Chateau Rouge outdoor market on Rue Dejean. (I stole this photo from here. I would like to give credit to somebody, but I couldn't find out who took it or posted it.)


As we turned the corner onto Poissonniers, we noticed a large crowd of men in front of the Mosquée El-Fath. A closer look revealed that the men were praying, with foreheads to the ground, on the sidewalk outside of the Mosque. I had never seen this before, but perhaps it was Ramadan, and there were so many men praying, that they couldn't fit them all in the Mosque and had to use the sidewalk. Wanda and Reynaldo were astounded. The only Muslims that Americans see are on American TeeVee, and they're shouting and running around and burning effigees of George Bush. (Not the Americans, the Muslims)

So, I turned around to see Wanda and her camera clicking away, and thought it might be a good idea to ask her to be subtle about it, as I don't know the custom in these here parts. Unlike the last time we were in a Muslim country together, over 20 years ago when we traveled together to Turkey and she decided to go topless AND bottomless on a day-long boat trip (to the point where the teenage boys on the boat couldn't get up or they would reveal their, erm, boyhood) - she actually obeyed me. And, she got some great shots. I hope she sends them along.

Until then, you can view this French video made by a female Polish film maker who lives in la Goutte D'Or. It's an artistic impression of the area, and a little lengthy, but you can see the Muslim men praying on the sidewalk beginning at time code 2:08:

Jola Kudela autointerview
envoyé par jolakudela

As we continued along the street, the men stood up and began to roll up the rugs and take them inside the Mosque. We stepped into a fabric store across from the Mosque, so that Wanda and Reynaldo could see and touch the amazing African cotton wax cloth that is used to make the long dresses, head scarves and chignons for the African women, and the pajama-style pants and calf or ankle length caftans that the men wear. At Rue Dejean, we turned left and walked through the market as the sellers were closing up. It was empty of people, compared to the thick crowds on Saturday or Sunday mornings.

At Rue Poulet (chicken street! tastes like chicken!), we turned right, heading towards Rue Doudeauville, our final destination. This stretch of the walk would be the place where I might lose a few people. There's trash. There are people loitering. There are cars honking and slowly pressing through the crowd of people who ignore them. There are people yelling really loudly at each other. There are illegal vendors galore, mostly women, with their knock-off purses, sun glasses and belts displayed on top of cardboard boxes. In an instant, when the cops arrive (as they do on a regular basis), these ladies can toss their wares into rolling suitcases and head down the street looking like they just got off the train and are on their way to their apartment. Wanda is the consummate bargain shopper, and stopped to touch each purse. But, nothing combined low price with good looks, so she passed.

At Rue Doudeauville we turned right and made our way to see one of my favorite people, Ben at Au Gamin de Paris. (You have to click through and see how handsome he is. And he's single, ladies! He has a 20-something son who is gorgeous too.) He greeted me as he always does, with a big hug and kiss, making me feel loved. Me and Wanda and Reynaldo sat outside and ordered coffees, and watched the African world go by. If it wasn't for the fact that Wanda doesn't like Indian or Morrocan food, we would have finished off our evening a few doors down at one of my favorite restaurants, with couscous and chicken tagine with olives and lemon. Mmmm. She knows not what she missed.

There were more adventures with Madame Wanda and Monsieur Reynaldo. But this post is already a bit long, and I have to go see a man about a horse.

Don't Vote!

(If you are reading this post in an email, please click through to my blog to view the video)

Doctor, Doctor, Gimme The News

Recently I visited my friend Marla and Larry, her cardiologist boyfriend in Biarritz. One night, Larry was on call, and so he had to spend the day and night at his clinic. Early that evening, Marla brought me into the office of a lung doctor friend of Larry's, because Larry and Marla didn't like the fact that I was coughing so much. I still had the lingering effects from the cold I got while I was in Ireland, and I've started to smoke again, so that could be why I was coughing. But the truth is, I've been coughing for years. In my mind, I've run through the whole gamut of dramatic scenarios about my cough. I'm either dieing of the rare lung disease that my sister has, or dieing of the lung disease that killed my Dad's sister, or just coughing because I'm nervous, or because I've always had allergies, and so I always have gunk in my lungs. But I'm not big on going to the doctor. I'd rather cough and not know, then know and cough anyway.

But, since Larry had so kindly offered this free lung doctor visit, I couldn't say no. Marla and I waited in Dr. Lung's waiting room and then he came out and ushered us into his office. He was super high tech, with computer systems and printers and WiFi boxes on top of his elegant mahogany desk. Marla and I sat facing him in richly upholstered arm chairs, our feet silent on a thick oriental rug. And as usual, he had no staff. I constantly compare the difference between going to a doctor here in France and going to one in America, and the biggest contrast is the huge number of staff in an American doctor's office, and the total lack of staff in a French doctor's office. In America, there's a reception desk, and there's usually two to three people there. Then there's the nurse that comes and gets you from the waiting room and weighs you and takes all the preliminaries. Then the doctor comes in for 45 seconds and writes some prescriptions and asks a different nurse to come in and take blood, which she will then take to a different staff member in the lab. There's back office staff and sometimes several other doctors and many more nurses. Here in France, there's the doctor. That's it.

Anyway, Marla tells him all about my cough, and he asks me some questions and I tell him all about my cough, and then he asks me to yank off my top so he can listen to my lungs. Marla whistles and looks out the window. Marla is used to doing this since she has become my official doctor translator. I think, "Man I wish I hadn't worn this dingy old yellow bra." That's what I was thinking. Then the doc asks me to go into another room where I take off my dingy old bra and slap my breasts up against a cold metal panel, my chin resting on a curved blue chin rest. Visions of Marie Antoinette dance in my head. I wait for the guillotine to fall. Instead, the doc tells me to take a big breath and hold it. He slips off into a room and takes an x-ray. We go back into his office where he magically has the x-ray in hand, and we all look at my chest. Nuthin.

He says maybe I cough because I have enlarged trachea, or maybe I should get an MRI because x-rays don't show everything. Nah. I just cough when I'm nervous, and when I'm cold, and when I'm nervous and cold. And when my allergies are in high gear, which is every day of my life.

Marla and I wandered around Biarritz after my appointment and bought some chocolate and then went over to see Larry at his clinic. He was all alone in the building, so it was a little eerie to be wandering down the antiseptic yellow-walled hallways. The only sound was our footsteps, and the creaking of doors. We whispered, when we didn't have to. Like we whisper in museums, as if our voices had the power to alter the course of antiquity or raise the long-dead bishops from their tombs.

Larry led us into his on-call apartment, so I took some pictures. This is the overnight life of an on-call cardiologist. A bed, a newspaper, a TV. The kitchen had a tray full of the detritus from his dinner, a small unopened bottle of Côtes du Rhône and a half-eaten chicken leg. He wasn't very hungry.








































I gave Larry a big chocolate bar, and he gave me the wine to drink on my train ride back to Paris. He pulled my x-ray out of its envelope and jabbed his finger in the general direction of my lungs and said, "Smoking, smoking and smoking." I told him I'd remind him of this the next time he bummed an after-dinner cigarette from me.

Then he took my hand and led me down the creepy hall and into an examination room. Marla came along too. There was an exam table and a very cool computer, so he asked me to get up on the table so he could do a complete heart exam for me. Cool! Except, I had to take off my top and my dingy yellow bra. This time, it wasn't some lung doctor I would never see again. It was my girlfriend's boyfriend. Ah, well. I suddenly remembered all the topless French women I'd seen that day on the beach, and decided to be French. Off it all came.

Marla had never seen me naked. Nor had she ever been in the same room with her boyfriend and a topless girl. She decided to make jokes. Larry was oblivious. He just started glopping KY on my ankles, then clipped electrodes there. Then did the same along my arms and in a couple places on my chest. When I was all hooked up, he ran an EKG and printed it out for me. Then he went over to the other side of the exam table and glopped some more KY on my chest and asked me to lie on my side with my back to him. He sat down next to my back, and reached around in front of me and started running a wand along the area of my heart, under and to the left of my left breast.

I could hear my heart beating as he did this. But I couldn't see the screen. He and Marla discussed my heart valves in a language I didn't know. Metral this and illiac that. But no infarction, as far as I could tell. Then he rolled me back onto my back and glopped some KY on either side of my neck, and started pushing the wand up and down my neck. This time, I could hear the far-away sound of the blood flowing through my arteries. Very cool.

Larry: "Marla, do you see right there? The tumor?"
Me: "!!?"
Marla: "Oh, where?"
Me: "!!?"
Larry: "This one here, on her thyroid. But, it's benign."
Marla (to me, as if she needed to translate Larry's English): "Oh, yeah. I see it and it's benign."
Me: "!!?"

You would think that when one is told that one has a tumor, one would ask some questions. But, as I already told you, I'd rather not know. But...!!?

Then Larry's emergency cell phone rang, and he ran off to meet the ambulance downstairs. He pushed some paper towels in my direction so I could clean up all that KY. It was a little disappointing. All that KY, yet no happy ending. Marla's happy ending was seeing me properly clothed again.

This is when Marla and I turned into giggly teenagers. She started posing on the exam table, draping herself with all the electrodes, while I took pictures. We made lots of noise, forgetting about the bishops in their tombs and the poor guy downstairs who thought he was having a heart attack. Later, we found out that he had gripped Larry's arm and asked him, wide-eyed, if Larry thought he would make it. Because he had a young, beautiful wife, and they had been married for only one year. Larry was touched, as he reassured him.

Meanwhile, upstairs, one could hear middle-aged female laughter, the clamping of electrodes, and the distinctive sound of Marla playing dead.