Julie Newmar Writes

Courage

2008-08-21T15:10:00.000-07:00

This may sound strange, but there seems to be is a part of me that is utterly without courage. It exists as a deep dent in my personality. Like a broken wrist to an Olympic athlete, it has the power to pull me off course, to drag down the all-I-can-be desire for my own life. Maybe it’s a remnant from childhood, a withering emotional shyness that seems so wildly out of place. It’s definitely something I’ve always wanted to overcome. It may sound silly to you, but I’m still bothered by it.

I can’t give a party. The following fears overwhelm me before I can even get started. “I’m not important enough.” “Who would come?” “I shouldn’t spend the money.” “This or that will go wrong.” I get so hung up on the details that . . . you get the picture.

In addition, even going to a party is a stress maker for me. “Well, if they would invite me, it can’t be much of a party.” “Maybe if I arrive late they won‘t notice me.” “It takes too long to get dressed.” And sometimes I make sure it does. “I’ll forget people’s names.” My mother not only forgot names, she practiced forgetting them. “Where’s the wall? Maybe I’m wearing the same color.” All the insecurities and insufficiencies of early childhood seem to show up when I’m standing in a crowd. Because I was tall even as a child, my father put me in school at age four when everyone else was five. I missed one-fifth of everyone else’s learning experience. Socialization was not a highly developed family trait, you see. Stardom was easy, being comfortable in a crowd was not.

Then a small miracle occurred. I turned 75. And a little birdie inside chirped “CELEBRATE!” This time it was a command. Do it or die. Well, not really. In truth, the inner message was so forthright and clear that I went forth promptly for the next two weeks, concentrating on this party. I prepared, made lists, oh, did I make lists. Three hours was spent on who should meet whom. Invitations were crafted, colored, and worded with the utmost care. Musicians were sought out. A perfect pianist for one end of the house, a classical banjo player, as a mood lifter, for the other end, out in the garden. A classical banjo player? Not easy to find, but that’s what I wanted. The food must be catered. After all this was a real party, so it had to be presented with effortless brilliance. I’d never done this before. No wonder I was on pins and needles, gasping all the way to the final moment. What’s wrong with me, I wondered? Was I attempting the impossible, to be defeated by self-doubt, the finality of “I’ll never do this again?"

Five hours before the first guest was to arrive, I was so stressed out that I paused for a moment to open a little gift sent to me by Laren Stover from MAC Cosmetics. The distraction of those little pots of rouge, tubes of gold, and lipstick temptations successfully quieted my nerves. That evening, the event and all that had been foretold by me turned into...the party of a lifetime! Everyone agreed when I spontaneously said, “This is the best party I’ve ever been to, the best party I’ll ever go to.” Indeed it was, in every way, as many people concurred by phone the next day.

It turned out to be a true celebration for everyone and not just a gathering to praise Julie. It was a party for those who had participated in my life and given me so much from their lives. It was, happily, a celebration about the people I loved.

It's Good to be Hugh Hefner

2008-08-21T15:09:00.000-07:00

8/10/08, Sunday

The word was, that this is Hefner‘s last Midsummer’s Night’s Eve Party.

It had an Arabian Night’s theme, with huge tents, dragon-tailed out into the garden, looming over the spa, and over the unisex “changing rooms” which are lined with shadowy grey mirrors, in front of which girls apply make-up. I am escorted by Rick Tinnehan, the handsome, tall astronaut friend of Delores del Monte, a 1954 playmate. The three of us visit the grotto. “No hanky-panky here,” Delores says. “Then it’s not like the ‘70’s”, I say, “not as I remember it.” “Hush. Here, have your picture taken.” As she recites rules of the new decorum, a nearby couple disrobe to their swimsuits, and enter the warm water. They wade past the underground coves-of-intrigue before emerging into the dazzling light of the party outside. Men are in pajamas—no tuxes, no regular garb at this party. The girls are in frou frou ballet skirts, or nude with painted bodies, teetering in very high heels, with stockings perhaps, but not much more above or below. With enormous breasts which don’t move, taut tummies and long legs, these are the best bodies on the beach. It’s everything you’ve heard, and worthy of the pricy admission, a razzling, dazzling collection of walking, talking female sex coquettes.

“Hello, I’m Tom Sturges, Preston Sturges’s son.” I am relieved to take my eyes away from all that girl candy and talk to someone real. “I’m totally comfortable, I have no fear, I like who I am.” His assurances about himself helped to redirect my attention even further, wanting to hear more of what was behind this highly self-qualified person. “My father died when I was three. I’m one of his seven children.” “He must have loved women,” I remarked, hoping I can share in a lifetime of wisdom during this abrupt encounter. “Strong women,” he flashed back. “Strong women were at the center of every film my father made.” He professed to know more about this famous man than any of his siblings. And more about the parent-child relationship. “We must treat children with great respect.” For Tom, respect was the key word. Every encounter with children, he tells me, in what seems like the result of a lifetime challenge, is to ameliorate the conflicts between child and parent. “There must be no yelling, calm voice, and above all respect. Children deserve respect.” I agreed.

Mary O’Connor is there, Hef’s First Lady and lodestar of all activity at the mansion. She received the most hugs from Hef’s more intimate friends. She is tall, dressed in daintily flowered crepe chiffon, with natural grey curly hair, no body surgery, and the saltiest mouth at the Kingdom of Playboy. I can see why people swarmed to her. She is trusted, one of the points in his crown. I stay by her side at the front entrance of the mansion. Why not, it is soothing to have some of the enthusiasm that was lavished on her spill over onto me.

The ‘70’s crowd—yes, those in their 70’s—sit at gold-covered tables, eating Alaskan crab legs, savory shrimp, lamb chops, sugary confections. The service is perfect: invisible, and right on time. Jane Russell’s hearing aide, as usual, over amplifies the music, which drives her upstairs to the quieter sanctum of Hef’s baronial dining room.

Hef himself, sits on a low cushioned throne within a glass-beaded seraglio, surrounded by his bevy of beauties, who constantly change seats to be near him. He is generous in his attention to each of them, sweetly kissing the tip of a nose here, stroking a cheek there. Handsome black bodyguards clear the way for more ladies seeking esteem-raising shots of power from the power shot himself. In front of him, the dance floor glitters, filled with beautiful women undulating beneath coruscating laser lights, their bodies in peak form for whatever may come. The praise from their lips is lavish no matter who you are. The very atmosphere is redolent with promised pleasures.

It takes money, plenty of it, to be part of this bacchanal. The forty year old computer entrepreneur I met lives or has to live in the Cayman Islands. Men fly here in private planes, securing entrance to the party with a “friend” of Hefner’s. It isn’t cheap, though arrangements could be made. A lot of memories are being created on this night.

As my brother says, we should honor Hef for his role in kicking off the first of the major humanistic revolutions of our time. Before black, or women’s, or gay liberation, he initiated the renaissance in awareness that we humans can be genuinely fulfilled as sexual beings.

He is the King after all. It’s good to be Hugh Hefner. Oh, yeah.

Jordan

2008-07-31T19:03:00.000-07:00

Jordan is a new country on the map here in the Middle East, it’s been built mostly since 1921. The buildings are new white stone, in modern Bauhaus style, with added Doric columns. It is attractive for the desert. Security is quietly evident, especially in the up-scale neighborhoods. A three-pat body search is unobtrusive but standard at the mall and at international hotels. For the Middle East, this is a country that has no natural wealth, indicating that Jordan should have a secure future. The city, built on seven hills, has only two or three notable historic monuments. There is little excitement, according to my host, Usama, who prefers Beirut, which turned out to be a let-down.

For the rest of our vacation, I try to get Usama and Maile to fly to the newer Gulf States like Dubai and Abu Dabi, where it is exciting and things are happening. “It’s already June,” he says, “too hot,” and drags us to Beirut, Lebanon, the place of his youth. The city depresses me. There is so much lost hope here. Buildings are abandoned, many not occupied since the recent civil war and the invasion of 2006. It’s a time to move on, the crest has fallen. Israel, its neighbor, which periodically erupts in growing pains, will have to come into its own, settle down and not spew its military might like a volcano across the border. My sense is this will take another 30 to 40 years, a good generation and a half.

We sit in cafes. I dream of dancing, sexual trysts, and imagine lascivious physical engagements with a beautiful crippled Arab man sitting near me. I imagine how long it would take for him to crawl up my legs, have full pleasure, then back again . . a long time. We are having tea and pastries. It comes time for him to leave and he manages to life himself enough to slide into a custom designed Audi. Another time, an Arab man with a gorgeous, craggy face catches my eye. He looks straight at me, a forbidden act for a man and woman who are strangers in this part of the world. His look takes me to my knees. I literally cannot recover from the sight of him in his dusty djellabah. On sandaled feet he continues his glide away from me. He is possibly 33 years old. His life will not change, nor his class, nor place in the world. What haunts me was that purest moment of male/female connection. Then alas, he disappears and I am left with nothing but the power of this virile image.

I cannot get into Gaza. The news is that the Israelis are about to invade. It would take two weeks to get permission from their embassy. This is not to be, they will not allow me to cross the border. Moreover, I could not bring anything and would have to walk on soft sand for a long, long way. As of June 17, I am no longer walking much.

12:15 AM, Beirut—there’s chaos in the streets, honking horns, drivers gone amok! Barricades in zigzag patterns are set up next door at the Intercontinental Hotel. Is Secretary Rice leaving at this hour? She had arrived this morning. Diplomats talk, pedestrians squawk. Have they no manners out there? Don’t laws exist here in Albuquerque—I mean Lebanon? Damn, New York cab drivers have more patience. By this time I am audibly groaning from my growing misery, frazzled by the disrespect of those unconscionable brutes out in the street. I stomp to the balcony in my pink nightie and finally the drama unfolds. “It’s the Italians,” laughs Usama, leaning over the stone carapace. “They’ve won the soccer match.” Young people are pouring out of the Hard Rock Café on the second floor of our hotel and piling into cars, blasting their horns, streaming up and down, up and down along the famous Mediterranean promenade boulevard of this once fair city.

The next day, Adnan, 77, Usama’s poorer, disinherited cousin, picks us up and gives us a tour of the city. He is knowledgeable about politics and, in particular, Palestinian matters. Usama visits his alma mater, the American University. We drive through the Christian section, north of Beirut, and have a most wonderful lunch at a sea shore restaurant. No war has come to this part of the city, Usama proudly points out, yet it is still depressing. The economy is down. I am down. I am frustrated, I can’t even access my e-mail on the Internet.

I had intuited, somehow predicted, that this trip would intrigue, but less than satisfy, me. Nonetheless, the experience did bear fruit in the kindness of my traveling companion Maile. Because of the outlay of her heart, nothing fell apart. She is quite simply a flawlessly kind person who always knows what you need. In my case, it was a shoulder for my unsteady gait and a pillar to acquit my more sufferable outrages. She is a blessed being, the one who tolerates the worst and the best of us. That is Maile.

The Dark Knight

2008-07-28T08:40:00.000-07:00

BATMAN, the poor guy is lost under the camouflage of costume, grittily garbled voice and a passionless sex life. Enough said about him. Like the six movies shown in previews before it, our unquenchable hero struggles but can’t survive the over-weighted dynamics of the studio’s special effects department.

I love the Fourth of July and its twenty minutes of super incendiary fireworks. The Dark Knight is 2 - hours of pyrotechnical megalomania. The film is 1 - hours too long, unless you like watching men snarling at each other with nothing further to do and crowds cowering at men snarling at each other with nothing more dramatic to do. There are snarky eighteen wheelers somersaulting around and over each other—that was good. The best detonation scene was a sequential blowing-up of Gotham Hospital—good. Otherwise, I was numbed by the repetition and excesses—though it’s just what the kids like. I was the parent who went along for the ride and felt as if she’d been stuck in the Holland Tunnel for a three-day weekend.

Excitement level: (honestly?) D+.

Heath Ledger, as good as he tried to be, could have used more help from the camera. Remember the angles on the Batman TV series? We could have seen him upside down, through a tunnel lens, or being zapped suddenly into scenes. He didn’t feel scary enough to the audience to have sent all of Gotham City to the bone house. And where was the humor? OK, no humor. What about terror? A slow ride up the roller coaster of fear would have helped. Remember Hitchcock’s seductive shower scene in Psycho? That kind of on-screen intimidation makes the up-coming scene of blood spattering annihilation work. I could have stood in the street outside the theatre after glazing myself at a bar and had a more wrenching experience. Frankly, I yawned loudly and yearned for some deep comfort, which the seats at the Mann Theatre in Santa Monica were not.

I think I’ll watch a rerun of “The Red Shoes”.

F...!

2008-07-07T10:25:00.001-07:00

That word!

How did it get out? It was surely the decade of the ‘90’s wherein the momentum had become unstoppable. First men used it freely. Then women who wanted to be noticed for their unassailable “freshness”. I’m here, get me. . modern girl. Their well-mannered sisters, such as I, lengthened their steps away from such pollution. “Never that word, not us.” Actors would use the word like new toothpaste, filling their mouths with it. You’d hear it coming from the monitors high up on the walls of cheesy video stores, sounding out of context to your own thoughts, much like an unexpected burp in church. Boys growing facial hair had a fondness for such language. Those of us who kept holding out wouldn’t even consider it “language”. And again actors, those Eighth Avenue Actors Studio style actors, would use it incessantly in double D movies when they were given license to improvise. I knew the word was going to take hold everywhere . . . but it would not flow from my lips, not in public. In private, I do swear, rather liberally—when dropping bobby pins, or when all four windows of the car are rolled up and someone cuts me off. I can’t break that habit, though I’ve tried. “It” always slips out before I can do anything about “it”. I apologize quickly, to no one in particular. Trouble is, swearing in the moment just feels good.

I never remember my parents using the F. . . word. Not even my dad, not ever. And he was a Second World War fella. Don’t tell me those guys said it! When I see films with modern actors spouting modern dialog during that era, I immediately know the director doesn’t know his stuff. In my mind, not knowing your social history is a turn off. English film makers don’t make that mistake. At least not as often. Back to my mother and dad. Even when it was hush-hush, the-kids-won’t-hear-it dialogue, even when mother had had a martini, though not more than one, or dad would lose his temper, “it” never happened, that four letter word. Never. Even darn or damn was quite out of order. And the F… word was certainly held back, kept enthroned for the pleasure of the good act itself. Not debilitated in loose talk, diluted of its magnificence. It just didn’t belong to lesser mortal acts. How dare they, I thought, deflate it from its primal mighty place. Those plebeians, hard at work deflating the only good sin. I’ll never be one of them, never! Well . . . until I listened around and realized . . . I had started scattering these precious pearls, reversing meaning, dulling the reverence of the favorite unspoken word.

I had fallen. I was tainted like the others, pushed into saying something I didn’t mean, didn’t like hearing, and that branded me as accepting the status quo. In private conversations I began using it for the most emphatic attack, as a further thrust to my aggression. Using it in that mean, dumb way was like graffiti on the Statute of Liberty, noise pollution at the Grand Canyon. Some things I wanted kept sacred, though they no longer were. The word has become a slap in the face to our ardent values, become somebody else’s dirty language laundry. I just wanted it to mean something. Was my desired verbal primness just a virgin’s curse, a little like tidiness and cleanliness?

Should I let silence be my protest? Or do I say F . . . It and do my best to stay modern, to keep up with the rest?

The New Jews

2008-07-07T10:24:00.001-07:00

June 21, 2008 Amman, Jordan

Damn, Damn, Damn——this whole trip is about my friend Usama. What he wants, his restaurants, his family, Lebanon, his past. I am angered that I have come all this way, spent all this money, used up all this time to have a quite mediocre experience.
I am angry that so little has happened of importance to, for, or from me. I have not benefited anyone much, nor they me. I am . . . disappointed.

I wanted to go to Gaza. But no one put a hand out to help me. Instead, the experience was all about just getting by—sitting at a mall, hanging out at the St. Georges Beach Club, maneuvering street barricades in war-damaged Beirut, visiting Usama’s displaced Palestinian relatives. But not Gaza and the children, not the Alfaluna School for the Deaf. That’s what I wanted to visit, to experience, to know. “You can’t bring anything,” Geraldine Shawa, the head of the school had said. The children don’t have batteries for their hearing aids, or paper to write on. We can’t feed them because we don’t have oil to operate the stoves. The used cooking oil is all we have now for our cars, which sputter and smoke and make our eyes tear. “Our school had to close a month early due to the Israeli blockade.”

Why doesn’t someone help these people? One million or so stranded, justifiably angry people. A feeble rocket up against billions of dollars of armaments. Is this insane or what? Why do I sympathize? Am I, like them, this symbol of nothing, this zero, this helpless soul, so insignificant as not to be heard? How tiny are we all when overcome by the deepest of fears—insignificance. How can you be heard, O Palestine of my heart? Is not every iota of all of us important? Must the others have hatreds, Hitlers, horrendous events against which they push in order to rise and shine? Who watches out for us, O Cambodia, Laos?

“You probably won’t be able to cross the border, even if you get permission from the Israeli embassy and that will take two weeks. Then there is the sand. You will have to walk a great distance in soft sand. That’s why you’ll not want to carry anything.” Not even those behind-the-ear hearing aid batteries.

How would I make it? I can no longer walk without support, not even 50 paces. How do the weak help the weak? What do I do? Your people have been in my heart for so long. Silenced, quiet, sputtering, determined, never hopeless.

I want all of you, and the all that is me, to be valued, acknowledged, appreciated, though you occupy the least valued place on this earth, you are the most valued,for without you, there could not be a full earth. Know that, treasure that.
Always be who you are. We need you dearly, for without you, before long,
we would not exist.

Samara

2008-07-07T10:20:00.000-07:00

Rami Esam Samara. Born in Kuwait, Parents, Palestinian refugees. Sunni.
36 years old. Tall, at least 6’1”. A brother, 2 years older. A sister, 10 years younger. Flying to London for his engagement in three days—to a Shiite girl!
Her love: Mathematics. His love: A new family.

He asks who I am as he stands behind me at the airport in Amman, Jordan.
“You are so elegant, a celebration.” He was enormously quick witted, bright, respectful, apologetic. I touched his cheek, “Never apologize . . . just be.”
He is quite magnificent. “I am a lowly computer guy,” he says, apologizing again.

He has made a film on his cell phone, which he now shows me on the big PC he carries in his backpack. His brother was misdiagnosed in Britain for colon cancer (it was actually cancer of the appendix), but was saved by a French doctor in Lyon. Both brothers were overjoyed. There had been stress between them. His father was a very successful engineer. Excitedly he tells me about this overriding development with his brother, his thoughts on life and death, stories about his father’s expulsion from Jerusalem in 1948.

“Sit next to me on the plane,” I say. We are both going to London. He smiles and nods, then disappears into the crowd.

My friend Maile helped me through customs. At the “Ladies Cubicle” a gorgeous Arab woman in high heels, hair tightly covered, garbed totally in black, pats me sweetly in two places, then steps back, allowing me to pass. “Shukran”, I thank her, for some reason, delighted to have learned at least one useful Arab word.

I guess he’s taking another plane. I look for him, my imagination running wild. I’d been bored on this trip. And he said he would be here. Arab people are very respectful, no foolishness. Families, especially, are treated with devotion. There are premarital arrangements, not about who gets what in a break-up, but what they will do for each other in furthering the other’s life. The voice of the Muzzein gently reminds them of their devotion to higher principles every five hours or so in tones so very haunting that I look forward to even the pre-dawn call to prayer. It is the same Cante Hondo that I remember hearing in the caves and dance halls in Seville when I was fifteen. Sung with the eyes closed, a cry searching down, down to the belly for some sacred cataclysm of satisfaction, each half tone twisting and turning through a new anguish, grasping, descending further, holding and re-holding a desired pitch, while the callused finger of a guitarist chases after, tumbling, ripping, faltering with the singer on their mutual descent into hell. It puzzles the soul. It grabs you and takes you to the bottom. It is revelatory.

I see him walking toward me on the plane, his face shining, open, animated, so happy to see me. He sits next to me and we talk about Palestine, his future, the world.

I ask him why he thinks this conflagration is going on in the Middle East. I want to hear the big ideas. He quotes this and that, history, the past. I try to focus on the overall picture, the need for change, maybe a wondrous awakening for his people. I prod him, “See the story, these developments, as your Maker would view them, neither bad nor good, but as a wake-up call.”

I ask him what was the greatest gift the Jews gave the world. He answers, “The Maccabees on the . . .? Moses in the . . . ?“ More history lessons. “No, you are not even close,” I say. He genuinely admires the Jews. He is very quick and open minded. English educated, he is a citizen of the world. He met his fiancé on the internet. I ask him again and again, pressing him to think. He likes my challenges, has many answers but not the one I am hoping for, the big answer . . .It is Christ. “The Jews gave us Jesus.” And the magnificent civilization that developed in the 2000 years that followed, rivaling any on earth. “Think of Europe before and after the Reformation, the music, great orchestras, museums, art, Paris, London, the forgiveness Christ offered that launched so much spiritual and human development.”

He is fascinated with numerology. The energy of numbers. The power that numbers hold for names, titles, and addresses. “What would be the best name for the fund my father had started?” he asks. His father, once a penniless refugee, was awarded an education by the British for being one of the smartest in a group of Palestinian boys. He, in turn, is determined to set up . . . “Samara Fund” (as we decided to call it) to educate the new refugees. The idea of rewarding these children through the fund greatly excites Rami Esam Samara. He loves the idea of these new boys growing strong and confident, as his father had.

After lunch he fell easily to sleep for an hour, but wakes up slashing at the air, horror on his face. He says he has the same nightmare over and over again. “I am decapitated, my limbs are being cut off.” “What has happened to cause this?” I ask. “I can’t get this project up and going. I love it, but I can’t get started.”Quite forcefully, I tell him he must stop avoiding the fear, get himself ready, grasp the opportunity, then go straight into this fear, go right to the center of it, and when he gets there the fear will disintegrate into a thousand tiny “lights” and he will behold the answer.

I tell him the method I use of writing to solve any questions, reminding him that in the question is the answer. He does not need an outside source. He is the source, the source from within. I teach him about Intention. How to Focus. To set up an hour in the morning for deep focus, to question his progress, to determine what he can do better. It is a pleasure to have such a young, beautiful man be so eager to know himself more and for me to know I can touch the light within him. For me, this is the gift. For him, many new trees will grow in Palestine.

The Power of Age

2008-06-09T10:50:00.000-07:00

1. You can tell people off
2. It takes a tenth the time to do most things
3. Physical efforts can be given to others
4. You don’t have to go to parties, events or meetings
5. People like to be told what to do, especially if you kindly give
examples that allow them to succeed
6. Your competition is decidedly lessening
7. Men are easier to love
so are women
and they are very much easier to see through
8. You don’t have to talk so much and what you say means more
9. Even though you’ve seen most of the movies they get better because
we all get better and smarter
10. We are not only smarter, we are faster, there’s less “B. S.”
--and I . . .
11. I can (psychically) get the best parking spaces
12. I rarely ever lose anything. If I do, I ask my subconscious to find
it for me
13. I have more time for everything
14. What I don’t know is easily accessible
15. It’s harder to keep weight on than off
I can eat whatever I want, stop anytime and am less hungry
16. My ego or lack of it allows me to give anyone else first place –
because I’m genuinely worth so much to myself
17. I no longer attack myself or harm myself in any way
18. I am able to see virtue in everything and everyone
19. I like sex more than ever
20. God exists and so do I

Sometimes You Have To Talk Yourself Into Things

2008-06-03T09:16:00.000-07:00

It woke me up, the dream. I, or he, only had a week to live. They carried him out—what was left of him—his upper body, no arms, a head, a chest, that was it. Although my gaze was not direct, I was there. “Don’t look.” Was this how I avoided life? I didn’t look?
He willed himself to be alive. We will ourselves until . . . a crash, a dream, an awakening.

Where had I been? In the dream I had been at a pleasant gathering, but rather strange. Then a form in pink, myself no doubt as a young girl, came through. From behind a half-closed door, a view of a military figure saying: “Don’t come here”. But in the next moment of the dream I was there, in shock. I tried to separate myself, as my dream told me, from my life of habits.

The day before, I’d been thinking about Sydney Pollock, director of “Out of Africa," and of his many other great films. He died at 73. Why did people die at the end of a career? Did he will, “only a week left”? Was he being adored only for his past? Was his life no longer as magnificent as it had been? Could he continue to fill his own shoes? Had he emptied out to that inner voice, the task master that goads us, “not good enough, not good enough”? Is that how we die? With empty expectations? Emptied lives. Without a deliberate mind, the power does run out. Do I take it with me? Do I come back? How? When?

Starting over again seems so arduous. Young people, most, are so uninteresting. Today, I have a sculpted life, through much hard work and desire, the inner changes I have gone through . . . and continue to go through are arduous and rocky, satisfying and beautiful—and still they leave me wanting. To become anything, we must want, and have those dreams. The ride into eternity is where we all are, in – one – state or another.

What I had been really thinking about was R. J. in Connecticut, who had e-mailed:

“Are you a Dancer?” I asked the gorgeous, long-legged, classy lady shopping at the health food store? She turned to me and smiled: “I've danced,” she said. We started talking, and the conversation went so well that before she was ready to leave, she handed me a piece of paper with her name and her phone number. Then she walked out and got into a limo. “Do you know who that was?” my friend said to me. “No,” I said, “but it certainly was a pleasure meeting her.”

As time went on, I got to know this beautiful woman, and the biggest turn on of all was that she was as sensual and sexy, as she was tall and gorgeous.
She was not boring or average in bed like many beautiful women. From 1—10, she was a 10. She was a natural, an orgasmic delight.

My favorite turn on with her was when we were supposed to meet at my place
one afternoon and take my motorcycle down to the Museum of Modern Art to catch the Modern Jazz Quartet. The buzzer rang, and she walked down the hall, and before we even got inside, she opened my belt, pulled down my zipper, and proceeded to give me some slow, sensual, wonderful oral sex. My door was still open, we were still out in the hall. Wow, this is wild. Someone could come in the building any second, I though. But that did not rattle her. She had other things on her mind. Soon we were on my king-sized bed, safe and alone, and I remember how wonderful it was to feel her orgasms beneath me as we sensually blended together. Later when we were done, she said "There now, isn't it nice to have sex first, and then go out? Now we don't have the pressure or have to think about it all night long.” I knew I had fulfilled her, and that is a great feeling to have.

Later that night we went to P. J. Clarks for something to eat, She had taken her motorcycle helmet off outside and put on a tall cowboy hat. Between the hat, and the boots she was wearing, she seemed 10 feet tall, and when we walked in, all the men in the place spun around to see this towering beauty. I knew that all of them were thinking. "What a lucky guy. What does he have that I don't have?” Boy, if they only knew. If they only knew what a special gem and woman she really is.

If I were to meet her today, I would probably pick her up and carry her to the nearest bed, slowly take her clothes off, and give her the most sensual oral sex that she can remember and then proceed to make love to her in various positions for a very long time. When she had reached her maximum orgasms, I’d get up and say, “There now, isn't it better to have no pressure, and to get that out of the way? Now come over here and sit on the couch and tell me what you have been doing the past 20 yrs. or so, I've missed ya, Baby. And guess what? I still look for someone special every time I go to the health food store, but there will never
be another one like you.
Love You- In All The Right Places,
R. J.

It had been several months for me, since I’d enjoyed the pleasure of a man. A long time, by anyone’s standards. Very long. I’ve missed it. How beautiful that R. J. carries his desires into the present. I think the dream I had tells me to be much less strict with myself. For some time lately I have been a victim of my own inner, self-styled guru and her quest for improvement. Joy awaits all of us.
There is more happiness, there is.
Rejoin the dance. Let go, let life.

Chairman Julie's Sayings for Safe Travel in China

2008-06-01T14:55:00.000-07:00

From a Two Day Stop-Over in Rural China Year 2000

* Wash it or leave it behind.
* Do not breathe while standing in the loo.
* Keep M&M’s in pocket for overly curious children.
* No banquet in hot water supply, hot water dispensed only on strict time table.
4-star hotels excluded. Marble provided in foreigner bathroom also humongous unstylish chandelier in lobby.
* Do cross streets that cars may aim at you.
* Incessant honking advisable road technique, highly efficient population control.
* Pollution: honorary evil for peoples on way to pearly gates
* Save time: cut in front of anybody in line.
* Best Style (at current writing) is no style
* Progress Chinese Style: too risky, better to save face.
* Many bicycles to-ing and fro-ing.
* Slurping while eating means good tasting vittles.
* Manual Labor: political expedience. Populace too tired to complain.
* Guiness record: 30 people on a bicycle, easy for Chinese.

Letter to Myself

2008-06-01T14:53:00.000-07:00

LETTER TO MYSELF
From my Hoffman journaling notebook
www.hoffmaninstitute.org

Dear Julie:
I am so pleased with what you are doing with your life.
Your adventurousness, curiosity, the fitting and gainful way you direct this life.
Your approachability, the foresight with which you engage with others
that they might feel comfortable and challenged,
rewarded and lovingly appreciated.
I have liked living with you, enjoyed it so much—
your accomplishments and especially your integrity—
it has been my sublime pleasure to participate in your inner growth.
From now on, may you have the full support of your earthly body
in becoming this uber chick.

Devotion,
Yes, I adore you

Julie

What I Write About

2008-06-01T14:52:00.000-07:00

Inspiration for the faint of heart, Gold-digging for Dummies.

How to have what you want and not be considered a weirdo west-coast (ugh) spiritual junkie.

How to fast track finally, the dreams others tease you for not having achieved.

How to stand up, stand alone in the direction your life always had for you.

How to get all the love you deserve starting with what you give yourself.

How to make life easier and give up struggle forever, turning struggle into challenge that you will welcome with open arms.

How to uncover what you already are by bleeping into your truth, your personal radio signal to the Higher Mind. Tailored to your needs, via the Infinite Wisdom that
clearly loves and knows you as one of a kind.

How to be happy and live in or near ecstasy all of your chosen life.

Julie Newmar Writes...and You Can Write to Julie

2008-05-30T10:20:00.000-07:00

“Catwoman” Julie Newmar Wants Your Story for Her Book!

Be part of a unique project!

"Men have often paid me a great compliment, telling me that as TV’s Catwoman I was their first fantasy. That idea turned me on and inspired me to write a book. I’d love you to be a part of it!

What was Your First Turn-on? You may have been less than five years old! Was it a sudden awareness? A special person? A crush? A memory that shaped your future passions? Do you remember who, what, where, when? Great! Then write 2 or 3 paragraphs and send it to me.

Have fun!

Waiting to hear from you…

JULIE NEWMAR"

(use: fanmail@juliewewmar.com - please, use this for sending you "First Turn-On" essay only. You can also send your turn-on essay using the link in the box on the right)

Depression's Antidote

2008-04-26T07:40:00.000-07:00

Disaster is a great attraction, its finality pumps energy into the system. Knowing it is coming requires focus, absolute attention. Imagine you were in control on the bridge of the Titanic. The great boat can only respond slowly. Think of the boat as your body. Since the mind can move more quickly, notice where your eyes are focusing . . are they above the horizon looking up, or are they below, looking down, inside your thoughts, in the past? Are you looking at walls? By all means, get out of enclosures! Seek the sunlight. Go outside, see points at a distance. Best of all, see the sky. Then breathe. Breathe again. Don’t go inward. Keep breathing until an awareness of the vast sky, earth, universe hits you. That’s step one.

Step Two

Before you grab a familiar drug to mask the cause and thereby lose a stunning opportunity to achieve power, realize that all power is inside, and that you have the power to resolve situations. This is the moment you want to power yourself up. Forgive yourself if you missed it in the past. Next time you’ll be prepared and know that a breakthrough requires the muscle of prior reasoning and solid preparation.

[Blog to the New York Times, 4/16/08] “When I needed my ‘libido’ and I mean for assertiveness, not for sex—when I needed to be driven by a necessary anxiety just to deal with things, I had little to draw upon. Problems piled up and that made me depressed.”

The Solution – W r i t e

Sit down and write, thinking is not enough, you’ll be too easily distracted. Writing makes thinking, when focused, solid. It’s like a grocery list, even if you lose it, you’ll bring home more than 90% of what you intended. The List: Write ten or more things of what you are grateful for at this particular moment in your life, followed by a line explaining the benefit that resulted for you. That’s it, nothing more. Simple. Do it.

The result will be that, ideas will form. The seeds of your creative thinking will be watered, releasing possibility, and far better, generating action. Your mighty ship is moving toward the positive. You are where you belong - in the flow, all from an act of appreciation, written words of gratitude from and to yourself. Simple. Do it. It works.

The Naked Truth

2008-04-17T07:57:00.000-07:00

It’s odd to go on line and see websites claiming to have nude pictures of Julie Newmar. Let me comment: I have never posed nude. I always had something on . . . shoes, stockings, whatever. Or rather, I don’t recall posing nude because I didn’t want to be in men’s magazines. After all, I was a serious artist, a dancer, singer. Nevertheless, there it was, a mostly nude, pre-blonde picture of me:

There were many pictures taken by various photographers assigned by publicists of my Broadway shows, some appearing on page 5 of the New York Post—producers have to make money. I remember self-consciously thinking some future day I might want to see what I looked like, unattired. The concept, a kind of going-to-war Kissinger duplicity, stayed in my head. The disappearing clothing was the stratagem of certain resourceful photographers like Bert Stern, Richard Avedon (Nureyev in the altogether, Avedon The Sixties.) But that’s another story, which might go into a book I’m writing. It just doesn’t seem so shocking nowadays. Does everyone agree?

Then I noticed five or six spots on the photograph. I asked Pablo Milberg of www.StormFlower.com, who designed my two new websites, to remove these tiddly offenses with PhotoShop, a fascinating process. Seen through magnification are tiny pixels. Drag a light spot over the dark spot and “poof”, it’s gone. Result: a clean picture.

So now there’s a more acceptable but still nearly nude picture of Julie Newmar. What to do? Actually, I had not seen this photograph by Peter Basch, a New York celebrity glamour photographer, before. As a brunette, what notoriety I had achieved thus far, other than being one of the brides in “Seven Brides for Seven Brothers,” was as “Stupefyin’ Jones” in the musical “Li’l Abner”. It seems there was a cussed character by the name of Available Jones who had a “secret weapon”—me—hiding in a portable shower that he would pull on stage, and for a fee, good old hard cash, announce: “She . . . was guaranteed to stop any red-blooded American male in his tracks.”

All these shenanigans were a fistful of fun at the St. James theatre on 44th Street, and not a word did I speak. That was in my early twenties. Then my brother John from Harvard introduced me to politics, The Chicago Seven, Lenny Bruce, and all that noise. I was thrilled to hear anyone like Mort Sahl, Izzy Stone, and Lenny . . . Oh, Lenny! I physically fell off my seat laughing so hard at what felt like the most explosive truths ever spoken during those repressed early days of the war in Viet Nam. Another time, I remember my brother and me jumping up and down on the bed which I kept in the middle of the floor at my Los Angeles duplex on Harper, when Lyndon Johnson announced he would not seek a new term as President. All the while our parents were sitting in numbed silence off to the side. How many times have you screamed at the TV when some prevaricating politician lied for the sake of protecting his fellow conspirators, those devious buzzards, as they in turn were scamming the public with their most up-to-date war games.

Noam Chomsky, Ron Paul, Jimmy Breslin are my heroes today. They say it like it is. They are brave men. These are the intellectuals, these are the passionate men. They arouse me. I salute them.

John

2008-04-13T20:56:00.000-07:00

It’s the last day of March. For John and me, it is the first Sunday spending our day in the garden. I open my eyes and it’s “Oh, my God” . . . the sight of the flowers, colors composition. The warmth of the sun through my skin. I realize my son John, who has Down Syndrome and several other handicaps, does not suffer. He doesn’t suffer not hearing Beethoven or rapping with his iPod. He is filled to his capacity in the life he has. No one should pity him, nor try to create worlds he doesn’t have. I am delightfully happy in his presence and he in mine. I, in turn, am very tolerant of all the levels of human development this world has to offer. There is plenty of kinship for me to feel comfortable with and plenty of the other sort of people who heartily disagree with my thinking but who give me a vast choice of new ideas to pursue. Life couldn’t be better as well as the speed with which it is all happening. I feel quite in tune with this life.

Intrigue

2008-04-04T15:34:00.002-07:00

“I knew I was going to meet you,” I said to this handsome, tall dark man, who immediately knew me for what I was. “The dangerous sort” was what I wanted, I had told a friend, whose gentleman friend I had at the time rejected. It definitely was magic at first sight. The language of love, lust, caution. I had put on my favorite skirt and sweater, anticipation for me was high that day. I was going to say “Yes” to everything.

He was standing across the room in the office of my wellness doctor, Hans Gruenn, disappointed that he could not receive a vitamin C shot for his cold. He had just come off a big case, “I win them all,” he offered. His success had been followed by a natural let- down, a sadder sick-like phase. “Does it always happen?” he wanted to know. “Yes,” I replied, describing my lonely after performance depressions, sitting on a stool all alone in the kitchen, eating left-overs to the vapid noise from a TV.

We offered a lot of information to each other. I liked everything he said, his manner, the way he revealed himself; his amazing memory for details. The Catholic boy had become a spiritually awakened man who grasped the higher, the broader concept of life while standing on his feet doing what he does best, defending I. P. cases, Intellectual Property. He had set precedents, written books, briefs, lectured. In the Refac case . . .

I looked him up on the internet. There were hundreds of sites on his accomplishments, a degree in electrical engineering, a BA graduate at Rutgers in New Jersey, 1978. That would make him 41—42 years old. We could be friends!

He was so stunning, easy to adore. He drove a black Porsche, what else? Girls love fast cars, it takes the breath away. He bragged, I notice the best men can’t help but brag, then they’ll pull themselves up short, fearing familial admonition. “Forget good manners . . . let your ego and all the rest rip. . . I can handle it, I love it, tell me more.” This idea was received well by him. Clever, intelligent men need to roar. I was his stadium of one, if not an hundred-fold approval for this male ego.

We went to John O’Groat’s for breakfast. I was walking on air, such is the consummate pleasure of being with a gorgeous man. Oh, pleasure indeed. I felt his arm, as an indurate resistance to my grasp, it left me giddy. “This is my new friend,” I said to Paul, the owner, and breezily took a seat.

There are always weaknesses and tragedies that bring people together, but for now the appreciation we all long to give and take is at it’s tumescent best. It’s the boost that life needs every now and then to stay the course, to our eventuality.

How had I known we would meet? Both of us being intuitive and in part psychic, the message came to me earlier that morning, standing in the bathroom in bra and panties, admiring my slim waist and round hips, briefly caught in the mirror. I’d noticed this before, but never did I acclaim out loud, “You are so beautiful!” This was different, I looked back again and remarked, “A man should be saying this to you, Julie.” It had been a long arduous winter.

Transitions

2008-04-01T15:34:00.000-07:00

What if the greatest talent you’ve had all your life no longer works for you? Let’s say you were a pitcher or a dancer like me, could you trade it in for a new one? I’m working on that again by becoming my own teacher, my own guide. It’s a time of transition, and these are very big challenges. I had tried to mesmerize myself away from the loss, deconstruct my habit of going to others for solutions. The way I turned things around was to write my way out of chaos and uncertainty. I learned to use the pen to re-motivate myself, find the wealth within, the untapped knowledge. Isn’t that why meditation is so beneficial, you have to listen inwards, not outwards? The old adage is true, the gold fields are in our backyard, and we don’t have to compete with someone else for them. All you have to do is listen, within.

Try this: sit down with a pencil and paper, take five to ten slow deep breaths, then ask the question you most want answered. Next, listen to the thoughts that come back. Let your mind become liquid, listen and let the pencil in your hand write what you hear. There will be solutions by the barrel. It is much easier than you think. Take it easy, don’t effort. Doubt destroys, so just allow. Be there with yourself. A gentle focus, if you please.

The Romanian gymnast Nadia Comaneci was asked what it was like when she got that perfect 10 at the Olympics. On recall, she said it wasn’t a big deal. “I was doing it every day”, for the joy of it. It’s not force, it’s focus.

To unlock your secret talents, focus on what you want. Let the answers flow out of your hand, the source of this information is infinite, and the solutions will astound you. These are inspirational treasure hunts that will, each day, double and double again the pleasure you have in life.

Sunday

2008-03-02T15:32:00.000-08:00

I have lost the interest of this man. I am clearly heartbroken. I wish he would tell me point blank what he didn’t like about me, though perhaps it’s better not. I’ll just have to deduce this, which is more than painful enough.

Fact. I have not heard from him in two and a half days and it is like shooting oneself in the stomach, an immolation, a needless task. Of course, I will remove myself from anyplace not wanted and “belong” where life gives me force. I shall pack up my feelings and relocate, letting cyberspace—the fun I have at the computer—along with its new contacts absorb some of my passion. I was, even from my point of view toward this man, way too forthright. Right or wrong, it didn’t match his needs. I am chastened, reduced in size. The world holds much more for me. I accept the rejection, we all have had to do that.

It is mid-March and the first days of Spring. I watch the nodes of nature burst mightily into the perfumed air. Many buds won’t open, their petals remain tightly bound and drop to the ground. The temperature, the air is too damp or they are planted in the wrong place or . . . . Let me not for a moment think: “If Only . . .” Let me get my ass up and move to the right place. Move Julie, move.

Later: you are hurting, aren’t you? Ah, yes, I am heavily distracted from whatever I am doing and notice that anything that will hurt, will hurt more on Sunday. The shoelaces to my soul have come undone. I’ve fallen between the cracks in this hammock of love. Hot tears soothe my cheeks, giving me all the compassion I’ll need to comfort another like me when the time comes. Sadness, how equalizing it is. Missing some one, or something ... in yourself. More tears, it’s Sunday. Oh, God, it is. [to be continued] ...

New Year's Eve

2008-02-22T18:30:00.000-08:00

Last night I went to Hugh Hefner’s all white New Year’s Eve party. It was the usual, but less crazy of his parties. What I observed there is that so many of us are just observers, trying to fit in, lacking the credentials for the “happening moment”, either drinking, dancing, lit . . . by the crashing music. We try . . to connect, the more we try, the worse we feel about ourselves. I am reminded of the young, awkward Gary Cooper, but I suppose there are many layers to any story, and it does take two hours plus a clever screenplay to get to the heart’s knowing.

Dear Jane Russell is seated to my right. “This awful! loud rap music!! Give me the ‘40’s . . . Harry James . . .” The hearing aide she uses distorts the music’s volume. Hugh Hefner’s brother is pointed out to me, he is the perfect symbol of that perfect satyr-of-a-Santa the cartoons depict, lean well-groomed, escorting a youngish nubile bluer-than-black woman of incredible proportions. She is the real thing, his playboy playmate! They stay close all evening. The rest of us wander on the white carpeted lawn, under a ballooning tent sloping toward a stage with a harem-like enclosure for his majesty Mr. Hefner, now 81 and his bevy of three. My friend even knew the girls’ names. He said at one time there had been seven . . . until the “division”.

A gentleman from the Midwest seated himself next to me, saying he was writing Hugh Hefner’s biography. “There are things I still don’t understand . . . he’s very smart though.” It was a smooth evening, harmless by all appearances. I left at ten minutes after midnight with the other three ‘50’s “Starlets”: Terry Moore, Jane Russell, and France Nuyen. I am aware now that I am part of a not too disagreeable deception. “Why don’t you stay with your escort?” Terry asked. “He adored you.” Chris Barkley from Arizona. He built houses and said building shopping centers was more successful since the housing slump. “He’s 35 years old. I encouraged him to have fun” in this visual, actual fantasy environment. “But he wanted to be with you.” Chris was at least 6’6” with a face that wouldn’t rival Gary Cooper’s but made him all the more adorable. Nothing is sure, it never is.

10 Points on Aging Gloriously

2008-01-02T10:31:00.000-08:00

1. Never use the word “age”. What you think you become. Only think of age as sweetening your life.

2. Breathe yourself away from stuff you don’t want: Criticism, blame justification. Forget it. Drop it in a stream, see it float away.

3. Put the best photographs of yourself out. It’ll pick up your spirits.

4. Live for yourself. Practice love and forgiveness on yourself. This generosity will be extended to others.

5. You’re gorgeous no matter what you look like. How people respond to you is all about the energy you project. Love people unconditionally, then no one can hurt you.

6. Be in love always, with what you do, say, think or act. That way you’ll attract the man of your dreams, if he’s not there already.

7. Accept that everyone is right. From the others experience, this is true. [or] Don’t make anyone “wrong” – from their experience, they are just as right as you are. [or] Choose thoughts of joy not pain, out of all that mental traffic in your head.

8. Love your body. It works perfectly in spite of all the times you’ve tinkered with it.

9. At least once a week, write a letter of appreciation to yourself and be surprised at how many others will benefit.

10. Have quiet time. So you can receive the gifts, ideas, guidance from your Higher self.

- First posted at julienewmar.com on December 18, 2007

Andrew

2007-12-05T09:23:00.001-08:00

Yesterday Andrew and his crew of seven came over to trim the trees before the next two garden shows. This is unusual for October as most of the annuals are on the wane and the ground is about to be readied for spring, by November anyway. This year is special because none other than the BBC is planning a new T.V. series titled “Around the World in 80 Gardens” for 2008, to be shown in prime time and with world wide distribution. I remember being in some foreign country bored or stuck in my room and having the luxury of the BBC to watch. This is such a plum for me to have been chosen to be one of the “80”. The Friends of Robinson Garden unanimously agreed. I am delighted you can imagine.

However, in order to get light on the annuals, those eye ticklers that get planted or replanted in my case three times a year, the big Jacaranda had to be “laced out” and brought down to mid-garden size. Then there is always Jim Belushi’s excesses, an invasion of trees and shrubs (he’s not one to clean up after himself), one of his trees had actually penetrated the back door of my house. In January he moves out.

There are also Japanese boxwood hedges to be tamed, reconfigured if you like, trained into unusual shapes like diamonds, globes and even a rooster. This somehow challenged the boss man Mr. Andrew Hernandez. “Oh, I give your garden great care. Other clients don’t seem to notice what I do,, you notice everything.”

Mr. Hernandez is a man of patriarchal proportion, gentle and kind to me, exacting toward his men. He showed special spirit that day. Come to think of it, he always does.

As the men were preparing to leave, he mentioned that his birthday was coming up. The trucks were piled high with branches of Eugenia and Belushi extrania and the like, ropes were neatly encircled, the atmosphere was sweet with a golden cast of afternoon light. So I asked him what birthday that might be.. “in numbers”? “That’ll be 67”, he said as we walked in tandem toward the cab of his stately old truck. “….and you know what I want for my birthday?” I smiled, having enjoyed the visit. “I want you!!”

originally posted at julienewmar.com October 21, 2007

Fashion Week

2007-10-21T21:35:00.000-07:00

Everything is motivated selfishly in this universe and that is as it should be. Thus we have growth, expansion. You think not selfishly? Altruism is done to feel good isn’t it? Feeling good or better is the whole point.

Feeling low in spirit, abandoned by my lover, my self-esteem had croaked. I took off for New York’s Fashion Week, September 4th - 12th. What a kick! How delicious to just adorn oneself, then show up, admiration streaming my way and the electric satisfaction I feel lavished on me by new friendships. The whole world is gay at Fashion Week, like candy before breakfast and geared to every sort of sexual attraction. I sure missed mine.

The honey sweet of life can be consummated in rags but not this trip. I succumbed to a rally of excess. The Algonquin Hotel treated me like their queen cat, which incidentally they have in residence, Matilda is her name. She strides the pale white mosaic floors in the lobby, is more famous than I, and is only responsive to touch by the more familiar hands at the hotel.

Tracy Reese, A-plus, a designer of color showing at Bryant Park. It was a tittering mob scene, a noon gala. Girls, girls, girls and my darling escort, Patrick McDonald, bedecked in Paul Smith London high style. Seated in the front row across from me was the latest American Idol winner. Six foot, seven inches Andre Leon Tally of impeccable memory and sartorial pizzazz.

A cameraman wanting to know why my feet looked more like Godzilla’s than faerie-fanciful. I haven’t worn heels for eight years, nor has my friend Jane Fonda. You can’t hide at Fashion Week. I was pictured in the New York Times, the News, Post, New York Magazine, Star, web sites and web lows, in a white gossamer gown at the Van Cleef and Arpels’ 100th Anniversary party. With everyone else dressed oh so safe in black, I was reluctant to tell anyone I had designed this dress as well as 80% of my wardrobe, not the thing to do when you are among the best of the best. The glamorous Arpels’ party made me realize what a home town girl I was. The inner star in me bubbled to the top all evening, entranced by models standing in frozen vignettes dripping diamonds, a crush of Wall Street and Park Avenue desirables. There was, on 34th Street, a bewitching luminescence to the Hammerstein ballroom that made each man and woman king of the walk. The thundering music pumped blood into the most sensual part of the nervous system. Nothing could dim the pleasure of that evening. On stage, a montage filmscape of Paris, enlivened by more models dripping in diamonds in a pantomimed fashion show. This was climaxed by eight dancing girls from the Lido, naked of course.

I saw two Broadway shows: “Chicago”, and “Xanadu”, disappointing, and missed a third, “Jersey Boys”. It was more fun to dine with friends.

Now what?

(At home) And on the telly, fear and war, fear and war. Like fighting parents, this makes the public avoid politics and opt for less normal social behavior. We tire of the consequences of our Bush-ed misjudgment, careen carelessly into extreme opinions on matters; then overeat to hide shame from anxiety. Where goeth America? Is that why dog shows are so fun to watch. Excess is out front and center. Most people are feeling lost these days. What’s normal anymore? Not me, you, the family. I’m inclined to answer to my own guidance system, vanquish loss and see this world as just a fine place to be. Why not? Health is better that way.

The divine Carol Channing was my dinner companion at the Magic Castle in Hollywood. Oh, yes, she’s a star, great to the core, shining love inside and out. She connects to people with a kind of personalized resource that enhances and embellishes her famous story telling at the same time she acutely listens to external responses. She blends the whole endeavor with her crackling voice and a doting way of leaning her heart, full lips and shoulders toward the recipient. She takes you in. Her ego likes to be partnered. She’s a dolly, first class showmanship with a young four-year marriage to her childhood sweetheart, Harry Kullijian. Together they are climbing the mountain toward returning the arts into public schools. Good luck! Class by class she will do it. Love wins because it influences longest.

- first posted at julienewmar.com Sep 21, 2007

The Hefner Party

2007-10-08T09:40:00.000-07:00

Hugh Hefner’s 80th Birthday

Who was there? Bill Maher, Jerry Buss, Nicky and Paris Hilton, John Lovitz, Scott Baio, Nate Holden with a tall, very “blonde” blond, James Caan (shorter than I), the Donald (surprisingly tall)--- was it the scowl on his face or just his usual intensity? His body guard seemed to be enjoying himself more than he was.

I was picked up in a limo too long for the single lane streets of Beverly Hills and was handed a white envelope with a princely gift in it. This happened to me once before when I was 20 years old, but that’s another story. Terry Moore put the gift in my hand “from the investors”. We drove to the Four Seasons Hotel to pick up three gentlemen from Florida, real estate developers of course, who flew in for the party.

The Party! Yes, well! I’ve never seen so many naked girls. Their clothes had been painted on them by airbrush artists downstairs in the gym. I stood in Hefner’s baronial entrance hall to witness the bounding inrush of energy. The girls in glass slippers clicked out of minibuses assembled on some other launching pad. There was little attention given to anyone. Eyes flitted mostly from buttock to breast, not much to face, no need to. The noise was deafening. The girls kept themselves in groups or proceeded hand in hand. It took huge energy to maneuver the space. In the distance a stage with more body painted girls writhing to a deafening beat. A musical group from “Crash” suddenly enlivened the stage. One wanted to be where Hef and the Donald were. Suddenly a whoop and a cheer rose up. A luscious lovely had popped out of a cake doing a perfectly choreographed strip tease although I could barely see it because the hundreds of girls surrounding “the king” wore heels that put them well over six feet. The chosen ones, those darlings closest to him, were almost always in constant movement pleasuring themselves as much as the boss. They live there, have pajama parties that really rock so I’m told, now that Viagra is part of the fare.

The luscious lovely from the cake took almost everything off. She had breasts and everything to perfection. As there are paintings of his past favorites on the walls in the house, one gets the idea of just what that is. The protocol known to all is that there are fewer men invited, seven or eight girls to one man is the scene. Its fun to see a man in his 90s, maybe the scion of a Ralphs market, barely able to crawl, enjoying the scene. Occasional handfuls of big time celebrities come and go. There is always Tony Curtis, a breast man, and Chuck McCann. . . They stay and watch movies with Hef, “Casablanca” gets a yearly showing. The dress code was pajamas, a nightgown, or bra and panties, preferably less. I wore a barely-there Wolford body suit and a velvet skirt, custom designed Myrna Katz jewelry that was much admired, and a silver fox coat. I felt recherché, like Catherine Deneuve or someone who’s gone from pretty to beautiful. A quality for which the girls there often times admired in me. Frankly I love the sensuality of the place, the luscious food, drink, the excess. The girls felt safe, there was major security everywhere. But it’s kind of lonely for the women, no boyfriends allowed. A husband or two for some of the older playmates. None of whom had passed into the beautiful stage.

By midnight, the three men that I came with still had lust in their eyes, a little sweaty, they were no longer embarrassed by the pajamas they had grabbed off the line from a late night Ross clothing store along with a back-of-the-door hotel bath robe. I wished them well as I stepped in the limousine at 1:15 in the morning, “Do enjoy yourselves in the grotto, have a rollicking good time”, as I once had.

(originally posted at julienewmar.com, April 2007)

Mirrors

2007-09-21T15:29:00.001-07:00

Yesterday I sat down in front of a mirror, and came face to face with a different person. My house does have many mirrors. I tell people they are there to expand space, as this house is small, “to bring in more light.” It’s partially true, but I wonder that it is somehow for the expansion of self.

Although I mostly like what I see, isn’t a mirror essentially a kind of neutral friend? You check in and check out briefly what the affect of the day’s assemblage of clothes, make up and hair will project. Daily we do self-consciously construct a kind of public camouflage which helps boost our self-esteem. How we think we know who we are thus gets measured by the layered responses of others. But this morning as I sat before this “neutral friend” I began to see more. The person I’d become as well as my true physical appearance exposed in front of me.. I quietly met a new person, perhaps this time even more to my liking, a soul glimpse, if you will. Here was a person I could trust . . . capable of intimacy.

Intimacy!!

That tenuous word.

Wait, wasn’t intimacy a kind of sacred place? A place of… near oneness? Or was it some missing piece of life long awaited, an empty space where sacrifice and ridiculous posturing has obscured what I truly am.

I need time to think about this.

Conclusion: I had traveled for a few moments into a space I knew I wanted to go more often with others.

Suggestion: Do this again. Sit in front of a mirror and see who’s there.