February 26, 1999.

Last night there was a bittersweet gathering at my house, our happiness in each other's company slightly marred by the departures of this week. Most of the night was spent in dinner and chat. Javina and Stacy and I sat around for a couple of hours talking about women's issues, which is something I don't do very much. And I thought: this is how Javina's time here should've been. Not lost in misunderstandings about parties or crunch time, not wasted in apprehension and sexual tension, not spent in obligations elsewhere. It should have been like this always. But as I've so recently learned, the way it should be is seldom realized until it's far too late to do anything about it.

During dinner, I had a chance to notice and marvel at Stacy's absolute self-control...perhaps it's from being a dancer, or perhaps it's just self-discipline taken to a level that I can only marvel at. Not only is she hyper-aware of her body and her movements, but she can do things like sit with a salad in front of her for 20 minutes, not eating until the rest of us get served. I was rather ashamed of my childish sense of urgency...when I'm hungry or tired or whatever, I need to attend to it right away. If I don't, I'll be miserable. I guess that's the line between adult and child. Maybe I'll cross it one day.

I'm listening to "Concrete Blonde Y Los Illegals," a recent collaboration between the extinct L.A. band and a Chicano rock outfit. (Have I ever mentioned that almost a fifth of my CD collection is comprised of Concrete Blonde or Johnette Napolitano projects? CB was my big thing in highschool.) It's a terrible album, even for dedicated fans such as myself...cheesy production, too many maracas, and heavy-handed political commentary that grates after the second listen. However, I must recommend their "Ode to Rosa Lopez," which wittily celebrates the Simpson maid: "without you, the only Latina at the trial of the century would've been a mousy translator." As Dirk would say, that's some funny ass shit.

Today I got one of Paris' patented rambling emails. It never fails to amaze me how neatly I can be excised from his experiences and his thoughts. I was there during so much of what became history, but as everyone credits Paris with genius, he's given the role of history-maker and I don't exist in it.

Sometimes I find myself under the general pessimistic category of "dames." Most often I don't even bother to look.

But I have this. I star in the life of me, and you're all reading the highly doctored screen play, as it happens. I'm Winona Rider in Heathers, I'm Susan Sarandon in The Hunger, I'm Audrey Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's, I'm Anne Margaret in Bye Bye Birdie...or at least we can all pretend. I'm the sheriff in this here town, and I make the stories dance here.

What more could a former goddess ask for?