Oh, and One More

You can catch my interview with Valerie Plame here.

Sheriff Yum

I hit the Reagan Building today for the arraignment of Sheriff Mike Carona (more on that in The District next week). My only thought at this particular moment is: what's the over-under on how long it will take Fox News to identify him as a Democrat?

Malibu Is Burning

New story up at FourStory. For reading, like!

Update: Dad's Almost Gone

It's been almost a month since they transferred my dad from the ER to the ICU. He isn't getting better. They can't take him off the ventilator because his lungs are too scarred from emphysema that progressed after he quit smoking 25 years ago. They think his heart is infected from heroin use--it seems the tar builds up back there. They want to meet with all his children today at the hospital to talk about a plan to "make him more comfortable."
As far as we can tell, that means taking him off life support.

I go to Santa Monica everyday to see him. Occasionally, if the sedation's not turned up too high, he moves his right foot after I finish singing a song. But according to the nurse Francisco, they can't turn his sedation down anymore. It's too dangerous.

I'm not angry at him this morning; it comes and goes. I will probably be angry again tomorrow, or tonight. Two days ago I yelled at him, right in front of the nurse. How fucking dare you do this to Jimmy! I spit through tears. You have a 13-year-old fucking son.
What people don't understand when they hear me talk about my dad is how much I love him. They hear all these awful stories, and think we must have a terrible relationship of disappointments. It's true that I do yell at him a lot. But he never minds when I do; his cheerfullness is unfailing. My father is generous and brilliant and happy-go-lucky and a total fucking idiot, and he loves his children so much, and he is so proud of me. With Jimmy, who was born when Dad was 55, he'd put in the first actual parenting effort in his 40-odd years of parenting: with the rest of us, he'd wandered in and out, delighted to see us when he happened to be there. But for his youngest son, he drove the highways from Malibu to Anaheim in rush hour to make it in time for every teacher's meeting and back-to-school night since Jimmy was in kindergarten. I really thought he would be better than this, for him.

The last time I talked to him, I was in New York, and I was early for lunch with a publisher. We talked a long time, and he was practically beside himself with glee. He's always thought of himself as a novelist despite the fact that he's never written a goddamn thing. He was positively flying with pride. Another call came in, as they always do.
"I have to take this," he said. "I will call you RIGHT BACK." He didn't--I knew he wouldn't, he never does--but it was okay. I didn't have to yell at him even once.

Daddy's Home

New post at FourStory is up, this one about my daddy. Go and see.

Update: You Fucking Idiot

So then my Uncle Bobby stabbed himself in the neck with a pencil, and while he was in the hospital, he barricaded the deputy out of the room and then had a standoff with the police for four hours from his fifth story ledge. Then he jumped off but didn't die, and now he's on a respirator . . . .
But NOT before my dad decided to do a little partying and had an overdose/heart attack combined with pneumonia (from aspirating vomit) and kidney failure. So he's on a respirator too. And so it has been a very bad week, and I think we've all learned at least one lesson: 68 is too old to be doing speedballs with trash.
Anyhoo, I'm home now and have Internet again (my dog chews through the cable any time I'm gone too long) and may even get back to work next week.
Love you all,
Beccalou