Rancho Tarzanadu: How Rancho Tarzanadu Came to Be

Miss Linda (pronounced 'Mees Leenda') had come to the conclusion that she was in dire straits. It was time to take action.

She lived in her family home, the one she had been brought back to when she was born. Her parents had purchased the house in 1959 'for a song'. Her father had insisted on buying a house in the hills, with a beautiful view overlooking the San Fernando Valley. The house also overlooked the El Caballero Country Club, of whom none of the family was ever a member. Her father, who grew up on a cattle ranch in Texas, preferred to golf at the less expensive public courses. Her father, to put it nicely, was extremely frugal.

Miss Linda was brought back to the house when she was born in March of 1966. She was greeted by a white cat named Breathless, who guarded her crib as if he was on patrol.

Miss Linda's father was a fighter pilot in World War II (The Big One). His plane was shot down in New Guinea, and he survived there for three weeks in the jungle, contracting gangrene from a machete wound (his own, accidentally), but he survived. When he was discovered, he begged for his leg to be amputated because it hurt so badly, but the doctors wouldn't listen to him. He kept his leg, and was later glad that he did. After the war, he put himself through college, obtaining a Master's Degree from UCLA as an Electrical Engineer. He was hired by Hughes Aircraft, where he worked for forty years, until he retired. He worked on several 'Top Secret' assignments that he would never discuss with anyone. He would drive, or fly, to secret locations and be gone for days at a time. He was forty-four when Miss Linda was born, and seventy-nine years old when he died, in his den, at the house. His ashes were buried in the backyard, which was always his very favorite place to be. Miss Linda was heartbroken at losing him, as she had always been 'Daddy's Girl', his only child.

Miss Linda's mother was raised on a Tennessee farm with four brothers and one sister. Miss Linda's grandmother used to wring the necks of the chickens that she would later cook for dinner. She had a sick chicken at one time with something literally 'stuck in its craw' and she pinned the chicken down, gave it a shot of whiskey (so the story goes), sliced it's craw open, took out the damaging elements, then sewed the craw back together. The next day, the chicken was fine and laying regular eggs again. Miss Linda's grandfather was a preacher-man, and had various other odd jobs as well. Miss Linda's mother grew up very poor, but she married well, three times (four times if you count the time she married her first husband twice, but Miss Linda's mother does not like to discuss this and conveniently leaves it out when speaking to most people, or changes the subject if it is brought up). Miss Linda's mother is beautiful, has always been beautiful, except for a gawky childhood stage at one point. Her skin is like velvet, and she has a heart of gold. She can also be very shrewd, however, and practical. She can see through bullshit from a mile away, a trait that she has passed on to her daughter. Miss Linda's mother got remarried three years after Miss Linda's father died, and found true love at the age of seventy-eight to a man two years her Junior. Miss Linda's mother asked her if she would like to move into the family home because she was gong to move in with her new husband, who had lived in the hills of Pasadena for the last forty years and didn't want to leave his house, which overlooked the Rose Bowl. Miss Linda said she would be a fool not to move in to the family home, and made plans immediately for the move and started packing. She had recently been laid off from her job of nine years, at an Advertising Specialty Company, and was grateful for the move on several different levels. It was her 'Tara', and she had returned home to where she had been brought back to when she was born, where her father had died, and where his ashes were buried. Her half-sister and half-brother could not understand her attachment to the house, but Miss Linda did not know how she could express it any clearer. It was part of her, and she was part of it.

Her specific problem at this moment was money, as is the problem with many. She was in the process of figuring out how to stay in this beautiful house for the rest of her life, and be able to pay for everything like house taxes and insurance, property upkeep, the gardener, the pool man, the utilities, clearing of the half-acre of land below the house, etc. She was presently studying to become a Massage Therapist, as she had always enjoyed working with 'energy', but until her new career took off, she had to come up with some sort of a plan.

The economy had just crashed. Badly. Depression-era badly.

She decided that the quickest solution to her problem would be to take on boarders. She reluctantly placed an ad.

She decided that another solution would be to rent out her beautiful property for events, such as archery lessons, dance lessons, kung-fu, pagan rituals, prenatal yoga classes, weddings, bar-mitzvahs, film shoots, puppet shows, etc.

Miss Linda would not relinquish her family home. Desperate times called for desperate measures. 

And so, 'Rancho Tarzanadu' was born. A boarding house for certain few (who could pay regularly). And an Events Rental when the bills were coming up short. A get-away spot. A retreat. A refuge.

Little did she know that the house was sitting on top of a magical vortex, and was unique and highly prized by many beyond her realm or capacities of understanding at this present time. She was about to embark on a journey, however, that would lead her straight into the eye of the hurricane.

All Miss Linda knew is that she would never give up her home.

The Show Must Go On

'The Show Must Go On' made by Linda Benskin at Doll Parts Art.

Wallflower

'Wallflower' made by Linda Benskin at Doll Parts Art.

After School Playground

'After School Playground' made by Linda Benskin at Doll Parts Art.

Live or Die

'Live or Die', made by Linda Benskin at Doll Parts Art.

Sometimes a Cigar is Just a Cigar

'Sometimes a Cigar is Just a Cigar', made by Linda Benskin at Doll Parts Art.

Here is 'Alchemy', the latest video from Red Felt Heart. It's a little tale about the powers of attraction, and the light and dark aspects of love.

Let's Do Lunch!

When meeting someone for a business lunch, it is important to be on time and prepared for the meeting. There is work involved before the meeting takes place; to find out what my lunch companion prefers to eat and if they have any dietary restrictions. I want to choose a place to eat where they will be comfortable and feel relaxed.

I need to show up prepared with what I want to present to them, and have all my information organized so it will be easy and enjoyable to hear what I have to say while they eat their delicious meal.

I need to be prepared to pick up the tab if I am the one who initiated the meeting with them.

If I am in the mood for a cocktail, I will order a non-alcoholic beverage if my companion is drinking tea or juice. I will let them place their order first, and if they don’t know what they want, yet, I will order something inoffensive, like lemonade. It’s possible my companion may have had a traumatic experience with lemons in their past and I just don’t know it, so the best choice may be to just order water. It may be a very boring lunch.

I will do my best to be at my best, and show up well-rested and well-groomed. It may be best not to wear strong perfume, as my companion may be allergic to it. I should also make sure that I don’t have cat hair on my clothing (I have three cats at home) so that doesn’t cause an allergic reaction, either. I should refrain from smoking cigars or joints after lunch, unless my companion offers me one.

I will listen patiently and feign interest if my companion runs off at the mouth, tells long, boring stories, or answers a million cell phone calls during our meeting. I will smile and be gracious and polite. I will do my best not to stare off into space, drum my fingers on the tabletop, play with the silverware or pick my nose at the table. If I have to burp, I will do it quietly, and say, “Pardon me!”

I need to be engaging and charming, without overdoing it and being obnoxious, irritating, or pushy. I need to make small talk in a casual and natural manner, and ask my companion lots of questions to keep them engaged, without getting too personal. Unless my companion makes a pass at me first, I will refrain from making a pass at them. I will look at their wedding ring finger and if there is a ring on it I will refrain from going to a hotel room with them after the business meeting, unless they specify that they are in an ‘open relationship’ and this information can be verified by their spouse.

I will make a follow-up call after the business meeting to check in and let them know that I really enjoyed our meeting, and hope that we can do lots of business together in the future.

Hippie Canyon Vintage Voicings: Striptease

Halloween is our busiest time of year. Things get crazy. People run rampant, like animals released at a zoo. Boundaries dissolve. Things get more personal. Personal space gets smaller, more compact and precious.

I wear a witch's hat to work to ward off evil spirits disguised in flesh and blood. I banish them with my pointed cone. I take the initiative, the offensive position, like a ram scraping its hooves in the dirt before charging. I anticipate disaster before it happens, thus averting it. Little children (and their parents) wonder if I really am a witch, and this comes in handy for retail arguments about returns and exchanges. I armor myself against the general public, because I have grown to know them, and know this is a necessary element of dealing with them during the Halloween season. My co-worker, Mitch, calls it 'Battling the Front Lines'. An exaggeration? Not if you've ever worked retail.

Granted, our store is no ordinary store; it is full of magic, as anyone will tell you as soon as they set foot in the door. But it is also filled with danger, like a pirate's ship.

The ceiling is caving in, in secret places, tucked away from the public's prying eyes. Mice come out at night (I've heard them and seen them after hours when they think they are finally alone). Snakes wriggle through, sometimes, silently slithering by. Black Widows like to surprise us every now and then to keep us on our toes. Potato bugs frequent the dress rack, spooking the customers. A lizard has jumped into my lap while I straightened the linens, sitting cross-legged on the floor where millions of shoes have walked before. The roof leaks when it rains, in more than a dozen places. Buckets are always on hand. It's too hot in the summer, and freezing like a witch's tit in the winter, when we have to lug wood (filled with spiders) to build fires to stay warm. There is endless bounty, booty, beauty being poured in, processed, and purchased. We lift and we eat and work harder behind the scenes than you might imagine. The illusion is elegance, grace, and an unspecific divine mirage that mesmerizes everyone who crosses the threshold, from every walk of life, from every country in the world. It is interesting to observe. The magic is real, expressed, and felt.

Today I was lugging clothes back out into their proper places. Always walking, carrying, placing, rearranging, dusting, straightening, organizing, decorating, dragging, lifting, lugging, rolling, throwing and/or catching something. Always moving. My eyes are trained to scan a room. See who's walking in the door, greet them. Someone needs a fitting room. Okay. Someone else needs a fitting room. Okay. Where is the bathroom? It's just past the counter on the left, through the red door. What kind of incense are you burning? Nag Champa. How much is this? It's $12.00. Do you live in the canyon? No. Will you get that wall piece down for me to try on? Yes, but it won't fit you. How does this look on me? Like shit. Next. I mean, it looks great! How can I help you? How can I be of service to you? Do you need psychoanalysis? Let me try to help. Are you a shopaholic? That's great! Welcome!

So, as I was putting away these garments into their proper places, I walk by a woman who is trying on clothes in the 'Fireplace Room'. She is probably in her early thirties or late twenties...hard to tell because she is a little beat up looking. She is with a man who is probably in his early fifties...again, hard to tell because he is a little 'worn'. They both have bleached blond hair, which I find intriguing. Bleached blond like Vince Neil from Motley Crue. The woman is somewhat attractive, and she is trying on clothes over her own clothes, peeling them off and on like layers of an onion, from what I can gather, passing by. Her skirt has crept up over her waist in the back, exposing her ass in all its glory. She has on black opaque stockings, but no underwear my brain registers. Sometimes enforcing clothes-changing behavior is difficult, especially when monkeys are swinging from the ceilings such as at Halloween time and people are buzzing every which way, stumbling through the store with gorilla masks on. Some people prefer to dress or undress out in the open for their own personal reasons and it can be difficult to restrain them.

There is a group of four or five men (counting as I walk by), seeming to be of middle-eastern descent, standing a few feet from her and watching her ass intently, as if it were a bright-red baboon's ass. Their tongues were rolling out of their mouths like cartoon staircases unfolding. They were like dogs in heat making no bones about it. Were they friends? Brothers? In-laws? Father and sons? Hard to tell. Hard to calculate four or five separate ages and relationships to each other in seconds (give me a full minute and I could probably tell you). Were they all popping boners together, and were they okay with that? Apparently so.

I observed this in a flash of a moment, and by the time I realized what was happening, the woman was tugging her skirt back down, struggling it over the bulbous orbs of her butt-cheek flesh. Did she know that she was putting on a show? Did she enjoy it? Did she find power in it? Her blond companion browsed through the men's shirt rack, seemingly oblivious to his friend's presentation. Did he know? Did he encourage her? Was he really oblivious?

So many questions to ask the customers; almost as many as their seemingly endless questions for me.

The Little Man

The little man was willing to travel any distance for the perfect slice of pizza. He was so little that he could literally build a home on top of a pizza. If only he could find the perfect one, he would settle down and stop his endless searching.

He had spent several years in Italy, moving from city to city, and after many airplane rides had narrowed it down to Sicily. Although he started reminiscing about Florence.

He was afraid to pick a final pizza, in a finite location; this he equated with death.

If he kept moving, like a shark, he wouldn't die.

This is what he told himself, anyway, and he chose to believe it.

(From Writer's Emporium Club, September 22, 2011)