Episode 13:  Estate Tax Law - February 2001
I was in. Pressured by the holidays and an irresistible urge to make something of myself, I'd decided I needed a job, so I hatched a scheme (inspired by a New Yorker article) to walk into a downtown law firm and pretend I worked there. I managed to convince the secretary, April, who worked the front desk, that I was "the new guy." Now, as I walked purposefully past her into the buzzing frenzy of The Firm, I knew that the easy part was over--it was time to go to work.

I used to watch L.A. Law every week when it was on T.V. I found the show's legal intrigue mixed with the characters' sexual shenanigans an irresistible mix. Later, much later, in fact, I was drawn into the O.J. Simpson trial. I was fascinated by the fierce battle between the prosecutors, the city's best, and the defense team, the nation's best. Both L.A. Law and the Simpson trial convinced me that winning a legal battle had less to do with the merits of a case, or evidence, than the quality of the lawyers involved. The truth, I've come to learn, is a shaky subject. Reality is subjective. No two people experience the same event the same way, and this is the fundamental truth that makes it possible for lawyers to argue that things didn't happen the way they seemed to happen, that a man is innocent even when all available facts point otherwise, all the while billing extraordinary amounts of money for gigantic amounts of time.

This, then, was my law school education--a T.V. show and a famous, three-ring circus of a trial. I felt reasonably confident that I could pose as a lawyer and fool people, provided they didn't put me under too much scrutiny. 

I found an empty office with a window and stepped inside. Immediately, I admired the view. I was looking north, toward the Hollywood Hills, from forty stories up. Beyond the hills, I could see the San Fernando Valley. It was a clear, glorious morning.

"Excuse me," came a voice behind me. I whirled around, startled. Standing behind me was an older man dressed in an expensive dark suit. I did my best to give him a cocky, "who the hell are you" smile. "Yes?"

"You must be the new guy," the man said (I nodded noncommittally). "Has Dean caught you yet?" 

Ah, my first big decision as a lawyer. I decided to play it safe. "Nope. Sure hasn't."

This made the old guy beam. "Great. We can use you on our team. You're in estate taxes, aren't you?"

Damn! I was hoping for something juicy, like a big, nasty divorce. "We'll, I've driven past a few estates in my time." I winked.

"Great," the old man said again. "You're on the case. I'll tell June. (June?) And Barry. He'll get the trust information to you. Oh, and if Dean bothers you, you tell him I've already got you."

Suddenly, this wasn't seeming like such a great idea anymore. I felt a gnawing sense of dread in my stomach. My hands were sweating. My forehead felt damp. Maybe now was the time to excuse myself for a smoke, get in my car, and get the hell out of there...

to be continued.

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Episode 12:  My Fictional Job - January 8, 2001
At the top of the list of inventions I’d like to patent is something I call the Time Anchor. The Time Anchor is a very simple device: whenever you feel your life passing by too quickly, you simply throw it overboard, and it slows down time. I haven’t yet invented this wonderful device, much less patented it, but I’m sure it’ll be hugely successful.

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Episode 11:  First Date - December 1, 2000
----Adult content warning: adult situations and/or sexuality----

How many months has it been since I broke up with Sandi--Oops, I mean "X"? I'm not counting. I'm not counting the months, the weeks, the days, the minutes...anyhow, this past month, as promised, I went out on a date with Amanda, formerly the warrior queen of Adventure Quest, a TV series that I was formerly a writer for. This was my very first date since, well, you know, so I was very nervous. What do people do on first dates, anyhow? I tried to remember.

After I picked Amanda up in my car (newly washed, just for this occasion), we started off with dinner on Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica. We ate at a seafood restaurant where you sit on uncomfortable wooden benches, like some kind of crazy indoor picnic. The food, though, was very good. Sandi--drat!--I mean, Amanda, ate crab. I had steak and shrimp, if you care to know.

Amanda and I talked at first about our experiences on the set of Adventure Quest. The conversation was boring, so let's skip it. I'm sure you can imagine the two of us groaning about the fundamental unfairness of working in the Hollywood jungle. Next, we talked about relationships. Amanda, it turns out, was married when she was twenty-one. She was living then in Tucson, Arizona. Since I'm originally from Arizona, we both joked about our home state: everyone really does carry guns. I've got three myself, which I keep locked up in the closet, since I'm now officially a Californian. Amanda and I also commiserated about the irony of Arizona, home of the Grand Canyon and much other spectacular wilderness, voting for Bush, who presumably would drill all of it for a few million barrels' worth of oil. But no politics, please!

We changed the subject back to relationships. Amanda got divorced six months after the wedding, when she found her husband in bed with her best friend, who danced at TD's. Not long after that, Amanda moved west to Los Angeles, spurred on by dreams of a better life. Plus, she had long legs and a pretty face, and had heard--rightly--that such qualities were in demand on the coast. 

This may sound silly, but I think Amanda liked the fact that I was just listening to her. I really wasn't saying much at all, just paying attention, but after dinner she grabbed my hand, gave it a squeeze, and smiled at me. I picked up the check. We walked to the beach. It was chilly, so we walked close together. I suggested we ride the big Ferris Wheel on the pier. Amanda agreed. It was the first time either of us had ever ridden it. It goes up really high. Really high. I was scared the whole time that some bolt or something would break off and send us tumbling hundreds of feet back to Earth, but the rickety old thing held together long enough to send us around a few times safely.

What to do next? Amanda suggested we go back to her place. Now, I try not to read too much into anything, but this "her place" phrase made me begin to sweat despite the brisk night air. What were we going to do at "her place"? Have a cup of coffee? Talk some more? Or maybe...Hmmm...

Amanda kissed me as soon as she closed the door. I was stunned, but even more than that, I was relieved, because I instantly realized that I wasn't going to have to agonize about making the first move. The first move had already been made! In fact, as we continued kissing, and moving unquestionably toward her bedroom, the first move was in the distant past, long gone, moot. We fell onto Amanda's bed. I landed on a teddy bear. I apologized to the bear and was about to move him to safer ground when Amanda pulled off her shirt. 

I tossed the bear on the floor.

Now, you have to understand, I'd thought about this moment for a long time. When things between Sandi and I were falling apart, when I began to realize that someday I might be sharing a bed with some other woman, someone I'd never even met, I began wondering what that woman might be like. Would she be pretty? (Yes!) Would she smell nice? (Sort of...well, no, not really) These questions, of course, were all hypothetical, I reassured myself then, because there was no way that Sandi and I were going to break up. I was asking these questions as if I was imagining an alternate universe, a place infinitely far that I could speculate about but never actually visit.

Yet suddenly I was there--and I mean there. She had breasts (am I allowed to use this word?), this Amanda-creature in Universe 2-Far-From-Home, much larger than I was accustomed to. They struck me as interesting yet not particularly useful. Good for squeezing, maybe? Yes, they were good for that. But everything else! Different. Undeniably, overwhelmingly, inescapably, different. Too fast. Too bouncy. Too jerky. Too weird. I had left the safety and familiarity of my home planet; I was now in an alternate world where left was right, up was down. It all looked the same but felt absolutely alien.

Amanda finished with a staccato cry and hopped off me as if our polarities had suddenly reversed to "repel." Moments later, I heard the water running in her bathroom. She had gotten into the shower. I lay still for a moment, looking at my unfamiliar settings like I'd just woken from a dream and didn't know where I was. Where the hell was I? My chest tightened. My eyes suddenly burned. I managed to get dressed and leave Amanda's apartment before I stared crying.

This new universe of mine was going to take some time getting used to.

MFL

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Episode 10:  Haunted Classroom - November 1, 2000 
Ten months of MFL. Does it seem like it's been that long? I'm trying to remember everything that's happened this year. Mostly the past ten months have been a blur for me, like time-lapse photography. My one great idea for an invention is a Time Anchor. This is an anchor, like those found on ships, that you throw overboard whenever you want to slow down to catch your breath--only instead of slowing down your velocity, the Time Anchor slows down time. Of course, it's all still in the development phase. I'll let you know if it ever hits the market. You can be sure I'll be the first one in line.

I mentioned last month that I might become a music teacher. I am teaching now, but instead of music I'm teaching creative writing to a group of so-called underprivileged kids. The experience so far has been both rewarding and frustrating. Many of the kids I work with are in class less because they want to be there and more because their parents were looking for a way to get rid of them for an hour after school. We do a lot of drawing in class. The kids seem to like it better than writing, which I can understand myself. Writing isn't always fun, though I wish it were. 

When I started, I was filled with grand ideas of teaching the Art and Craft of Creative Writing to these kids. I imagined talking about the purpose of writing (do you know why people write fiction?), the basics of plot and character, how to structure an energetic as opposed to an episodic story. Not! Working with kids who have little ability to attend to tasks or follow directions, much less write confidently, I've had to radically readjust my goals. Now, I mostly try to get them to listen to each other and to discuss each other's work, be it a paragraph or a picture. I can't claim much success as yet, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed.

Last week a new kid showed up. He immediately began spinning around in his chair, throwing things, and smashing pencils against the table. He didn't seem interested in writing or drawing. About halfway through class, he suddenly began shouting, "I'm going crazy!" over and over again. I was thinking, hey, I'm a writer. I don't know how to deal with real people--only fictional ones. Meanwhile, my rambunctious student's craziness quickly spread throughout the class like influenza in kindergarten. One by one, the other kids went crazy. I nearly went crazy myself.

I certainly have a new-found respect for how difficult teaching is.

In other news, Amanda called me the other night. She was fired from the set of Adventure Quest one week after she returned to work, allegedly because of "inappropriate behavior." She told me the producer canned her when she refused to become his third girlfriend. His other two girlfriends, both of whom work on daytime television (I won't name names), apparently weren't enough to keep him happy. I told Amanda I was sorry. Adventure Quest was a big deal for both of us. I told Amanda about my new adventures as a teacher. She told me she was thinking of going back to exotic dancing. You've got to make rent, you know.

Incidentally, I did manage to ask her out to dinner. I'm going to be seeing her this Friday. I'll let you know if anything interesting happens. For now, I'm going to sign off. Thanks for tuning in,

MFL

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Episode 9: Anxious Times -- October 1, 2000
I lost my job, of course. A few days later, Amanda was back on the set, once again wearing her leather warrior-woman costume. I read in Variety that she's going to star in a film version of the show, to be released next summer. Sometimes, I guess, people take only a few steps in a new, uncertain direction before u-turning and heading right back to the relative safety of the past.

It's been a strange month for me. I've found myself questioning my identity as a writer: is this who I want to be? Taking a deep and true look at yourself can be a scary thing, I'm discovering. And I'm aware, more than ever, as this fall approaches, as another year speeds toward its end, that time is limited. We are not given an endless canvas on which to paint our lives. At some point, if you're lucky, you realize that there's only so much available space, and you start to care about what you lay down upon it. If you're unlucky, you keep doodling until you fall off the edge.

To escape these thoughts of doom and mortality, I've been watching the Olympics, watching the mini-dramas of young men and women who've dedicated their lives toward a few seconds or minutes in the great Olympic ring. I admire this single-mindedness, though I fear for these people when their Olympic moment has past. What then? What do you do--say, as a Gymnast--when all is said and done, and you've given away your childhood, and now you're left to contend with all that empty time ahead. Hmm...I guess the Olympics haven't been as effective an escape as I thought.

I read a screenplay this week about a woman kidnapped by aliens from the planet Saturn. They were very hung up on rings; they wore rings all over their bodies, including those gotta-hurt body piercings that are a strange mix between the grotesque and the inexplicably fascinating. Anyhow, this woman they kidnapped was not really into jewelry, but when they got her to Saturn, and she saw all the rings, she began wearing some gold and silver, nothing too gaudy, just accessorizing. Come to think of it, this wasn't really that interesting of a screenplay. Although that ring theme seemed offbeat.

Did I mention I may become a music teacher? In the face of unemployment, I've been looking into all sorts of opportunities. After college, I went to a music school for a year. I've often wished I could redo that period of my life. I enjoyed music school, but I just didn't have any confidence in pursuing music professionally. I wonder today what might have happened if I had been willing to take that risk. Maybe, just maybe, it's not too late. I'll have to keep you posted on this development.

Goodbye then, for this month, and thank you for reading. To my many thousands, or hundreds, or tens, or--okay--to my one fan, I hope this fictional life at least occasionally rings true for you. To all those of you who do not read MFL, I have nothing to say to you, since you'll never read it anyhow. I will think mean thoughts about you, however. Actually, I probably won't think anything really mean. Maybe nothing mean at all. Maybe, maybe, maybe, I'll just find a nice, smooth pebble and throw it into the ocean at sunset from a high cliff in an expensive neighborhood. Or maybe not.

MFL

Episode 8:  Azalea in Her Underwear, Part II - September 1, 2000
When last we joined our heroes, the lovely Azalea, dressed only in the lower half of her leather warrior-woman costume, had knocked the drunk Dirk unconscious with a spectacular roundhouse kick, following which she locked herself and yours truly into her trailer, stared at me penetratingly with her big blue eyes, and said, "Now then, lover, where were we?"

Where indeed?

I wish I could tell you I said something dashing, or roguish in reply, something like, "Azalea, my passion for you is hotter than a thousand desert suns," or maybe, "Come hither warrior woman so that I might satisfy my boundless lust for thee." Given half a chance, we writers can always come up with great things to say, provided we're alone, in our rooms, at a typewriter, with a few free hours to kill. In real life, sadly, writers are the most hopelessly tongue-tied people on Earth.

"Gee," I said.

Azalea laughed. She shook her head ruefully, causing her thick dark hair to sweep about her magnificent shoulders. She then grabbed a sweatshirt from the floor and pulled it on, covering up her nakedness. Like magic, I suddenly found myself able to speak intelligently again. "Did you still want to go over the script?" I asked.

Azalea dropped heavily onto her sofa. She sighed. "I swear, I've got to get off this show before I go crazy. She kicked her legs up, reached under her sweatshirt, and pulled off--yes I repeat PULLED OFF!--her leather thong warrior woman bikini bottom. My face went pale. My stomach dropped through the floor, passed clear through the center of the Earth, and then went about an interesting and extended tour of the Hunan province of China.

Azalea, however, quickly pulled a pair of sweatpants on. She tossed the leather thong on the trailer's floor. Inexplicably, I found myself unable to look away from it. "Did you know the producer offered me a movie?

"A movie?" I said. "That's great. That's really great. Great." I attempted a smile, but the corners of my mouth seemed to be having problems getting in synch.

"He said it would be a union film based on my character, theatrical release, no made-for-TV crap, with a respectable budget. Then he put his hand on my leg and kissed me."

"Mmm," I said. "That's...uh...mmm...not so great."

"The Bastard," Azalea hissed. "I almost did it, too. I thought, what the hell, this is life. This is my life." She gave me an odd stare, a tired smile. "I'm 28, you know. In a few years, I'll be reading for the part of someone's mother."

"I think you're very beautiful," I said. I folded my hands nervously.

Azalea/Amanda stood, grabbed my hand. "Thanks," she said. She pulled me outside the trailer. "Let's get out of here," she said. "I'm hungry. You think we can find some food in this town at three a.m.?"

"This is L.A. We can find anything."

Amanda smiled again. The producer, the crew, the extras, they all just stared at us as we left. We got in my car and drove away from the set, Amanda and I, into the orange-black glow of the night.

Until next month,

MFL

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EPISODE 7:  Marital Bliss - August 1, 2000
With much apologies, we interrupt our regular broadcast of My Fictional Life to bring you a special, wedding edition of the show. That's right, those of you waiting to hear about the continuing saga of Dirk and Azalea (and the Universal legal team) will have to wait another month. This month, in honor of a friend's upcoming hitching, I thought I'd take a look at wedding customs around the world.

This concept was inspired by no less than my friend himself, who explained to me the unique customs of his and his fiancée's families, which includes him having to barter and pay to pick up his fiancée in dollar multiples of 9's, such as $99, $999, etc., on the day of the wedding. Now, some of you may feel that this custom presents an unusually hard burden on the groom-to-be, but in fact, following my research, I'd have to conclude that he is getting off easy.

Consider, for example, Madhubani, where the groom is sold off. Yes, sold off. A big auction is held, during which prospective bride-to-be's parents bid for the groom. Whichever girl's parents bid the highest get to keep him.

Some marriages in the interior of India take place at gunpoint -- the groom is kidnapped by the bride-to-be's parents and forcibly wed to the girl (usually because the parent's can't afford to pay a dowry). Presumably divorce in these overseas shotgun weddings is not an option.

Child marriage is also common throughout the world. In some cases, young infants, only a few months old, are wed to each other by their parents. Other permutations include wedding a young girl to an old man and, yes, a young boy to an old woman. Through all of these unusual wedding customs, notice that neither the girl nor the boy have any choice whatsoever in who their future life-partner will be!

Often, wedding rituals are accompanied by tests of hardship, to enable the groom to prove he is worthy of marrying the girl. On the isle of Jumanji, for example, in the South Pacific, the hardy youth must spend seven nights without food in the interior jungle, braving snakes, mosquitoes, fire ants, and leaches.

Even this formidable test pales in comparison to the marriage rituals of Zhebzakastan. Here, in the highlands beneath the great Himalayan ranges of western Asia, the young groom is stripped naked, painted in multicolored stripes, like a psychedelic zebra, and forced to run 40 miles a day for 40 days. On the 40th day, if he is still on his feet, the wedding ceremony takes place, following which, in the back of the tribe's only functioning pickup truck, a 1940 Ford F-5, the bride and groom must consummate the marriage with the tribe members all watching and cheering (and sometimes jeering).

Only if the groom successfully performs his manly duties is the marriage considered permanent. Both families then get the young man drunk on fermented yak milk to celebrate. By custom, he is then expected to carry the bride home on his back--usually a distance of several miles. As one might expect, few weddings take place in this harsh and unforgiving land.

So, as we have seen, here in America, weddings, as they say, are a piece of cake. Congratulations and best wishes to all you getting married this year 2000.

Until next month,

MFL

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EPISODE 6:  Azalea in Her Underwear - July 1, 2000
Okay. Somehow, I have to write this so that it doesn't sound like one of those letters in Penthouse Forum. You know: "I'm just an average guy; I never thought this could happen to me..."

It all started three weeks ago, when I was called to the set of Adventure Quest, the TV series I'm working for (see episode 5 if you missed it). Yes, A.Q., as we insiders call it, takes place in the jungles of South America, but in actuality it's all filmed right here in Los Angeles, mostly on the Universal lot. The first episode went well, I thought, but Johnny Travis, aka Dirk Steel, and Amanda Breathy, the stunning Azalea, didn't like their dialogue, so I was called in, last minute, to fix things up.

Now, when actors and actresses don't like their lines, and writers have to be called to the set, it generally means that things are getting a little behind schedule. I received a phone call at 2:42 a.m., Saturday night, informing me that my presence was needed in Universal City. I got out of bed and sped down the Ventura freeway, trying not to panic. Who can write coherently at that hour?

I arrived to find the set in chaos. Azalea (Amanda) had locked herself in her trailer and was threatening to cut off all her hair, which the studio had painstakingly extended to near glam-rock standards using a hand-picked team of L.A.'s most expert hairdressers. Dirk (Johnny Travis), meanwhile, was getting drunk (and a little swishy, if you ask me) outside the set. The
production crew were all secretly giggling, and the director appeared to have suffered a heart attack. One of the producers saw me, rushed up, and pushed me toward Azalea's trailer, telling me I had to talk some sense into her.

Feeling (oh so wrongly!) that things couldn't get any stranger, I gingerly walked over to Azalea's trailer and knocked on the door. "Azalea--I mean Amanda, it's MFL, your writer. Can I come in?"

"Who is it?" a hoarse and suspicious voice demanded.

I repeated my name. "You know, the guy who's supposed to fix your dialogue?" To my amazement, the trailer door opened. A hand reached out and grabbed me, pulling me inside with surprising force. Azalea/Amanda immediately locked the door behind me. Now, as soon as I saw her, I just about had a heart attack myself. She was dressed in her Azalea costume, which is to say, she was practically naked. On TV, the camera cleverly shoots that leather harness and thong so that the show can squeak by with a MA-14 rating. In person, however, with a clear line of sight, you get to see a whole lot more.

"Who wrote this," Azalea suddenly shouted, throwing a script at me. The script knocked me solid in the forehead and fell to the floor. I hardly noticed. Azalea bent over to pick it up, at which point a significant portion of her simply popped out of her halter. As she began stuffing herself back into it, I said, ridiculously, "That leather looks kind of stiff."

"You have no idea," she answered. Suddenly impatient with the halter, she unhitched it and pulled the whole thing off. "It marks up my skin for hours. You see?" I began making involuntary "Wha-wha-wha..." sounds, looking and trying not to look at the same time.

Suddenly, a spectacular crash shook the trailer, and Dirk burst in, carrying his fake sword. "Aha!" he cried. "I knew it. You and the writer!"

"That's right," Azalea shouted. "Now leave us alone."

"You bitch!" screeched Dirk. He grabbed me by the arm. "You can't have him. He's mine."

"Uh, just one second, here," I interrupted.

"Don't worry, darling," Azalea said. She launched an amazing roundhouse kick that connected with Dirk's chin, knocking him not only unconscious but also clear out of the trailer. Azalea closed the trailer door a second time. "Now then, lover, where were we?" she asked, looking straight into my eyes...

--to be continued!

MFL

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EPISODE 5:  Adventure Quest - June 1, 2000
It's been a busy month. I've been hired by Ron Halston, former TV actor turned producer, to work as a writer on his new series, Adventure Quest, an action drama set in South America. The story goes like this: Dirk Steel, a male archeologist searching for El Dorado, the famed city of gold, meets up with Azalea, the queen of an Amazon tribe deep in the jungles of Peru.

At first, Azalea decides to kill Dirk, but she soon falls in love with him and decides to help him in his quest. In the first episode, Dirk and Azalea travel to the highest peak in the Andes, searching for a map hidden somewhere in an abandoned mine tunnel. They must battle avalanches, bitter cold, and occasional roving bandits.

I'm hoping to visit the set sometime and meet the actors. Azalea is quite a beauty, and she's always dressed in a rather revealing leather halter top and shorts. Right now, I just work on the script from home. Not too exciting. My only contact with the production crew is via email--I send changes over electronically. I'll tell you, this modern age of technology sure can be isolating.

For those of you who are curious, here are a few lines from the episode one script:

DIRK (pointing): Those hills...over there. I think I see something. A cave, maybe.

AZALEA: That is the tunnel of the thousand winds. It is rumored to be haunted by evil spirits. No one will dare enter.

Dirk begins walking up the mountain toward the cave.

AZALEA: Wait, my love. It is too dangerous.

DIRK: I have to find that map. It's the only clue to the location of El Dorado.

AZALEA (disdainfully): El Dorado. Ha! Why do you search for this distant city of gold when you have a treasure here, right before your very eyes?

She throws her shoulders back fetchingly. For a moment, Dirk takes notice.

DIRK: Your charms exceed even the majestic peaks of the Andes, Azalea.

He kisses her roughly.

DIRK (continuing): But I must have that map!

He resumes walking toward the tunnel.

So...what do you think? Not too shabby, eh? I can't wait to see my work on TV. Watch for the series premier sometime soon on the UPN network. I'll keep you posted on all the details. Maybe I can kindle a little romance with the beautiful Azalea myself...for now, though, I've got to get the next scene done by midnight. Dirk and Azalea and the rest of the Adventure Quest cast will be shooting it tomorrow.

Till next month, thanks for reading,

MFL

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EPISODE 4:  The Big, Big Breakup - May 1, 2000
I must apologize--I haven't been completely honest with you. I've tried, these past few months, to keep you informed of all the major events and developments in my life, but I've left out a very big one, a very big change. One that's been very hard for me to accept. The beautiful Sandi O., my loving fiancée, left me two months ago.

Perhaps you are wondering what happened. This same question has been on my mind quite a bit lately. For help, I turned to none other than the venerable pht, whose wisdom has affected many a fellow Angeleno, I'm sure. Pht said that Sandi O. (heretoafter refered to as "X") was not actually evil, as I argued, but rather following her own path--one that led away from me. When I pressed for a more detailed explanation (I may have been a little agitated), pht explained that, in cases like this, the cause is often extraterrestrial in origin: aliens suck the brains out of the poor girl's head, leaving her incapable of realizing the horrific damage her departure will bring. I found this answer more acceptable, and thanked pht for his insight.

How can I explain these days to you? You stop cooking, cleaning, and eating, but that's okay--you don't miss any of them. You keep thinking if you had just stumbled across the right words to say, everything would have turned out okay. In fact, you rehearse a long, passionate speech over and over again in which you single-handedly save the relationship at the eleventh hour, two minutes to midnight, knowing full well that no other human being will ever hear a word of it. You develop a strange little inner voice that reminds you, everywhere you go--a restaurant, a theater, a park, whatever--"The last time you were here, you were with X." And, perhaps worst of all, you relive moments of your life like scenes from a movie, in perfect Technicolor THX-sound detail, every time you close your eyes:

She hands me a plain white business envelope, folded, not sealed. As I take it I feel something small and hard inside. I pull open the flap; there, sitting in one corner, is the small diamond ring I gave her six months ago. I look up at her, stunned. She shrugs and says, "You'll be happier this way." Then she walks away.

Four years! We were together four years! How can this be true? Even a fictional life, apparently, can go terribly astray. I've had this strange fear of dying. It's true. I'm afraid to fly on an airplane because I'm sure something bad will happen. And yet, how do I reconcile that fear with my recent, risky adventure (Episode 3) in the mountains? It's a question worth pondering.

I could go on, I think, far longer than any of you would wish to hear. But don't worry--if I'm feeling the need to pour my heart out some more, I'll just call up pht and talk to him (assuming he's still taking my calls). So, good friends, I'll make this chapter of my life a short one.

Until next time,
M.F.L.

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EPISODE 3:  Ski Extreme - April 1, 2000
Hello, Fictional Life fans.  For this episode, I thought I'd tell you about a skiing adventure I had last week in the San Gabriel Mountains.  In general, if you want to go skiing in Southern California, you go to Big Bear or Mammoth Mountain.   Hidden in the San Gabriel range, however, is a quirky little ski area called Mt. Baldy.  Once the playground of movie stars (including Jayne Mansfield) and the rich and famous, Mt. Baldy has now mostly gone to seed, thanks to steadily vanishing snow pack.

But wait--an unusually heavy March storm brought snow to old Mount Baldy, covering the San Gabriels with over four feet of that wonderful white stuff.  Here comes a big secret: with snow, Mt. Baldy is a completely legitimate ski area.  The vertical drop (summit elevation minus base elevation) is over two thousand feet, the biggest of the regional Los Angeles resorts.  And instead of the gentle-mellow rolling hillsides of Big Bear, Snow Summit, or Mountain High, Mt. Baldy offers steep--I say STEEP--chutes, cliffs, and cornices, the kind of terrain you'd expect to find only in the Sierras.  

I skied Mt. Baldy with a friend on Sunday, and for our last run we dropped out of bounds, crossing beneath that little orange rope to ski a nice series of chutes and gullies that led back, via a short walk, to the parking lot at the base of the area.   As we emerged from a narrow ravine, we entered the bottom of a classic avalanche chute--big, steep, and nasty.  We were too tired to hike back up to ski this intimidating-looking monster, so we spent a while just looking at it.  I knew I'd be back to ski it soon.

I've been skiing out of bounds for many years.  Originally, I'd ski backcountry areas seeking untracked powder snow.  Later, I came to realize that the steepest, most challenging descents lay beyond the safe confines of a ski area's boundaries, out in the rugged and unpatrolled wild.  Skiing such places is not without danger.  Avalanches, first and foremost, can and do claim lives.   Assessing avalanche danger is both a science and an art, far more complicated than I could explain here.  If, for example, you don't know the how the snow pack on a windward and a leeward slope is different, you've got no business skiing outside a patrolled area.

That's not all you have to worry about.  If you fall on a legitimately steep slope, say over forty degrees, you're going to crash and bounce uncontrollably against trees, rocks, whatever is between you and the bottom of the hill, all the way down, unless of course there is a cliff below you, in which case you're going to sail right over it.  Still not worried?  Don't forget that you have to get to the top of the chute on your own power, which means that your legs are going to be tired right from the start.  One more thing: no practice turns.  That first turn better be on target.  Or else.

I wake up early and drive into the San Gabriel range.  I arrive around nine a.m., park my car at the base of the avalanche chute, and ready my gear: special touring bindings and "skins" on my skis allow me to ascend mild to moderate slopes.  The climb, as always, is long and difficult.  The air is thin.   I'm not a mountain goat; my lungs are set to sea level, elevation zero.  At eight thousand feet, my blood is too thin to carry enough oxygen to my already-protesting muscles.

About halfway up the chute, I have to take off my skis--it's too steep to keep ascending on my touring gear.  I now switch to ice axe and crampons, carrying my skis on my backpack.  They're heavy!  Downhill equipment is heavy, adding to the burden of the ascent.  Many backcountry skiers, in fact, use lighter gear.  But the tradeoff comes on the descent.  For steep, potentially icy descents, downhill equipment is the most stable and secure.

Climbing with ice axe and crampons can be a little unsettling.  You ascend easily, technically speaking.  Sure, your heart pounds, your legs shake, and your lungs burn.  But no special skills are required here.  Anyone can strap crampons to their feet and climb up a steep slope.  Therein lies a problem: you can ascend much steeper terrain than you can ski.  If you're not careful, you can easily get stuck beyond your ability level, with no way to turn back...    

So we're about three quarters of the way up.  Let's take a look around.  We're in a narrow gully, about twenty feet wide, between two jagged cliff bands.  The slope is steep; standing straight up, I can easily touch the snow in front of me.  The sun has begun warming the surface of the snow, setting into motion little micro avalanches.  Small bits of snow and ice gently cascade down from above, sounding much like wind chimes.  Occasionally, a larger piece breaks loose, popping me in the legs.  Nothing to worry about.  The chute is pockmarked with rocks, however, meaning that occasionally something nastier comes down.  For now, I'll just try to stay alert.  Up ahead--looking directly upward--I can see the top of the chute.  It winds in a gentle S-curve, dead-ending in a big cliff wall.  That's right--I'll be starting from within the chute, not on level ground.  That makes for a tricky transition, but let's not think about that now.  Uh-oh...you decided to look down.

Right away, I realize how steep this chute is.  Looking down, I suddenly feel vulnerable.  I'm aware now that I'm clinging to the slippery edge of a very big slide.  Moreover, if I fall, I'm going to cartwheel down into the side of the chute (remember that S-curve!).  I grip my ice axe a little more firmly and mentally rehearse what to do if my feet suddenly slip--Self Arrest!  Translation: instantly dig the axe into the snow as deep as it will go, kick both feet into the snow, and hold on.  Your best bet is an immediate halt.  If that doesn't work...well...let's keep climbing.

The top of the chute.  I'm wet with perspiration now, out of breath, dizzy from the ascent.  My legs have grown heavy, sluggish.  I'm trying not to look down as I dig a place for my skis with my axe.  Don't think too much here.   Somehow, you've got to switch from crampons, with sharp, biting teeth, to skis, which slip and slide all over the place as if they're coated with Teflon.  The mind doesn't like this transition, especially not when it's done perched on a 40 degree angle with a thousand vertical feet of space beneath you.

With two solid snaps, we're in the bindings, standing on skis.   Incredible as it may sound, I actually relax.  The most dangerous part of this adventure is past.  I'm a much better skier than climber.  If I'm going to make a mistake, I want it to be with skis firmly attached to feet.  My chances are better.   I side-slip down a few feet, trying to get a feel for the snow.  It's firm, soft on top, a little inconsistent.  The first turn is going to be tricky.  I bounce my weight up and down twice, then commit to the turn.  The key here is to unweight efficiently.  Skis don't turn easily if your weight is forcing them deep into the snow.  But don't just try to jump up.  You'll tire yourself out, or, worse, you'll lose your balance and take that fall we've been trying to avoid.

The unweighing motion on a steep slope is more of a separation than a jump.  You can't go up--the hillside is right against your shoulder.  Instead, you have to go out.  And oh boy, but the mind doesn't like that idea.  We begin the turn by bending forward, leaning directly outward, out into space.  We unweigh by pushing quickly, decisively outward, away from the snow, away from security.   Then, in one smooth motion, we curl our legs upward, swinging the backs of the skis around the hill.  

My first turn is stiff, over-cautious.  I'm intimidated by the view: a narrow funnel of snow winding between brown rock, dropping awfully fast toward the bottom of the chute, several hundred yards away.  I go right into the next turn, and the next.  My skis seem to loosen beneath me.  The turns become less mechanical, more fluid.  My legs are tired, but they hold their own.  I stop about halfway down for a breather.  

The view is still intimidating.  A fall would still be very bad news here.  Rather than spend too much time thinking about it, I resume the descent.   Occasionally, I have to shift from side to side of the chute to avoid rocks or unstable patches of snow.  I concentrate on making each turn count.  No mistakes.  Suddenly, the rock walls give way to wide-open gully.  I emerge from the chute.  I've reached the point where I know I'm going to survive.  Now, I feel the full intensity of the danger I've faced.  My legs get a little shaky.   I'm ready right now to be back in my car, relaxing with a coke.  First I have to navigate the remainder of the gully.  The snow down here is junk: thick, wet slush that threatens to knock you over with every turn.  If anything, it's more difficult to ski than above.  Definitely it's more tiring.  Finally, I reach the bottom.   I look back up.  I think again: wow!  That chute was steep.  And only 55 miles from downtown Los Angeles.  Let's keep it our secret, shall we?

footnote:  Sandi, my loving fiancée read this, and got so mad at me for "risking your neck alone in the middle of nowhere are you crazy what if you fell or got hurt or something?" that I had to sleep on the sofa this week.  I'd better not tell her about my plans to ski Mount Whitney...

M.F.L.

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EPISODE 2:  Millionaire & Work - March 1, 2000
Who wants to marry a millionaire? Sandi, my fiancée, does! She and I watched Fox's new show somewhat disgusted but completely unable to turn the channel. Sandi thought the millionaire bachelor looked like a nice guy. I felt he had kind of a smirk on his face. And what was up with that kiss? He didn't even know the poor lady, and he gives her a tonsillectomy. Afterward, I suggested Sandi and I do a show called, "Who Wants to Marry an Underemployed Writer." She didn't think that was such a funny idea.

For me, the big story this month has been work, work work. Somehow I seem to have become a full-time story analyst, though without benefits, of course. Add in the pressures of trying to simultaneously be a full-time writer, a brief stint as a photographer/model (in which I was kicked out of Nordstrom's department store), having to study for my abnormal psychology midterm, and the temptation of the latest, greatest strategy game (the Sims, available now at your local software store), and it was a hectic, busy four weeks.

I've also decided to take the CBEST and try teaching a class to see how I like it. For those of you who don't know, the Los Angeles Unified School District is so desperate for teachers right now that if you have an undergraduate degree and you pass a simple written test, you get an emergency teacher credential, which qualifies you to teach a k-12 class right away. For me, of course, this would be a fine if scary opportunity. Imagine, though, that your public school-educated child could be taught by someone with no training or experience. No wonder California ranks so low in education.

All right--so you're probably wondering about that Nordstroms bit. I have a friend who has started her own business as an image consultant. She helps professionals, students, and anyone else interested manage their professional/personal image to maximize their career/social success. Anyhow, she is giving a presentation at a local business school and wanted to include a slide show on various states of business casual dress. Since I am a highly skilled photographer (insert smile), I offered to help. In addition, I served as the model for how not to dress business casual, which is something of a personal specialty of mine. For those of you interested, I would describe my typical style of dress as "terminally" casual.

Let's make it a short episode this month--we're all busy now, right? I'll just take this last paragraph to tell you a little about what I'd like to do in the future here. First of all, I'd like to include lots more photos and links. I'm thinking about doing a genuine paparazzi stalking of the venerable pht (creator of Notable Quotables, for those of you not paying attention!) to try to sneak a shot of him on this page. I've also got an idea for a lady-and-the-tiger feature that's in development. And much, much, more. That's all for now folks. Have a good month!

M.F.L.

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EPISODE 1:  Welcome to My World - February 1, 2000
Greetings! Welcome to the first edition of "My Fictional Life," a monthly or possibly weekly chronicle of my life and times as a writer living in the great city of Los Angeles, California. I'll be updating this page as the fancy strikes me, all to allow you, the cyber-reader, to experience a virtual version of my life (or as much as the venerable pht's content guidelines will allow). 

For this first edition, I thought I'd try to tell you, as briefly as possible, about the current goings-on in my life. First of all, I should note that it's the year 2000. Years ago, I remember wondering what 2000 would be like. I think I expected things to be different. I imagined myself as a doctor or scientist or engineer; certainly, I never expected I'd become a writer. I did think I'd be married by now and have children (more on this later), but I'm still single. As for technology, I never guessed computers would play such a big role in our lives. And the Internet? I never saw it coming. Mostly, I guess, the future (that is to say, now) has been a pleasant surprise for me. Mostly.

Employment: I work for Samuel B. Fisher Productions on the Universal Lot as a writer and creative executive. "Creative Executive" seems to be a title they give to people who are at the bottom of the totem pole. We try to develop ideas to make into movies--the kind you see at the theaters. Toward this end, we're always reading lots of screenplays. Our office has a great view of the San Fernando Valley, which is to say, not much of a view at all. Recently, I finished my first novel. I'm currently working on several screenplays. I hope I can report a major sale to you in the next few months.

The big news: On July 4 of last year, as the fireworks were shooting overhead, I got engaged to my girlfriend, the lovely Miss Sandi O. (yes, she spells her name with an "i"--it's the only thing I don't like about her : ) ). We plan on getting hitched at an extravagant ceremony on the beautiful island of Kauai, Hawaii later this spring. Maybe in the future I'll put a photo of Sandi on this site so you can see her.

Sandi and I both live in West Los Angeles, though not together, being the good Catholics that we are. She works as a lawyer downtown for one of the big firms. She works a lot, actually. Lately I've had more free time. And with it being the new Millennium and all, I've been thinking about changing occupations, maybe going back to school. A Music degree, maybe? Or Education? Or how about joining the National Guard? My reasoning here is, instead of playing one of those video games where you command a group of soldiers, why not do it in real life? Who knows, it might be fun. On the other hand, I have an aversion to crawling around in cold mud with a 75 pound pack on my back.

Well, I should probably let you go. Don't want to make you think I'm going to ramble on forever. I have to say I'm really excited about this project. Hope you find it interesting too, and thanks to pht for offering me this corner of his brand-new NQ Website!

M.F.L.