Wednesday, May 26, 2010
'Fugitive Child'
Fugitive Child, my screenplay, is posted in its entirety here on my blog site now that I've finished retyping the monster. Take note that it's in two parts, and also that it was written close to twenty years ago, so some references may seem a little outdated, like pay phones and milk cartons! Hope you enjoy the drama, and I'd love to have you post any comments about it if you feel so inspired!
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Continuity my backside.
So reading one of my how-to books on getting published backfired when it came to one piece of advice. The book advised-- and I do concede this idea has merit, just not for me-- that once my book was finished I needed to put it away for awhile . . . for a few weeks, so I could come at it from a fresh perspective, more like a new reader. I was to pick a time to read through the entire book with as minimal interruptions as possible. Are they kidding? The idea is that too many authors get caught up reworking one little part or another, and lose the continuity of the entire story. Without reading all the way through the author doesn't know if it flows well, or if it's a choppy read. Well, okay, I'll grant them that . . . but what cave are you supposed to crawl into to avoid the real world for a few days?
I tried it anyway, when John went out of town to Rocky Point for a turn-around trip. To those of you who know John well, and know what he's like when he's out of town alone, oh my, you'll have an idea how many phone calls I received. Grrr. After the first flurry I was actually clipping along fairly fast, until I came to chapter eleven. Drat, I didn't like how that chapter read. I spent the next two days and most of my alone time fussing over the next two chapters! Continuity will just have to wait for another guy's fishing trip in June. Fishing trips work for me, because phones don't reach way out there. No wonder monks and inmates have a history of becoming authors . . . from a time standpoint it makes sense. I don't have the right 'stuff' to pursue life as a monk, nor would life behind bars be my first choice.
So what have I learned from this? That the rest of my book may read like a hatchet-job, but chapters eleven and twelve will keep you riveted!
I tried it anyway, when John went out of town to Rocky Point for a turn-around trip. To those of you who know John well, and know what he's like when he's out of town alone, oh my, you'll have an idea how many phone calls I received. Grrr. After the first flurry I was actually clipping along fairly fast, until I came to chapter eleven. Drat, I didn't like how that chapter read. I spent the next two days and most of my alone time fussing over the next two chapters! Continuity will just have to wait for another guy's fishing trip in June. Fishing trips work for me, because phones don't reach way out there. No wonder monks and inmates have a history of becoming authors . . . from a time standpoint it makes sense. I don't have the right 'stuff' to pursue life as a monk, nor would life behind bars be my first choice.
So what have I learned from this? That the rest of my book may read like a hatchet-job, but chapters eleven and twelve will keep you riveted!
Monday, May 17, 2010
A Daughter's Grace Under Fire
I have a little story to tell from childhood that revolves around three things: A dog that wanted to be human, my brief brush with celebrity status and embarrassing the hell out of my daughter; which as a parent is my right and privilege.
Between the ages of eight and twelve I was on television thirty-nine times. Yup. Sounds like I was destined for stardom, right? Except for two things: It was a local California station, and I was being upstaged by my poodle, Frou-Frou. I would tinkle the ivories with pieces written by Bach, Debussy, Chopin, etc. while my poodle, dressed to the hilt in designer baby clothes, reclined blissfully in her stroller placed beside my bench. Having been around dogs all my life, I can now really appreciate just how strange Frou-Frou was. A normal dog in every other sense, the minute the first article of clothing went on she'd go limp as a noodle (a poodle noodle) and grow so relaxed that most times she fell asleep. Several of my performances where she hogged the spotlight the most were when she was sitting up in the stroller while fast asleep.
Apparently during the televising of one of my performances, an aide of President Nixon's was in California on business and tuned in to watch. Next thing you know Mom is presenting me with an official invitation to perform in concert at the White House. And because no dogs were allowed I got to perform solo! Ahh, I was breaking out into a solo career! Mom and I about 'busted our buttons' trying to keep the surprise from my piano teacher, Ms. Beal, until the exact moment Mom decided to whip out the invite . . . Ms. Beal almost fainted. I'd never actually seen someone babble before . . . it made for quite a show. Mom and Ms. Beal began preparations immediately for what pieces I would play (I never had any say-so in this), how Ms. Beal was going to travel to Washington D.C. with us; oh, it was all very exciting . . .
Three weeks later my father was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He only had a few months to live; three months was the estimate the Dr.'s made. That really pulled the rug right from under all of us. Mom sat me down and leveled with me, gently breaking the news first about Dad, then the fact that all our time, money and energy over the next months had to be spent doing everything we could to chase down a cure. No White House. We couldn't spare the money or time to go there. And I was A-ok with that. Dad was my best friend in the whole world, and if Mom thought we had a chance to do something to save him, well then, there was just nothing else to do but do it. So instead of playing a concert at the Nation's Capitol, we headed straight for another nation; with Mom driving, me in the passenger seat and Dad's six-foot-two frame stretched across the back seat we drove for hours every day, crossing over the border from San Diego into Mexico for over two months for experimental treatments using ground apricot pits. Mexico was claiming great success with the treatments and they hadn't been approved by the FDA in the U.S. Mom knew Dad wouldn't be alive to wait around for FDA approval.
Tragically, two months later the doctor there in Ensenada told Mom she should just keep Dad home and comfortable; there was nothing more they could do.
Jump ahead thirty years and my firstborn Jonelle was going on her eighth-grade trip to Washington, D.C. I went along as a chaperone. I'd always wanted to see the Nation's Capitol and it was breathtaking: from the Smithsonian Museums, the Vietnam Memorial, the Capitol Building and finally . . . the White House. Your typical tourist--that was me--oohing and aahing through each room of the biggest house I'd ever seen. Now, here I digress a moment. I didn't know people could completely repress bad memories . . . bury them so deep as to be forgotten. I thought that was Hollywood hype, but I got a lesson in just how protective the mind could be, when necessary. We were slowly making our way through the White House, so far so good-- I hadn't mortified my daughter too much up to this point on the trip-- we arrived at the very last room: a stunning ballroom. Placed in the center of the massive hall was a gorgeous one-of-a-kind Steinway piano. It had an eagle with its wings spread to fly carved out of each leg of the piano and it was huge! Seeing a security guard standing watch close by, I engaged him in a question/answer session over the piano.
"My gosh, who gets to play this?" I asked. The guard smiled patiently, informing me that whenever an event that included music happened at the White House, this was the room of choice and the piano would be used by the group performing the music. The light-bulb still hadn't lit above my head. Then he said; "And if someone receives an invitation to perform in concert at the White House, this is the piano they use . . . Mam, are you all right? Mam, do you need to sit down or something?" This is the part where embarrassing my daughter comes in: Apparently I went white as a sheet just before I sagged and broke down in an impressive crying jag in front of my daughter's entire eighth grade class. To the guard I blubbered; "I was supposed to be here! I forgot! Dad died, and I forgot I'd been invited to play here!"
The guard looked at me as if he wanted to call for the funny jacket, then craned his neck around trying to spot a relief guard to stand watch while he made the phone call. I blew my nose and flapped my hand in dismissal: No, I'd be all right, just give me a minute. I wasn't a terrorist . . . I wasn't creating a diversion so some sinister plot could be perpetrated behind his back; I was just a forty-something newly disowned mom who'd just had an epiphany. I never made it to that piano bench; but it was the why behind why I didn't that was turning me inside out. Dad . . . a deep heartache I hadn't felt in years, so overwhelming it actually pounded a buzzing roar through my ears. I rushed outside, bent and propped my hands on my knees while I gulped down fresh springtime air, listening to my daughter making polite apologies for my unbalanced behavior to the crowd.
Back on the bus I started to feel a little better, except for the fact that no one wanted to talk to me or acknowledge my presence; like the way a room full of people treat a guy who's standing in their midst with his fly down. Seeing no one would sit with me, my daughter eased down beside me and patted my hand, the look on her face saying she understood that going off the deep-end was just something moms do every once-in-awhile. Poor thing; she has no idea!
Between the ages of eight and twelve I was on television thirty-nine times. Yup. Sounds like I was destined for stardom, right? Except for two things: It was a local California station, and I was being upstaged by my poodle, Frou-Frou. I would tinkle the ivories with pieces written by Bach, Debussy, Chopin, etc. while my poodle, dressed to the hilt in designer baby clothes, reclined blissfully in her stroller placed beside my bench. Having been around dogs all my life, I can now really appreciate just how strange Frou-Frou was. A normal dog in every other sense, the minute the first article of clothing went on she'd go limp as a noodle (a poodle noodle) and grow so relaxed that most times she fell asleep. Several of my performances where she hogged the spotlight the most were when she was sitting up in the stroller while fast asleep.
Apparently during the televising of one of my performances, an aide of President Nixon's was in California on business and tuned in to watch. Next thing you know Mom is presenting me with an official invitation to perform in concert at the White House. And because no dogs were allowed I got to perform solo! Ahh, I was breaking out into a solo career! Mom and I about 'busted our buttons' trying to keep the surprise from my piano teacher, Ms. Beal, until the exact moment Mom decided to whip out the invite . . . Ms. Beal almost fainted. I'd never actually seen someone babble before . . . it made for quite a show. Mom and Ms. Beal began preparations immediately for what pieces I would play (I never had any say-so in this), how Ms. Beal was going to travel to Washington D.C. with us; oh, it was all very exciting . . .
Three weeks later my father was diagnosed with terminal cancer. He only had a few months to live; three months was the estimate the Dr.'s made. That really pulled the rug right from under all of us. Mom sat me down and leveled with me, gently breaking the news first about Dad, then the fact that all our time, money and energy over the next months had to be spent doing everything we could to chase down a cure. No White House. We couldn't spare the money or time to go there. And I was A-ok with that. Dad was my best friend in the whole world, and if Mom thought we had a chance to do something to save him, well then, there was just nothing else to do but do it. So instead of playing a concert at the Nation's Capitol, we headed straight for another nation; with Mom driving, me in the passenger seat and Dad's six-foot-two frame stretched across the back seat we drove for hours every day, crossing over the border from San Diego into Mexico for over two months for experimental treatments using ground apricot pits. Mexico was claiming great success with the treatments and they hadn't been approved by the FDA in the U.S. Mom knew Dad wouldn't be alive to wait around for FDA approval.
Tragically, two months later the doctor there in Ensenada told Mom she should just keep Dad home and comfortable; there was nothing more they could do.
Jump ahead thirty years and my firstborn Jonelle was going on her eighth-grade trip to Washington, D.C. I went along as a chaperone. I'd always wanted to see the Nation's Capitol and it was breathtaking: from the Smithsonian Museums, the Vietnam Memorial, the Capitol Building and finally . . . the White House. Your typical tourist--that was me--oohing and aahing through each room of the biggest house I'd ever seen. Now, here I digress a moment. I didn't know people could completely repress bad memories . . . bury them so deep as to be forgotten. I thought that was Hollywood hype, but I got a lesson in just how protective the mind could be, when necessary. We were slowly making our way through the White House, so far so good-- I hadn't mortified my daughter too much up to this point on the trip-- we arrived at the very last room: a stunning ballroom. Placed in the center of the massive hall was a gorgeous one-of-a-kind Steinway piano. It had an eagle with its wings spread to fly carved out of each leg of the piano and it was huge! Seeing a security guard standing watch close by, I engaged him in a question/answer session over the piano.
"My gosh, who gets to play this?" I asked. The guard smiled patiently, informing me that whenever an event that included music happened at the White House, this was the room of choice and the piano would be used by the group performing the music. The light-bulb still hadn't lit above my head. Then he said; "And if someone receives an invitation to perform in concert at the White House, this is the piano they use . . . Mam, are you all right? Mam, do you need to sit down or something?" This is the part where embarrassing my daughter comes in: Apparently I went white as a sheet just before I sagged and broke down in an impressive crying jag in front of my daughter's entire eighth grade class. To the guard I blubbered; "I was supposed to be here! I forgot! Dad died, and I forgot I'd been invited to play here!"
The guard looked at me as if he wanted to call for the funny jacket, then craned his neck around trying to spot a relief guard to stand watch while he made the phone call. I blew my nose and flapped my hand in dismissal: No, I'd be all right, just give me a minute. I wasn't a terrorist . . . I wasn't creating a diversion so some sinister plot could be perpetrated behind his back; I was just a forty-something newly disowned mom who'd just had an epiphany. I never made it to that piano bench; but it was the why behind why I didn't that was turning me inside out. Dad . . . a deep heartache I hadn't felt in years, so overwhelming it actually pounded a buzzing roar through my ears. I rushed outside, bent and propped my hands on my knees while I gulped down fresh springtime air, listening to my daughter making polite apologies for my unbalanced behavior to the crowd.
Back on the bus I started to feel a little better, except for the fact that no one wanted to talk to me or acknowledge my presence; like the way a room full of people treat a guy who's standing in their midst with his fly down. Seeing no one would sit with me, my daughter eased down beside me and patted my hand, the look on her face saying she understood that going off the deep-end was just something moms do every once-in-awhile. Poor thing; she has no idea!
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Posting my Beauty And The Beast Script
I did it, whew! Next I'll tackle my screenplay Fugitive Child after I un-kink my fingers. The television series Beauty And The Beast was where I first explored writing, submitting over half a dozen teleplays for the production company, some of which were 'incorporated' into final episodes that aired immediately after the big writer's strike. Oh, naive me . . . I sat back and said "HEY!!" when I watched, then after pouting a few days went out and got myself an agent, who agreed that 'incorporated' was a good word to use. He showed me how to register my work through the WGA and to Copyright it.
Armed with a little more knowledge I wrote a screenplay, "Mexican Vacation" and submitted it to Dan Adams, my agent. But the production company for the "Vacation" movies had disbanded shortly after that time. I may post a little of it at some point here, but honestly, twenty years ago there wasn't so much political correctness. I doubt I can find more than a few pages that won't offend somebody . . .
Then I saw the news about the Underground Railroad on television and got inspired to write a screenplay on the subject, Fugitive Child. I wrote that in three weeks and submitted it to Dan. He had a production company very interested in it, but another version of that timely subject matter showed up on television before my submission really got off the ground. Could I do anything about that? No, since it was current news it was public domain. Dan Adams sat me down about then and told me a couple of things: 1) If I was serious about writing for Hollywood I had to pack up the hubby, kiddies and dogs and move there. Hmmm, somehow I just knew John wouldn't go for that. 2) If I was serious about writing for Hollywood I had to understand that the biggies oft times 'incorporated' outside work and you as a writer had to just count it as paying your dues. One day you might get big enough to turn the tables and 'incorporate' others' work . . . it's how Hollywood operates.
Well, I wasn't too happy with that news. Dan could see the steam coming out of my ears, so he advised me further. 'If you can't abide with that I suggest you write books. It's much harder for people to 'incorporate' them.' So, that's what I've done . . . I just had to pout some years in-between.
Regarding this teleplay, I was forced to take some serious liberties with the formatting. To those who would kvetch about the formatting, I have three words for you: Well, exxcccccuuussee mmeeeee!
It was like trying to take a wheel of brick hard cheese and stuff it into a ketchup bottle. I hope you enjoy my work, and please invite others to read who might like what I've posted!
Armed with a little more knowledge I wrote a screenplay, "Mexican Vacation" and submitted it to Dan Adams, my agent. But the production company for the "Vacation" movies had disbanded shortly after that time. I may post a little of it at some point here, but honestly, twenty years ago there wasn't so much political correctness. I doubt I can find more than a few pages that won't offend somebody . . .
Then I saw the news about the Underground Railroad on television and got inspired to write a screenplay on the subject, Fugitive Child. I wrote that in three weeks and submitted it to Dan. He had a production company very interested in it, but another version of that timely subject matter showed up on television before my submission really got off the ground. Could I do anything about that? No, since it was current news it was public domain. Dan Adams sat me down about then and told me a couple of things: 1) If I was serious about writing for Hollywood I had to pack up the hubby, kiddies and dogs and move there. Hmmm, somehow I just knew John wouldn't go for that. 2) If I was serious about writing for Hollywood I had to understand that the biggies oft times 'incorporated' outside work and you as a writer had to just count it as paying your dues. One day you might get big enough to turn the tables and 'incorporate' others' work . . . it's how Hollywood operates.
Well, I wasn't too happy with that news. Dan could see the steam coming out of my ears, so he advised me further. 'If you can't abide with that I suggest you write books. It's much harder for people to 'incorporate' them.' So, that's what I've done . . . I just had to pout some years in-between.
Regarding this teleplay, I was forced to take some serious liberties with the formatting. To those who would kvetch about the formatting, I have three words for you: Well, exxcccccuuussee mmeeeee!
It was like trying to take a wheel of brick hard cheese and stuff it into a ketchup bottle. I hope you enjoy my work, and please invite others to read who might like what I've posted!
Friday, May 7, 2010
Our Experience with Mexico vs. U.S./Arizona Immigration Law
Those of you taking a stance against Arizona implementing the U.S. Immigration Law, we are offering the information below as food for thought and to educate those who might not know the requirements of Mexico, which we can share from experience. As U.S. residents who wish to reside part of their year legally in Mexico beyond ninety days a year, this is what was required of us:
1. We were required to provide original birth certificates with official State Seal;
2. Current driver's licenses;
3. Color copy of passports;
4. Original marriage certificate with official State Seal;
5. Original power bill, notarized, that shows legal residence of current state of Arizona;
6. Three consecutive months' worth of original financial bank statements, notarized by the State of Arizona, starting with current month and going back three months, proving viable income so as not to become a financial burden on Mexico.
To stay in Mexico longer than ninety days the above requirements had to be met for us to receive our FM3's (equivalent of a U.S. Visa) and these have to be renewed annually. With seven years of providing current identification/financial information you can petition to become a naturalized citizen, but if you run past their annual deadlines at any point during those seven years you have to start over.
We are expected to carry our FM3's and passports with us at all times, which is a major contention we have with people criticizing Arizona for wanting to require the same, per U.S. Immigration Rules and Regs. Mexico law enforcement has the right, upon stopping us for any reason, to demand to see these documents. FYI: in the decades we've been visiting Mexico we've never heard of their enforcement agencies pulling over tourists and racially profiling them merely because we don't look like Mexican Citizens. If you're stopped by a police officer in Mexico, you did something wrong. The same holds true in Arizona.
You as a visitor, beyond a stay of five days are expected to procure an FMT (tourist visa) and have that on you, which allows you to be in Mexico for up to ninety days. You're also required to get an FMT if you go beyond their designated "no hassle zone". In that case, you also have to get an additional visa for your vehicle. Even with our FM3's, if we go beyond the Guaymas/San Carlos border of "no hassle zone" we also have to get an additional visa to cover our vehicle, one for each state. And they have serious federal checkpoints along the way . . . you HAVE to have papers. And, with rare exceptions, mandatory insurance policies for your vehicles don't cross state lines. You must get specific insurance to cover each specific state.
Also, other information you might not know: When John was nearly stabbed to death in Rocky Point, before he was allowed to be discharged from their hospital we had to pay the entire hospital bill on the spot. (The majority of money owed had to be paid in cash, for the rest a credit card was acceptable.) We weren't afforded any financial assistance from the State of Sonora, Mexico, to cover our large medical expenses.
If we were caught working in Mexico without proper documentation we'd be arrested. Period.
According to Jonelle, her husband Brendan, who has his green card and yes, they had to jump through hoops to get it, has to check in with immigration in two years, then once a year until he gets legal residency. He was told he only has a three year wait to become a U.S. Citizen.
A Mexican Tourist Visa (FMT) is only good for a maximum of ninety days, as I said. We know many people in Rocky Point who spend a large portion of their time in Arizona by merely showing up at the State's office with a valid Mexico driver's license and proof of insurance and they receive a Tourist Visa that's good for six month's stay in Arizona. Renewing this every six months while going through the legal path to citizenship would be one potential solution to allow Mexican Nationals to stay here legally and provide them the documentation they should have, based on U.S. Immigration Law. No, a Tourist Visa is not a Work Visa, which is another set of hoops Brendan went through to get his, and is a whole other issue; but it IS legal documentation for a Mexican citizen to be here residing in Arizona.
Residing in Mexico part of the year has been a privilege and a cultural enrichment that has added so much to our lives: fifty years' worth of visits and memories that even the one horrific experience couldn't dissuade us from continuing to treasure. And respecting the rules and regulations Mexico required of us to do so, we fulfilled them to the letter. All Arizona is asking for is to be shown that same consideration.
1. We were required to provide original birth certificates with official State Seal;
2. Current driver's licenses;
3. Color copy of passports;
4. Original marriage certificate with official State Seal;
5. Original power bill, notarized, that shows legal residence of current state of Arizona;
6. Three consecutive months' worth of original financial bank statements, notarized by the State of Arizona, starting with current month and going back three months, proving viable income so as not to become a financial burden on Mexico.
To stay in Mexico longer than ninety days the above requirements had to be met for us to receive our FM3's (equivalent of a U.S. Visa) and these have to be renewed annually. With seven years of providing current identification/financial information you can petition to become a naturalized citizen, but if you run past their annual deadlines at any point during those seven years you have to start over.
We are expected to carry our FM3's and passports with us at all times, which is a major contention we have with people criticizing Arizona for wanting to require the same, per U.S. Immigration Rules and Regs. Mexico law enforcement has the right, upon stopping us for any reason, to demand to see these documents. FYI: in the decades we've been visiting Mexico we've never heard of their enforcement agencies pulling over tourists and racially profiling them merely because we don't look like Mexican Citizens. If you're stopped by a police officer in Mexico, you did something wrong. The same holds true in Arizona.
You as a visitor, beyond a stay of five days are expected to procure an FMT (tourist visa) and have that on you, which allows you to be in Mexico for up to ninety days. You're also required to get an FMT if you go beyond their designated "no hassle zone". In that case, you also have to get an additional visa for your vehicle. Even with our FM3's, if we go beyond the Guaymas/San Carlos border of "no hassle zone" we also have to get an additional visa to cover our vehicle, one for each state. And they have serious federal checkpoints along the way . . . you HAVE to have papers. And, with rare exceptions, mandatory insurance policies for your vehicles don't cross state lines. You must get specific insurance to cover each specific state.
Also, other information you might not know: When John was nearly stabbed to death in Rocky Point, before he was allowed to be discharged from their hospital we had to pay the entire hospital bill on the spot. (The majority of money owed had to be paid in cash, for the rest a credit card was acceptable.) We weren't afforded any financial assistance from the State of Sonora, Mexico, to cover our large medical expenses.
If we were caught working in Mexico without proper documentation we'd be arrested. Period.
According to Jonelle, her husband Brendan, who has his green card and yes, they had to jump through hoops to get it, has to check in with immigration in two years, then once a year until he gets legal residency. He was told he only has a three year wait to become a U.S. Citizen.
A Mexican Tourist Visa (FMT) is only good for a maximum of ninety days, as I said. We know many people in Rocky Point who spend a large portion of their time in Arizona by merely showing up at the State's office with a valid Mexico driver's license and proof of insurance and they receive a Tourist Visa that's good for six month's stay in Arizona. Renewing this every six months while going through the legal path to citizenship would be one potential solution to allow Mexican Nationals to stay here legally and provide them the documentation they should have, based on U.S. Immigration Law. No, a Tourist Visa is not a Work Visa, which is another set of hoops Brendan went through to get his, and is a whole other issue; but it IS legal documentation for a Mexican citizen to be here residing in Arizona.
Residing in Mexico part of the year has been a privilege and a cultural enrichment that has added so much to our lives: fifty years' worth of visits and memories that even the one horrific experience couldn't dissuade us from continuing to treasure. And respecting the rules and regulations Mexico required of us to do so, we fulfilled them to the letter. All Arizona is asking for is to be shown that same consideration.
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Almost there . . .
For those of you that followed and enjoyed the television show "Beauty And The Beast," I only have a couple of pages to go before I'm finished retyping one of the teleplays I submitted for the show way back when- retyping because the teleplay was stored on a word processor whose files can't be transferred to computer that I'm aware of. Of course I'll admit, as will everyone in my family, that I'm not the most computer savvy person in the world. Yes, there was the option of scanning, but it takes almost as long. If you liked the television series then I know you'll enjoy my episode. But first I have a question, then a disclaimer: First, the question; Does anyone out there know specific precedents for posting work to the internet such as this, where intellectual property rights can come into play over a blog site? This teleplay, among several others, was submitted to the Production Company for Beauty And The Beast, and I had it registered through the WGA. Though Witt-Thomas Productions never aired this episode and I'm printing a disclaimer prefacing the posted teleplay, I want to make sure I'm not treading on toes by including it on my blog. The reason I haven't updated my blog in a few days is because I've been reading everything I can find! regarding copyrights, trademarks and intellectual property rights, and after all that reading it's still as clear as mud. I've also emailed the WriterBeware website asking for advice, but have yet to hear back. So, here I am. Do I post or don't I? Ahh, that is the question. I will print a disclaimer at the beginning of the posted teleplay that will say something to the effect of: This work is not a commodity; it is not posted to be sold for a price or intended to be resold for a price to the general public (one of the few things I did get from all my reading). Actually I may post that word for word-- I kinda' like the way it sounds! I'll keep you posted.
Saturday, May 1, 2010
Doggie Crew Update
For those of you who've gone with John and me on our daily doggie feeding runs in Rocky Point, Mexico, John just called in an update on our 'crews' after making his rounds for the 2nd time since we've been back in Arizona. We came back the first of April and John made one trip back almost immediately after (to check on things after the big quake) so it's been a few weeks. They're all doing very well . . . some groups better than others. We've had a few mergers, strays taking up with a crew here and there; and we've had some disappearances. The 'Motley Crew' is going great, have picked up a new member. All remembered John and his food-mobile with excited barks, jumps and wagging tails. The 'Balboa Crew' are all there and looking fit; remember they'd scattered to the four winds when the guys with nets came around back in February. 'The Lolita's Crew' has thinned out, but the puppies are there, healthy and much bigger. The 'Shipyard Crew' is intact, and John says it's funny to see how the people living there at the dock have threaded slabs of planking through the wrought iron fence to keep the furry cuties confined and off the streets, keeping them away from the guys with nets. Not the prettiest fencing, but it works! Mom and pup are still there, thrilled to see John, and the pup is almost full grown. He's a little thinner than John would like to see, but truthfully he's probably picked up worms like they all do. Most of the crews are getting fed one way or another by locals who take up the slack when we're not there, but we still worry how they're all doing. Oh, yeah, best of all Scruffy, our favorite, is fantastic! She looks like 'Tramp' of Lady and the Tramp, has the biggest golden eyes I've ever seen on a dog, and she's become very popular with the ladies who set up the little food stands right where she is. She gets fed leftover burritos and tacos all the time . . . but was too happy seeing John again, and getting the extra grub! What a success story she is, after being hit by a car and coming so close to death! It's wonderful to see how the locals put out water for them and do what they can . . . times are horrific and families have to do for their loved ones first, but the four-legged street urchins, for the most part, are faring pretty well. Love to all!
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