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Introduction to Celebrity Posts

I spent many years working in the entertainment industry, both as a professional actor, and in production, I have met and interacted with many high profile people. In addition, 100% of all the Celebrity posts will be narratives of my personal, one-on-one experiences. As this blog grows, I will add interviews with actual celebrities; as well as 2nd hand stories from people I trust for truth and accuracy.

Further, and most importantly, I am only posting POSITIVE material. There will be no gossip, dish, speculation of any kind. As this blog grows, I will add interviews with actual celebrities, as well as 2nd hand stories from people I trust – again, either funny, fun, inspirational and/or upbeat.

Hope you enjoy!

Breakfast at the Playboy Mansion w/ Shel Silverstein

Hugh Hefner, Playboy Magazine’s publishing giant, died on September 27, 2017. And just today, October 1, 2017, Ross Douthat, wrote a scathing op-ed piece in the New York Times entitled, “Speaking Ill of Hugh Hefner.” It is a very slanted, negative and audacious obit (of sorts).

Douthat’s nasty (and perhaps honest) essay about Hugh Hefner actually triggered a cascade of memories that I had not visited in many years. Good memories, btw. Here it is: I had breakfast with Shel Silverstein once at the Playboy Mansion and it was grand. Just how this happened is a very circuitous story. But first, allow me to digress and wax poetic about the great Shel Silverstein (if you don’t already know).

Shel was an American poet, singer-songwriter, cartoonist, screenwriter, and author of children’s books. He won a Grammys for “A Boy Named Sue” by Kris Kristofferson, and “Where the Sidewalk Ends, as Best Recording for Children. He was nominated for an Oscar for Best Song, “I’m Checkin’ Out,” for Postcards From the Edge, sung by Meryl Streep at the end of the film. Silverstein’s friendship with “Hef,” and why he had carte blanche at the Holmby Hills mansion began in 1957, when Shell became one of the leading cartoonists for Playboy – a job that sent him around the world doing illustrated travelogues. Eventually, this collection of writing and illustrations was published in 2007, and called Playboy’s Silverstein Around the World. Shell’s work was translated into more than 30 languages, and his books sold over 20 million copies. He was ALL of that. He was no slouch. Now, ON to breakfast:

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was October of 1988. My best friend (and fellow Chicago native, Karen) and I flew up to Lake Tahoe on a miniature American Eagle airplane that had no bathroom. Having never received that memo, I drank a can of Ginger ale prior to boarding. In terms of my bladder, the one-hour flight was actually 10 hours and excruciating. That’s what it felt like. Lesson learned. The purpose of the trip was to visit the set of David Mamet’s second film, Things Change, co-written with his good friend, Shel Silverstein. Things Change was a lighthearted story based on a series of misunderstandings and plot twists. Well reviewed, it was mostly shot on a very large soundstage in Lake Tahoe, where there they built an exact replica of a room at Chicago’s Lincoln Park Hotel (a landmark where David once lived as a starving artist).

Both Karen and I had known David Mamet for many years via the Chicago theater scene. Karen did several plays with him, and I fell in love for 3 months. We also knew some of Mamet’s favorite “stock players,” like Joe Mantegna and JJ Johnston who were both in Things Change. JJ made bunking arrangements for us in a nice townhouse and set up our rendezvous with Mamet at his condo after we arrived. It was a laid back and delightful reunion. David tried to pretend that he didn’t know we were coming, but I know JJ told him. David Mamet is brilliant beyond the pale, but not a great actor…

The weather was crisp and beautiful. There is nothing like the air in Lake Tahoe. In fact, there is nothing like Lake Tahoe.

For three days, we hung out on a soundstage, watched filming and ate with the crew. And yes, it was impossibly fun. Mamet runs a very relaxed set and he feeds people really well. Craft service was spectacular. During those three days, I got to meet veteran actor and bonifide movie star, Don Ameche; WHO, at the age of 77, won his first Oscar for Best Supporting Actor in Cocoon, directed by Ron Howard. As you may recall, late in life, Mr. Ameche also made a huge splash with Eddie Murphy in Trading Places. During lunch one day, Ameche told me something stunning. His anecdote is emblematic of the whimsical nature of an acting career. Anything can happen at any time.

Ameche: “Until Trading Places, I didn’t work as an actor for 35 years.”

Me: “Oh my goodness!! What did you do?

Ameche: “I raised 6 kids.”

On our second night in Tahoe, Mamet and Silverstein invited Karen and me to dinner. We all piled into a rental car along with JJ Johnston and headed out. David drove. I don’t remember the restaurant, but it was an upscale steak, seafood and whiskey type joint. And as you might imagine, it was a lively dinner, filled with anecdotes, jokes and outrageous remarks. From that slightly raucous and interesting evening, I can share that Shel Silverstein was a great provocateur, and often a little bit naughty. I posted a photo of Shel to illustrate that he DID NOT look at all like someone who wrote award-winning poetry and children’s books, but he did. After dinner, we all went back to David’s condominium and talked for a few hours. At the end of that evening, Dave said, “I wish I had known you were coming. I would have put you in the movie.” As it was, he put his nanny’s in the film!!

Karen and I flew back to Los Angeles with Shel on another American Eagle balsa wood airplane. Unfortunately, this trip my bladder was devoid of fluids, BUT we flew at night during a raging thunderstorm. Seriously. Both Karen and Shel were seated across the aisle from each other and I was by the window. During the flight, our toy plane was bandied about the sky like a Pixar cartoon, but it wasn’t cute. Thinking we were all going to die, Karen and Shel held hands across the aisle, while I chewed off my knuckles. Shel leaned over every few minutes, “Are you okay?”

Upon landing safely and recovering emotionally, Shel said, “I’m staying at The Playboy Mansion – why don’t you two come to there tomorrow for breakfast?” Without hesitation, we said, “YES.”

The next morning, we pulled up to the famous stone edifice, with an expansive and empty driveway. All was quiet. A butler or some such male answered the door. Karen and I walked into the very dark entry. To our immediate left was the famous mahogany staircase (leading up to Hef’s famous playpen). Looking straight ahead, we could see an expansive lawn; and to our right, were a kitchen and more rooms. I found the mansion very dank and somewhat depressing. It seemed to be stuck in a time warp, and never updated. It did not feel fresh, and the carpet probably had never been replaced. If I had known, I would have brought some Glade. This place would have been ideal for George to the Rescue.

Within moments, Shel appeared, smiling and lead us into a breakfast alcove, with a large round table, white tablecloth and china. The large round breakfast nook was surrounded by ornate windows, which were closed. Almost immediately, a “waiter” showed up to take our order. I naively asked, “What do you have?” The waiter said, “Order anything you’d like. We have a full service kitchen – we can make anything.” I think that Karen and I snuck glances at each other. We were in new territory. I ordered eggs Benedict and Karen ordered blueberry pancakes – and cappuccinos of course.

The food was good. The three of us reviewed every moment of our “near death” plane ride. Karen was a master flirt in a way that I could not compete – she had Southern born chops for the art of flirtation, and it made for great entertainment. It wasn’t serious or romantic, but she and Shel really hit it off. I watched them like it was a show.

At that time in my life, I was a youngster. I had zero idea that I would eventually morph into a writer. It’s astounding and even regrettable to think that I could have essentially interviewed Shell. I could have blitzed him with an avalanche of questions about writing. Never happened, but perhaps it would not have played out well. Perhaps our innocence was refreshing. I didn’t have the crystal ball. I was a single cell organism.

After breakfast, Shel showed us around the grounds, and of course, took us to the famous grotto. At that time, it was a nice piece of architectural landscaping (probably still is) – with whitewashed stones, waterfalls, a giant Jacuzzi and a covered lagoon, etc. Looking at the sexually exotic playground, ALL I could think about were germs. All I could think about were bodily fluids too. Not only that – bodily fluids belonging to the rich and famous, co-mingling. Noooooo! It did not take a genius to “get” that the grotto was rife with famous DNA. Even with a boatload of chlorine, the grotto looked to me like a small lake, full of flesh-eating organisms. That being said, the grounds were cool.

It was a great weekend in Tahoe, and it was a great breakfast with Shel Silverstein. Saying goodbye to Shel on the front steps of the Playboy Mansion was a little bit poignant. The tree of us had just bonded over a special weekend. We both hugged him and thanked him. Karen stayed in touch with Shel by snail mail for about a year, but we never saw the likes of him again. We knew that we never would. How fortunate we were.

Shel Silverstein, a true original, died at the age of 68 on May 10, 1999.

The Comic’s Daughter: A Chicago Tale

Prologue
“We were all broke and struggling.”
—Rudy Nöel, The Comic’s Agent

In the 1960s, a subculture existed right in the heart of downtown Chicago. It was the burgeoning nightclub scene—much of it run by the Mafia. Rush Street was a well-known haunt managed by Jimmy
Allegretti, a familiar crime syndicate name, while iconic clubs like the Chez Paree, Hugh Hefner’s Playboy Club, The Black Orchid, The Living Room, and the Sherman House booked famous and not-so- famous comedians—as well as sultry blond singers. Comedy was big in Chicago at that time, but it was different then. In the ’60s, comedy was much more elite, exclusive, and in the domain of grownups. There were no satellite comedy clubs that attracted youngsters. Seasoned comedians like Bob Newhart, Mort Sahl, Dick Shawn, Frank Gorshin, Shecky Greene, Shelley Berman, George Carlin, Max Cooper, and Sonny Mars were just some of the comics who headlined Chicago clubs and hotels.
The Chicago “locals” were a unique, close-knit (almost incestuous) tribe of performers. They reflected an era that no longer exists. These unknown entertainers traveled the United States, working in dingy dives, cheap clubs, and hotel ballrooms because they knew no
other life. My childhood was spent with those performers—hanging out in nightclubs, hotels, resorts, and even in our home, constantly inhaling secondhand cigarette smoke.
My father was a stand-up comic at the center of that Chicago universe. His name was Dink Freeman. He was never meant to be an insurance salesman, golf pro, business owner or rabbi. My father was meant to be a storyteller. He was happiest and most comfortable standing onstage, under a spotlight, holding a microphone. That was his pulpit. By solely telling hilarious, ethnic stories, The Comic fed us, clothed us, and paid the rent on a zillion cookie-cutter apartments during the course of my childhood. Calling himself “America’s Most Versatile Storyteller,” my father told jokes in every conceivable dialect while miraculously, never offending anyone—ever. It was a spectacular feat and he was brilliant. At the height of his career, which came later than most, he opened for Debbie Reynolds, Donald O’Connor, Sammy Davis, Jr., and The Harry James Orchestra, to name a few.
Growing up in this environment, I understood punch lines much better than fractions; I read Harold Robbins, dirty detective novels, and all the Playboys I could find. I also read Little House on the Prairie, but it wasn’t nearly as good as a column by Art Buchwald. Without question, I was much more comfortable in a smelly club than at an eighth- grade school dance. There were no neighborhood soccer moms at our kitchen table; more common were magicians, novelty acts, comics, adagio dancers, a famous chimpanzee named Chatter, sexy blonde singers, and one murderess. Rudy Noel, an ex–dancer–turned–agent, summed up the local climate and lifestyle accurately: “We were all broke and struggling.” And they were.
On work nights, my father, The Comic, changed into flashy suits and disappeared into the belly of downtown Chicago. On special occasions, I got to sit in the back of smoky clubs or hotel ballrooms and watch my father tell jokes. It was exhilarating. There was a huge payoff in doing this. After every set, I’d head straight to the women’s bath- room—not to pee, but to listen to the women talk about my father and his jokes. While these enviable adult females were busy applying lip- stick (something I wasn’t doing yet), I’d eavesdrop on rave comments:

“That comic was really funny.” “Who is that guy? I’ve never heard of him.”
When the compliments hit a crescendo, I’d make a calculated approach. I learned at a young age that timing is everything. Disarm- ingly well rehearsed, I’d stick out my little hand with panache: “Hi, I’m The Comic’s Daughter.” (Note: I was really cute, in the true sense of the word. Not pretty or conventionally cute, but sort of awkward and adorable, with uncontrollable curly hair, freckles, and round cheeks.) In addition, my mother always managed to dress both my brother and me stylishly, so no matter how poor we were, we always looked good. Mom subscribed to the philosophy that it’s “better to look good than to feel good.” To this day, I look my hottest when I’m suicidal.
After I announced myself as The Comic’s Daughter, all the women fell in love with me. They inevitably cooed.
“Your father is so funny—so handsome!”
“Where ’d he get all those jokes and all those dialects?”
“He must be so much fun to live with.”
Every bathroom visit gave me a rush. I was special. I mattered.
Like yeast, I thrived on these encounters until I made my way to the next latrine. I appeared in every gin joint bathroom in Chicago, Miami, and the Catskills. Those powder rooms were key to my survival.
Via each public bathroom, I got my self-esteem and a (co-dependent) sense of self—just a few feet from a bunch of toilets.
My childhood went along like that until the fall of 1963, when Joni Morgan Mancuzzo, a beautiful blonde singer, murdered her husband, Johnny, three hours after I babysat for their two young children. Johnny Mancuzzo was my father’s theatrical agent, a member of the local Mafia, and a spectacular sociopath. At the age of thirteen, I suddenly went from having a crush on Paul McCartney to sharing my bed- room with a woman on trial for shooting her husband in his sleep. The thing is, I loved her dearly. This is how my adolescence began. When Joni shot Johnny, everything changed.

Good Evidence & Positive Noticing: Beyond the Law of Attraction

“All the evidence we have indicates that it is reasonable to assume in practically every human being, and certainly, in almost every newborn baby, there is an active will toward health, and an impulse toward growth or toward actualization” – Abraham Maslow

Good Evidence was born in a rehab.

There I was, staring down the barrel at twelve angry millionaires, including a few trust fund babies, all suffering a scourge beyond comprehension: alcohol and drug addiction. Positioning myself in the cranberry red Ikea chair, I took a deep breath and quietly observed the group in their varying stages of detoxification and recovery from substance abuse. Some of these folks were in rehab because of a family intervention; some were about to lose their families; some had already lost their spouses and kids; a few were facing jail time for DUIs; others were on a month-long sabbatical. They had not yet decided if they would snort, drink, shoot, or smoke again. It mattered little that we were sitting atop a mountain in a 6000-square-foot feng shui home with a panoramic, 120-degree view of the Pacific Ocean. It didn’t matter a whit. Despite the mind-blowing view, being in rehab sucked. These people were just like addicts at a lockdown facility—no different. Millionaires, movie stars and even the guy waiting for a trial, can all be rife with a torrent of anger, resentment, and extra-large feelings. Addiction is an equal-opportunity feudal lord.

On this particular morning, the rich and famous were gathered at a twice-weekly group therapy in order to share wicked stories of abuse, loss, and suffering. Essentially, they were there to vent, and I was there to substitute for their regular group leader. But before we got into all the painful psychological stuff, I decided to take a different approach. I decided to venture outside the therapeutic box, into more positive, unchartered territory. Not knowing what to expect, I asked this question: “Does anyone here have Evidence that they are healing?” The inmates looked confused, so I clarified.

“Okay, guys. Here is the Webster’s Dictionary definition of evidence: ‘Something that furnishes proof; or an outward sign’.’” Then I went deeper and spoke slowly. Many of these clients were not in very good shape.

“I like to think of Evidence with a capital E, because in this context, it can be empowering, uplifting, and encouraging. Here are some synonyms for what I mean by Evidence:” proof, confirmation, verification, validation, authentication, certification, corroboration, substantiation, documentation, witness, statement, data, indication, sign, totem, signal, illustration, demonstration, and again, proof. Does anyone have that?”

Much to my amazement, all twelve hands shot straight up. They had answers. They all had some Good Evidence. Each individual reported a concrete story of healing. They had proof. In a split second, twelve angry addicts got high on Good Evidence instead of ecstasy. Even the clients who had just been admitted, sweating, nauseous, and gripped by the Tasmanian devil of detoxification, found Good Evidence in the fact that they had not used in twenty-four hours. For this group, not drinking for twenty-four hours was Evidence! Some of their responses were:

“I’m sleeping six hours in a row.”
“I had a sober laughing fit yesterday.”
“I played tennis for the first time in ten years.”
“I called my brother and apologized.”
“I didn’t have a craving today.”
“I told the truth.”

Suddenly the room was infused with energy and enthusiasm. I then

instructed everyone to jot down their proof in a new journal that could be devoted exclusively to positive events.

I said, “Do this daily because when you write stuff down, it expands. Take that Good Evidence you just shared and begin a practice of noticing good behaviors and experiences. You’ll be shocked at how many more excellent things occur than you realize. Call it your E-Log, short for your Evidence Log. I spend about five minutes each day writing in mine.”

From that day on, the clients added Good Evidence to their recovery lexicon.

E-BOOK: Good Evidence & Positive Noticing is available on Amazon.com

Welcome To Retail

Looking back on November 9, 2016, the day after the momentous presidential election in history, I should have known. I should have known that working in retail, especially over the holidays, was going to be challenging (cough). I should have known when the store manager, with the dreadful resting face, immediately messed up my schedule and blamed me for her error.

Princess Resting Face: “Oh, you walked away with the time off request form. I never saw it. It’s not in the binder.”

But I didn’t do that. I did not “walk off” with the document. I placed it in the binder exactly where it belonged. This time off request form simply stated that I could not work on Sunday mornings, before 2PM. So what did she do? She scheduled me on Sunday mornings! Within a second of her accusation that it was my fault, I found the form in question. It was inside the store binder – filed correctly. From there on, it got nuttier. I should have known.

This chain of women’s clothes is, for the most part, uninspired, and caters to middle-aged women. The clothes are quietly pleasant, but once in a while, amongst the garden-variety designs, there are a few really great pieces. I bought those.

What brought me there was clearly not the salary. So minuscule, the wage wasn’t even going to get me a “happy meal” at McDonald’s. No, I signed up for a part-time job over the holidays as a means to add more structure to my life; remind me of humility, and to make sure that I would not jump off the Griffith Park Observatory. It also seemed like a good “pattern interrupt” to my normal life as a clinical hypnotherapist and author. What I took home out of those four weeks were the following: Three tops, one pair of pants, two necklaces at fifty percent off, a partridge in a pear tree, and a few fun “retail” stories.

Here’s the thing. Living the life of a self-employed, entrepreneur, I had forgotten all about corporate America. Corporate American likes money (just like the current president, number 45) and as such, it wholeheartedly likes credit cards! Just to emphasize my point…one of the strongest pieces of advice I received from the veteran sales team was the utter importance of getting customers to open a store credit card. Unbeknownst to me initially, the “credit card push” was going to be vital to my future at the store (what future?). In turn, for the remarkable feat of getting Jane Doe to sign up for a store credit card, I would receive absolutely nothing. Nothing.

On the day that my very first customer signed up for a store credit card, the crack sales veterans treated me as though I had just scientifically reversed the aging process and solved world peace, all at once. It was astounding. Once the customer departed our mall shop, I got passionate high fives from everyone, even Princess Resting Face. Although I did not receive a text from the COO of this chain, my herculean achievement did earn me a blue star, on a two foot by three-foot poster board. And located next to each sales associate’s name, was a tiny, Picasso-like caricature of that person, created by one of the assistant managers (a pop artist). Being the new gal, my welcoming caricature was of a terribly distressed woman, next to a caption, “WTF am I doing here?”

Indeed. What WAS I doing there? I should have known…

It was unfortunate timing, but I began the regrettable job just a few days after Donald J. Trump was elected President (by the Electoral College, mind you). Like 2.8 million, it put me into a deep depression and left me with a sense of hopelessness. When I entered the dull but pleasant store on November 10^th, the first thing I noticed was that nobody, and I mean nobody, was depressed. Their cavalier behaviors were cavalier at best, and suspicious. I waited all day for some kind of sign that one of these sales geniuses had voted for HC or Bernie, but no such confirmation appeared. In fact, over the course of four weeks, I never found out. One day, however, a lovely, white-haired woman came in and walked up to me without hesitation. Utterly charming, she spoke with a fantastic Australian accent. Blimey. She sounded like Meryl Streep in that Aussie movie where Meryl famously said, “The dingo stole my BABY! Well, that lady sounded just like Meryl. After a moment of chitchat, she said, “Would you like to come live in Australia for the next four years?” “YES!” I exclaimed. Then, “How did you know?”

She said, “I could tell. You just have a look. “We, in Australia have been watching, and we are appalled by your election. We are appalled. I feel so bad for you.” Me too, I thought.

This was the most bonding I did with anyone at that store, except Margaret, a deaf-mute. When Margaret walked in, I knew immediately that she was deaf. I’ve worked with a number of handicapped clients, and her condition was obvious. And better, she knew that I knew, so we had rapport immediately, and then I proceeded to help Margaret find lots of clothes for her pending trip to the UK. About 25 minutes into Margaret trying on clothes, another assistant manager (the place was crawling with assistant managers), named Misty, beckoned to me privately. But before I tell you what Misty said, I also must share that Misty looks like a fifty-year-old Britney Spears. Remember Britney in, the “Oops, I Did It Again” video? Well, Misty looks like she should be wearing plaid skirts and sucking on a cherry lollipop. In addition, she talks exactly like Georgia Engel, the child-woman character from the Mary Tyler Moore show. Remember her? She was Ted’s girlfriend, Georgette Franklin Baxter. Really sweet and really dumb.

With the sweetly stupid delivery of Georgette Baxter, Misty spoke to me like a kindergarten teacher. At this juncture, I had been working with Margaret for at least a half hour, when Misty pulled me off into a private corner.

Misty: “Now listen, that woman can’t hear, so you’ll have to make sure she can read your lips.”

Me: “REALLY? I hadn’t noticed.”

No, I thought it, but I didn’t say it. Margaret, my new best friend, bought a ton of clothes. She left the store very satisfied and thanked me warmly. The only wrench in this lovely novella was that although I sold her lots of clothes, I was unable to ring up Margaret’s sale and receive credit (not commission). The reason I could not ring up the sale was because the veteran sales women on the floor trained me for about fifteen minutes on a highly complicated computer system – a system that would give Edward Snowden a hernia and confuse the hell out of Bill Gates. The game amongst most of these women became, “Let’s watch Carrie TRY to ring up sales, without help.”

And that’s what they did for almost a month. They had a blast.

Princess Resting Face: “Cover the front of the store.” But she wouldn’t train me.

Then she ordered me to, “Spend the day in the fitting rooms, helping people.” But she wouldn’t train me on the computer system.

When I stood behind an associate to watch the 90 plus steps to ringing up a pair of leggings, I was told, “Get back out onto the floor.”

Cue song: “Get back Jo Jo. Get back to where you belong.” Eventually, on my final day, when I could not recall ONE step to ringing up a sale, the manager unloaded on me, “You need to get this. Hypnotize yourself. Just hit enter. Get over it.”

It was a classic double bind and a recipe for failure.

This was not the only insufferable and patronizing experience. There were the answers I received to basic questions. As an example – when I asked Misty where a blouse belonged, she effectively condescended.

Misty: “Now Carrie, just think about that question for a second.”

In response, I said, “Just answer the fucking question.” No, I didn’t do that. I took it on the chin as the new kid. When I asked someone else a different question, the answer I received was similar in tone, “Silly girl,” she said, grinning. Ladies, retail geniuses – please answer the frigging question! “Silly girl” is not an answer. In fact, “Up your ass” would have been a much better answer. At least it would have given me a location.

I should have known.

Well…silly me was accurate. I did not realize that the mean girl mentality existed amongst middle-aged women (many, not all of course). Silly me. I thought bitchiness was relegated only to high school girls with tats. I did not know that an impossibly dull, retail store could be fertile ground for a sit-com, blog or my next movie: Welcome to Retail.

Further, I did not know that my sales IQ rested on being able to identify slim cut pants from boot cut; OR wide leg pants from palazzo pants. I did not know that my future rested on knowing where to restock a petite LARGE. Isn’t’ that an oxymoron?

Mostly, here’s what I want you to know. Whenever a salesperson signs you up for a new credit card, a retail angel gets their wings and a salesperson gets a blue star. Not only that, corporate America gets a big, fat BONER.

Welcome to retail.

Magic Mac

Except for sociopaths and spectacular narcissists, the experience of falling in love is holistically universal; and infinitely exciting. For me, it is also instantaneous. Always has been.

In my world, falling in love has never ever been about “becoming friends first,” “growing closer” or “letting the feelings develop.” (shoot me) It’s been more like the “Fast and Furious” franchise, i.e. fast and furious. Historically, when that cherub love arrow strikes, I quickly morph into a thunderstruck, puddle of limerance. And as mentioned, this rare and glorious phenomenon happens in a mere nano-second. In that quantum moment, I know. It just IS.

Strangely, that’s what occurred recently when I ate lunch at a famous, members-only club in Hollywood. I fell passionately in love, but not with a human being…

When a good friend Sandi, who is on the Board of Directors, of a members-only establishment, invited me to their Friday buffet lunch last May, I accepted. I had been declining her repeated invitations, and looking back, I should have said yes straight away – I should have said “yes,” because this is an enchanting place that has been in existence for over 40 years and not everyone gets entry. Its’ members rate in the thousands, and it’s known throughout the world. Sitting on top of a Hollywood hill, it is a striking, castle-like, mansion, converted to a club and decorated with turrets – a real stunner. In addition, everyone smiles a lot, including the valet. Also, guests and members are required to dress upscale. Men must wear a suit and tie. I once saw staff run around madly, looking for a tie for Dick Van Dyke. Mr. Van Dyke was jovial (he’s always jovial!), but the establishment makes no exceptions.

My friend met me in the main lobby, and graciously guided me into the warm, old-world dining room which was already filled with veteran members, schmoozing, table-hopping and having a jolly good time. After a few introductions, we got seated, grabbed a large plate, piled them high, and “dove in.” Admittedly, Sandi had raved about the quality of food at this place, but for some reason, I doubted her. She was correct, and I had to cry foul because the buffet experience was totally excellent – not exotic, gourmet or unusual – just extremely good. The chopped Caesar salad was especially excellent because it was chopped. Out of respect for my vegetarian readers, I’ll not detail exactly what I personally ate – think of an Elk’s convention and that will suffice. I liked the food a lot. It reminded me a little of my mid-western roots.

The one dish, however, that caused a seismic shift in my taste buds, brought me to spasms of uncontrollable delight, and caused me many visits to the buffet line, was the creamy…(drum roll please) macaroni and cheese (heretofore abbreviated: “mac&chz”). Having eaten over 300 hundred versions of mac&chz in my lifetime, including Kraft, of course, this particular concoction was remarkable. It was sinfully rich, irresistibly and even sexy. So scrumptious and perfect was the yellow pasta, it begged for a nickname. In an instant, my subconscious and the great Universe delivered it: Magic Mac. I labeled the mac&chz, Magic Mac – here’s my point: If this recipe were a male stripper (which makes no sense), it would most certainly be Channing Tatum – i.e. Magic Mike. Trademark office, here I come: Magic Mac is a franchise!

Allow me to briefly describe my thrilling and romantic discovery. Fully expecting that the lunch buffet mac&chz would taste like it was shipped from the Veteran’s Hospital, I scooped a small spoonful onto my plate out of sheer habit. And except for the unusual, reddish brown crumble on top, it looked like any garden-variety side dish, at any Sunday church bizarre.

Much to my shock, it was not garden-variety. It was fantastic! It was brilliant. The long, slender, curly pasta, dripping with a myriad of unidentifiable cheesy flavors, and covered by some kind of baked, crispy topping, was a fucking revelation. A revelation I tell you. My taste buds flew into an altered state, causing the love hormone, oxytocin, to flood my entire system. And although I have never taken the love-drug, MDMA (also known as Ecstasy), I imagine my reaction to the mac&chz was akin to being high on MDMA. All in all, it tasted like falling in love.

I met my soul mate that day. Like a beautiful love song, it was a deeply visceral, life-altering experience. Without fully realizing it, I had been searching my whole life for Magic Mac, and now that I found him, there would never be another. My fidelity (and taste buds) were instantly locked and loaded.

As pleasurable as it all was, my intense attraction to Magic Mac presented a slight problem. Somehow, someway, I would have to obtain the recipe. I was not going to sleep well or catch a good breath unless this mission impossible was accomplished expediently. Just thinking about the way Mac tasted and smelled, sent pleasure hormones rushing through my torso, igniting feelings of passion, lust, and anticipation. Suddenly, all propriety went out the door. The day after lunch I asked my friend (on the Board of Directors) if she could please obtain the sacred, cheesy recipe from their talented chef. She graciously offered to ask the chef. She appeared confident.

It’s been a few days now. Haven’t heard a word. Anticipation mounts and my monkey mind is bouncing around the cage.

TIME has stopped. My heart is anxious. I cannot sleep, eat or concentrate. I have not heard anything yet about the Magic Mac recipe… The anticipation and insecurity are torture, as is always the case in matters of love. This reminds me of Lawrence Ferlinghetti’s 1958 epic poem, “I Am Waiting” – an eccentric and brilliant piece of writing that went on for pages and pages. 59 years later, it still stands up (and was my favorite poem in college).

Dear Lawrence, I too am waiting. I am waiting for my new lover to call. While I wait, there’s a both anticipation, and hope. And during this emotional limbo, I am left wondering if the affair with Magic Mac will continue. “Will I hear from him?” “Will there be a relationship?” “Will we commit?” “Will he love me tomorrow?” It was a cacophony of typical lovesick questions.

Well, sometimes, happy endings ensue. I did not have to wait long. My cracker-jack friend, always game for a challenge, obtained the coveted recipe. When Magic Mac finally arrived, via PDF format at precisely 3 PM on the following Monday, I stopped everything, downloaded the doc and hit “save.”

WHEW. Mac came back. He called. Thank you God! Without further adieu, and without any foreplay; and like an afternoon quickie, I thrust Magic Mac directly into my “in-box.” Ahhhh. With such relief and pleasure co-mingling, it felt like a non-chemical version MDMA had just flooded my body, mind and spirit…it was what I might describe as “organic ecstasy.”