Last night we went to John Randolph's memorial service.

I didn't want to go particularly, I only knew John as a dotty old guy whom I met once or twice in my life and whom my parents knew because he and my dad were on the SAG board together. Occasionally I would see him on a show and say, "Hey, there's John Randolph!" but that wasn't a good enough reason to go to his memorial. Mom felt otherwise.

So we went, and I ended up being really glad that I had gone. John Randolph was a fascinating man, he had been blacklisted in the 50's, he a great social activist, an integrationist, a unionist. And a Communist--this was a real, solid Commie funeral, with all the Hollywood lefties in attendance. It was actually rather startling to be in a room with people farther to the left than my mother, whom I always describe as slightly farther to the left than Stalin.

The more people got up and talked about him and all of the things he had done for people, the more I wished that I had known him. Why do funerals only happen after you are dead?

Today's horoscope:
Your experience tells an archetypal story. There's probably money in this, but your hands will feel dirty unless you find a way to share it. Personal satisfaction morphs into a community benefit.

One year ago today:
Bonnie is the Vomit Comet, she throws up in bed at least a few times a week. She starts to cough, and then she can't stop herself, and then it's whoopsie all over the sheets.

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