The last time I saw Jim I had gone to his apartment in Brooklyn to help him sort through the many drafts of his novel in progress. He wasn’t well, but for all his body’s betrayals the raconteur was in fine form. It took at least of couple hours until we parked ourselves in front of his computer and got to work. He had color-coded passages he wanted to ask me about and the screen looked like a Dan Flavin installation. The day was spent in serious debate over everything from adverbs (which I felt he used too liberally) and semi-colons, emerging themes, and what his main character Billy Wolfram would or wouldn’t do. Before I left, he showed me some memorabilia from his rock and roll days, and then we talked about the ending.
When I left, I was relieved to be in the fresh air, to feel the late sun on my face. I double-checked that I had the flash-drive where I had stored for safe-keeping the many drafts floating on Jim’s desktop. I looked back at his strange little building sort of stranded on the edge of Brooklyn, imagined I saw him in the window, and waved just in case. I wanted to go back and I wanted to go home.
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When I first thought of blogging, a couple of people close to me thought it was a bad idea given my “Impulse Control Problems.” I thought deeply about it and decided to take the plunge anyway. Today, I am ending this post in advance of saying some things I should not make public. And yes I want a mental health medal.
Media Alert: Tonight on the History Channel (9 P.M. EST) Linda Kasabian tells the story of the nine months leading up to the Manson murders. Kasabian stood guard outside Sharon Tate’s home while Manson and his followers committed mass murder. She became a witness for Vincent Bugliosi, the chief prosecutor in the case, and was granted immunity. It’s forty freakin’ years later. What the hell does she look like? And what can she possibly say? I’ve always wondered what Kasabian was thinking/doing as she waited in the car. Did she listen to the radio? Whistle?
I’m sure I was obsessed with the Manson murders in part because they happened on my birthday, August 9. It was 1969, the summer of Woodstock (I got a button with a guitar and a dove design), Neil Armstrong walked on the moon, and the Brady Bunch premiered. I was nine years old, wearing mix and match Danskins, glued to the tv.
Five years later, Bugliosi published his account of the murders and trial in Helter Skelter. This set off a feeding frenzy; I read The Godfather, Serpico, The Valachi Papers, and my favorite of all time, In Cold Blood. I’m not sure what attracted me, at fifteen, to these gruesome stories. I suspect it had something to do with trying to contemplate what I had decided was a godless world, where random violence rained down on innocent people. There was something sexual about it, too, though I didn’t know that then. Prurient and thrilling.These, too, were the first books I read that I could call page-turners. And that’s when I got hooked, in earnest, to reading.
Comedy scriptwriter 
Betsy Lerner 