What To Do When You Can't Get Arrested

Yesterday I had lunch with three lawyer friends, though this was only by happenstance, since I'm not under indictment or anything. "It ain't illegal, blogging without a license," she said, slipping into her best gun moll. "Leastwise not last time I checked, copper."

One of the high-powered legal minds at the table sized up the cool character I've resuscitated here. "We're still behind the dream, but we're starting to worry about you now," he said. I'm not sure who "we" are but part of me was glad to hear there's more than one of you out there.

The other part paused to consider my becoming a cause for concern to an officer of the court. I guess in a world where the rules are made clear with a firm bang of the gavel, my Hollywood life must read like a senseless crime spree. The rival who needs to go down, the agent somebody ought to take out of the game. The tip-offs, the drive-ons, the package deals that blew up.

If I were a lawyer, I'd become death row qualified, which I only learned recently is a thing. I would be Marcia Clark, had things have gone differently, only way more kick-ass. I'd have won the big case before cashing in with a series of gritty novels in which I am the thinly veiled (and thinner and veiled) heroine.

The corporate types talking tortes at the table don't get my addiction to the real life case all over the airwaves lately concerning that small-town waitress who slashed her boyfriend's throat after a nooner gone bad. That's when I hit the whole lot of louts with the lowdown on film noir. It's the bulldog Bogie of Maricopa County, see, opposite the busty black widow playing victim in the hot seat. I might have a secret crush on the dead guy done wrong; and a soft spot for the hard-boiled detective with the sweet-spoken voice.

If only my characters felt that conflicted and raw. While the long romance between Hollywood and criminal justice is a natural, live trial watching makes my own stories feel so flimsy. The book that didn't sell, the call that never came, the backbiting former film students meeting my recent work with the grim silence of a candlight vigil. Really, where are the stakes anymore? What happened to the handcuffs? Shut up and get a job, sister, before you get popped in the kisser.

As I slinked out of the joint, I asked the big lugs to "like" a gal now and again -- be a peach and toss her a "follow." I clicked off in my high heels while anybody but me picked up the check. Things have yet to become fatale, but you can still count on Julie to assume the role of the femme.


  1. Bryan B.10:33 AM

    My typewriter doesn't have a "like" key or a "follow" key. Where are they?

  2. Hi Bryan, thanks for reading and I hope you recommend me to the rest of your class as well as your mommy.