Under Ware: Agent With The FBI

Shortly after 9/11, Under passed her special agent test. She'd been a computer analyst with the service since l995, her first job after graduation from the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. With a name like hers, she wanted to stay under the radar. The fact that she lived in Washington D.C. and traveled constantly was ideal. Pasadena, California, was no more than the place Under had been born. 

She was now known as U. Ware. Her twin, Arde, or Hard, as his UCLA frat brothers called him--had done the same thing in med school and now he was on staff at a prominent Midwestern medical school, Dr. A. Ware or AW.

"Say your name and be proud of it," their mother had said, when they begged to know why such names had been put on them. "Ware is an old British name, much like, Blood, my maiden name. Where do you think the term, Bluebood, comes from? I don't hear your cousins complaining about their name."

"Yeah, their first names are Jennifer, David, and Ashley," Arde said, a hardness  underscored his voice even when they were youngsters.  

The three cousins were slackers who hit the party scene first in Bali, then in Rio and finally in Hollywood. They partied away their incomes at the Troubadour, the Viper Room where they met Johnny Depp, and various other clubs that came and went. Under had ushered in the 21st century by going to bed at 8 PM and waking up at 7 AM, same as always. Arde spent that year in Japan, doing God knows what. He said he was studying Eastern medicine.

Last summer on July 4th, their mother hosted a big bash and collapsed at the buffet table, dying from a heart attack before the medics arrived. U and HW had to go home. 

"I've never seem her so beautiful," Under said, looking at her mother before the morticians prepared her for the funeral. "Peaceful and serene. Luminescent."

"The old gal's blood wasn't as terrific as she thought it was," Arde said. He took charge, made all the arrangements. Arde had fought to have an autopsy performed, Under refused. Her mother's beauty was all she had left. She sat with the open casket before the funeral.

"I'm so sorry for my disgraceful behavior," she said. A single tear slid from the edge of her eye. "I don't know why you did this to me, but I love you." She smoothed her black dress and sat quietly. "I'll start wearing mascara to make up for things," she said, looking straight forward.

"Let's get this over with," Arde said, then snapped the silk-lined casket closed. "Everybody's waiting. Did you contact our father?" 

She shook her head. "I ran a check on him. A year ago he was living in Romania with a woman named Irma Vagine. They have children and run a legitimate orphanage. Leave him alone, he has a life." 

"Don't you want to know your father?" Arde snarled at her in the same tone he used with their mother.  "We need to know what diseases he has, what we've inherited. He's the Ware. He abandoned us."

Under wept, bowing her head, covering her eyes with her hands. "I know who I am, Hard Ware. I'm Under Ware." She looked up at him, emotions in check, radiant in her truth. "I spend my days ferreting out people who change their names to serve some purpose, avoid some truth, or getting away from themselves and their families." She snorted and cleared her throat. "I'm a Blood-Ware, bright red and running strong."

"And you're so tough. FBI. You'll always be under some body's thumb," he said. "Let's get this over with."

They sat together. They gave the eulogy together. Under wept. Arde didn't. When the service was over, as they were leaving, a man tapped Under on the shoulder. When she turned around, she saw her own  pale face but with flashing dark eyes rimmed with double thick lashes. 

"I vant you to meet my vife, and zon's lit-tle shildren," he said. "They've ast to meet you for a longa time. Ve've saved money for 10 years. Come from Poland. Bad timing. " 

"Arde, I think this is our father," she said. "Look."  

"Ah, your uncle. Your fader feld offa curb in and vas hit by a truck," he said. "I'm Zilva Vare."

Arde just starred. Under gave Zilva a hug. The children giggled and his wife smiled.

More little Wares, Under thought smiling at them. I vonder vhat their names are?

And that's true. To some extent.

Under Ware: Agent With The FBI

Shortly after 9/11, Under passed her special agent test. She'd been a computer analyst with the service since l995, her first job after graduation from the University of Southern California in Los Angeles. With a name like hers, she wanted to stay under the radar. The fact that she lived in Washington D.C. and traveled constantly was ideal. Pasadena, California, was no more than the place Under had been born. 

She was now known as U. Ware. Her twin, Arde, or Hard, as his UCLA frat brothers called him--had done the same thing in med school and now he was on staff at a prominent Midwestern medical school, Dr. A. Ware or AW.

"Say your name and be proud of it," their mother had said, when they begged to know why such names had been put on them. "Ware is an old British name, much like, Blood, my maiden name. Where do you think the term, Bluebood, comes from? I don't hear your cousins complaining about their name."

"Yeah, their first names are Jennifer, David, and Ashley," Arde said, a hardness  underscored his voice even when they were youngsters.  

The three cousins were slackers who hit the party scene first in Bali, then in Rio and finally in Hollywood. They partied away their incomes at the Troubadour, the Viper Room where they met Johnny Depp, and various other clubs that came and went. Under had ushered in the 21st century by going to bed at 8 PM and waking up at 7 AM, same as always. Arde spent that year in Japan, doing God knows what. He said he was studying Eastern medicine.

Last summer on July 4th, their mother hosted a big bash and collapsed at the buffet table, dying from a heart attack before the medics arrived. U and HW had to go home. 

"I've never seem her so beautiful," Under said, looking at her mother before the morticians prepared her for the funeral. "Peaceful and serene. Luminescent."

"The old gal's blood wasn't as terrific as she thought it was," Arde said. He took charge, made all the arrangements. Arde had fought to have an autopsy performed, Under refused. Her mother's beauty was all she had left. She sat with the open casket before the funeral.

"I'm so sorry for my disgraceful behavior," she said. A single tear slid from the edge of her eye. "I don't know why you did this to me, but I love you." She smoothed her black dress and sat quietly. "I'll start wearing mascara to make up for things," she said, looking straight forward.

"Let's get this over with," Arde said, then snapped the silk-lined casket closed. "Everybody's waiting. Did you contact our father?" 

She shook her head. "I ran a check on him. A year ago he was living in Romania with a woman named Irma Vagine. They have children and run a legitimate orphanage. Leave him alone, he has a life." 

"Don't you want to know your father?" Arde snarled at her in the same tone he used with their mother.  "We need to know what diseases he has, what we've inherited. He's the Ware. He abandoned us."

Under wept, bowing her head, covering her eyes with her hands. "I know who I am, Hard Ware. I'm Under Ware." She looked up at him, emotions in check, radiant in her truth. "I spend my days ferreting out people who change their names to serve some purpose, avoid some truth, or getting away from themselves and their families." She snorted and cleared her throat. "I'm a Blood-Ware, bright red and running strong."

"And you're so tough. FBI. You'll always be under some body's thumb," he said. "Let's get this over with."

They sat together. They gave the eulogy together. Under wept. Arde didn't. When the service was over, as they were leaving, a man tapped Under on the shoulder. When she turned around, she saw her own  pale face but with flashing dark eyes rimmed with double thick lashes. 

"I vant you to meet my vife, and zon's lit-tle shildren," he said. "They've ast to meet you for a longa time. Ve've saved money for 10 years. Come from Poland. Bad timing. " 

"Arde, I think this is our father," she said. "Look."  

"Ah, your uncle. Your fader feld offa curb in and vas hit by a truck," he said. "I'm Zilva Vare."

Arde just starred. Under gave Zilva a hug. The children giggled and his wife smiled.

More little Wares, Under thought smiling at them. I vonder vhat their names are?

And that's true. To some extent.

ESTABLISH: Parking Lot Outside The Salon, Sherman Oaks, CA

Tina left the salon in thin orange rubber flip flops. She'd forgotten to bring her own and wore really cool red peep-toe shoes which she had to carry back to the car. Her exquisite French-tip nails matched hand to foot. She was ready for her audition later in the afternoon. She knew it was a great role, made for her: A smart, sophisticated women with a mission before she succumbed to leukemia. 

The pebbles in the parking lot punctured, oh really, they wobbled beneath her feet as she tiptoed to her Acura not 25 feet away in the open air parking lot. It was pleasantly warm, the lot hardly half full, and a well-validated parking ticket assured her of free passage out of there. Still, why couldn't they clear the stupid pebbles? 

Her foot massage wouldn't last to the car at this rate. How could she maneuver in heels later in the afternoon at this rate? A big man leaned against the trunk of a big black Lincoln Navigator (gas guzzler) too closely parked beside her car door. He was sharing his cell phone conversation with the world.

"I paid. You know I paid. I'll pay the rest. Just give me a couple days.  I know I said..." he shouted, pacing left to right his free hand never moving an inch out of his black suit coat pocket. "You owe me," he shouted. Obviously, the person at the other end had some equally potent reply. He waved the phone around in a circle then back close to his ear and unexpectedly said in a most even tone, "I won't do it," and then  smacked the Blackberry again his sizable chest, grimacing with fury. 

She stopped, ready to click the car door open, but didn't. Pondering his 300 pound dark, swarthy frame, Tina easily imaged him as Mafia. Was there such a thing as Persian Mafia? Probably not, but maybe he was black Russian Mafia, and had died his hair and spent a lot of time in a tanning booth.  

She peered at him with her peripheral vision, blinking quickly as her placed a smile across her face allowing her mouth to fall sensuously open.  She licked her plumped up lips. Her job was to get him in the mood to care about her, forget that phone call. Tina shifted from foot to foot, her flowing garb suggested either a free spirit or more likely a wood nymph.

Tina rubbed her palms together warming them, as she always did before a performance. "Excuse me, please," she said as she titled her head slightly to one shoulder and looked  directly into his dark dark eyes. The click of her car remote gave away her intent. "I'm late for an audition, excuse me."  Tina forgot about the pebbles now,  her back straight and chin lifted, she stepped lightly past him, not touching as she opened the car door. "Thank you," she offered.

"Sure, sure," he said. "I wish my wife was so agreeable. She always wants more, more." 

And he thinks I care, passed through Tina's mind. "I'm sure she's a beautiful woman," came out of Tina's mouth. "Wants to make a beautiful life for you. That costs money." Tina's heart beat so fast, she felt a panic attack coming on. "Good luck," she said. Why did I have to say that, pounded between her ears. 

Backing the car out took a 5 point turn in her current state of flux. She peeked at him through the rear-view mirror and waved. He leaned wearily against that big black car, unmoved, head hanging down. Tina put her well-manicured foot on the accelerator, the back tires threw gravel as she pulled forward, toward the window of the parking attendant booth. 

"I'm ready for the audition  after that, "she said out loud. Shifting in her seat, she sat shoulders back to stop shaking. "People think show business is all fun and games. It's work and preparation. I could have said it better: I'm sure she's a beautiful woman, or, I'm sure she's a beautiful woman." Tina rolled her eyes, handed the attendant the ticket and pulled out onto the street.

And that's true. To some extent.

ESTABLISH: Parking Lot Outside The Salon, Sherman Oaks, CA

Tina left the salon in thin orange rubber flip flops. She'd forgotten to bring her own and wore really cool red peep-toe shoes which she had to carry back to the car. Her exquisite French-tip nails matched hand to foot. She was ready for her audition later in the afternoon. She knew it was a great role, made for her: A smart, sophisticated women with a mission before she succumbed to leukemia. 

The pebbles in the parking lot punctured, oh really, they wobbled beneath her feet as she tiptoed to her Acura not 25 feet away in the open air parking lot. It was pleasantly warm, the lot hardly half full, and a well-validated parking ticket assured her of free passage out of there. Still, why couldn't they clear the stupid pebbles? 

Her foot massage wouldn't last to the car at this rate. How could she maneuver in heels later in the afternoon at this rate? A big man leaned against the trunk of a big black Lincoln Navigator (gas guzzler) too closely parked beside her car door. He was sharing his cell phone conversation with the world.

"I paid. You know I paid. I'll pay the rest. Just give me a couple days.  I know I said..." he shouted, pacing left to right his free hand never moving an inch out of his black suit coat pocket. "You owe me," he shouted. Obviously, the person at the other end had some equally potent reply. He waved the phone around in a circle then back close to his ear and unexpectedly said in a most even tone, "I won't do it," and then  smacked the Blackberry again his sizable chest, grimacing with fury. 

She stopped, ready to click the car door open, but didn't. Pondering his 300 pound dark, swarthy frame, Tina easily imaged him as Mafia. Was there such a thing as Persian Mafia? Probably not, but maybe he was black Russian Mafia, and had died his hair and spent a lot of time in a tanning booth.  

She peered at him with her peripheral vision, blinking quickly as her placed a smile across her face allowing her mouth to fall sensuously open.  She licked her plumped up lips. Her job was to get him in the mood to care about her, forget that phone call. Tina shifted from foot to foot, her flowing garb suggested either a free spirit or more likely a wood nymph.

Tina rubbed her palms together warming them, as she always did before a performance. "Excuse me, please," she said as she titled her head slightly to one shoulder and looked  directly into his dark dark eyes. The click of her car remote gave away her intent. "I'm late for an audition, excuse me."  Tina forgot about the pebbles now,  her back straight and chin lifted, she stepped lightly past him, not touching as she opened the car door. "Thank you," she offered.

"Sure, sure," he said. "I wish my wife was so agreeable. She always wants more, more." 

And he thinks I care, passed through Tina's mind. "I'm sure she's a beautiful woman," came out of Tina's mouth. "Wants to make a beautiful life for you. That costs money." Tina's heart beat so fast, she felt a panic attack coming on. "Good luck," she said. Why did I have to say that, pounded between her ears. 

Backing the car out took a 5 point turn in her current state of flux. She peeked at him through the rear-view mirror and waved. He leaned wearily against that big black car, unmoved, head hanging down. Tina put her well-manicured foot on the accelerator, the back tires threw gravel as she pulled forward, toward the window of the parking attendant booth. 

"I'm ready for the audition  after that, "she said out loud. Shifting in her seat, she sat shoulders back to stop shaking. "People think show business is all fun and games. It's work and preparation. I could have said it better: I'm sure she's a beautiful woman, or, I'm sure she's a beautiful woman." Tina rolled her eyes, handed the attendant the ticket and pulled out onto the street.

And that's true. To some extent.

Rita and Sarah : Song Writers In The Making

[It's a known fact that everybody in Los Angeles thinks they are an actor, singer, dancer, writer---or all of them and more. There are those parents who flock here with their kids apparently hoping the aura of sensational success floats in all the sunshine, or the negative ions off the ocean {and the surf?}  will stimulate brains cells to expose assets. When it doesn't work out they go back to Ohio, Iowa, Utah, where they had come from. {Those magazines at the grocery check-out miss the point}. It's really all about the process, and, maybe a bead's worth of the other.]

Red-haired and skinny Rita, at the age of nine knows that she is going to grow up and be a singer. She and her best friend, curly-locked Sarah with the rosy cheeks and straight white teeth, make up songs while they groom their ponies about half a mile upslope from the beach in Malibu. So far, their best one is called "Dripping Wet Misty." Misty being Rita's pony. Sarah's pony being Silver. They sing in rounds or verses, Rita the soprano, Sarah the alto, usually in harmony. 

Rita's dad accompanies them on guitar whenever he's available and in the mood. Rita's mom watchs when she's not building her horse stabling business. She smiles at them offering tips while she eats arugula which she picks from their garden. [mom also drinks green tea, and serves only organic fruits, vegetables and juices. No white sugar or flour, or red meat, ever. Maybe success comes in liquids?]

"Let's hide and see how long it takes for someone to come looking for us," Rita said to Sarah late one summer afternoon. "We can tell them we got lost and so scared we didn't know what to do. When they find us, act real hot and tired. My mom will probably cry."

They giggled for the first hour leaning against tall stacks of hay bales half an acre from the barn. "Waiting For Discovery," took on a three octave, four-beat, imaginary dramatic Debbie Harry-ish back-up track. "Best Ever," Rita whispered in a quivering atonal ending, head snapping back, eyes snapping shut, arms snapping to a sharp line at her side. 

Sarah did the splits, in her jodpers and riding boots, dust swirled up her nose. "Vogue," she murmured, coughing slightly and touching her head to her thigh and holding the pose. It took a few moments, but then she sighed out the first complaint. "I'm hot and tired."

"I'm not." Beads of sweat said otherwise on Rita's forehead. Her back schlumped as she slid to the grown. More dust swirled. "Why haven't they come looking for us?" she asked.   

Neither of them noticed that their ponies had casually wandered and nibbled their way back to the arena.

"I'm ready to go home. I'm itchy," Sarah said, then sniffled. She slid her legs forward and sat upright. She sniffled again and rubbed her sleeve across her face.

"You sound like a puppy dog," Rita said. "Don't screw up your face like that. It will stay that way. You'll get wrinkles too."

Sarah peaked around the bales of hay, then stood up and waved her arms. Rita whistled.

The ponies trotted straight back to them. Each girl dusted herself off, collected reins and ambled back toward the barn.

Rita's mother was leaning against one of the pepper trees that surrounded the turn-out ring. "Did you ride out to the waterfall, was there much water today?" she asked. "We all decided not come after you, it's been such a lovely day. But. You shouldn't stay out so late. Understand. Any new songs?" she asked.

"Waiting To Be Discovered," Rita replied as she slouched off, reins in hand, the pony tagging along behind her.

"I added choreography, for the first time," Sarah added, sniffling again and frowning. "Hey, Rita, I thought we called it, "Waiting For Discovery?" 

"You don't need to wait for discovery. You live with it everyday," Rita's mother said as she picked hay from Sarah's hair. "Clean up the ponies and I'll hose you both down. You girls look hot and tired. Will you sing it for us, later?"  

And that's true. To some extent.

Rita and Sarah : Song Writers In The Making

[It's a known fact that everybody in Los Angeles thinks they are an actor, singer, dancer, writer---or all of them and more. There are those parents who flock here with their kids apparently hoping the aura of sensational success floats in all the sunshine, or the negative ions off the ocean {and the surf?}  will stimulate brains cells to expose assets. When it doesn't work out they go back to Ohio, Iowa, Utah, where they had come from. {Those magazines at the grocery check-out miss the point}. It's really all about the process, and, maybe a bead's worth of the other.]

Red-haired and skinny Rita, at the age of nine knows that she is going to grow up and be a singer. She and her best friend, curly-locked Sarah with the rosy cheeks and straight white teeth, make up songs while they groom their ponies about half a mile upslope from the beach in Malibu. So far, their best one is called "Dripping Wet Misty." Misty being Rita's pony. Sarah's pony being Silver. They sing in rounds or verses, Rita the soprano, Sarah the alto, usually in harmony. 

Rita's dad accompanies them on guitar whenever he's available and in the mood. Rita's mom watchs when she's not building her horse stabling business. She smiles at them offering tips while she eats arugula which she picks from their garden. [mom also drinks green tea, and serves only organic fruits, vegetables and juices. No white sugar or flour, or red meat, ever. Maybe success comes in liquids?]

"Let's hide and see how long it takes for someone to come looking for us," Rita said to Sarah late one summer afternoon. "We can tell them we got lost and so scared we didn't know what to do. When they find us, act real hot and tired. My mom will probably cry."

They giggled for the first hour leaning against tall stacks of hay bales half an acre from the barn. "Waiting For Discovery," took on a three octave, four-beat, imaginary dramatic Debbie Harry-ish back-up track. "Best Ever," Rita whispered in a quivering atonal ending, head snapping back, eyes snapping shut, arms snapping to a sharp line at her side. 

Sarah did the splits, in her jodpers and riding boots, dust swirled up her nose. "Vogue," she murmured, coughing slightly and touching her head to her thigh and holding the pose. It took a few moments, but then she sighed out the first complaint. "I'm hot and tired."

"I'm not." Beads of sweat said otherwise on Rita's forehead. Her back schlumped as she slid to the grown. More dust swirled. "Why haven't they come looking for us?" she asked.   

Neither of them noticed that their ponies had casually wandered and nibbled their way back to the arena.

"I'm ready to go home. I'm itchy," Sarah said, then sniffled. She slid her legs forward and sat upright. She sniffled again and rubbed her sleeve across her face.

"You sound like a puppy dog," Rita said. "Don't screw up your face like that. It will stay that way. You'll get wrinkles too."

Sarah peaked around the bales of hay, then stood up and waved her arms. Rita whistled.

The ponies trotted straight back to them. Each girl dusted herself off, collected reins and ambled back toward the barn.

Rita's mother was leaning against one of the pepper trees that surrounded the turn-out ring. "Did you ride out to the waterfall, was there much water today?" she asked. "We all decided not come after you, it's been such a lovely day. But. You shouldn't stay out so late. Understand. Any new songs?" she asked.

"Waiting To Be Discovered," Rita replied as she slouched off, reins in hand, the pony tagging along behind her.

"I added choreography, for the first time," Sarah added, sniffling again and frowning. "Hey, Rita, I thought we called it, "Waiting For Discovery?" 

"You don't need to wait for discovery. You live with it everyday," Rita's mother said as she picked hay from Sarah's hair. "Clean up the ponies and I'll hose you both down. You girls look hot and tired. Will you sing it for us, later?"  

And that's true. To some extent.

Pretty Polly

Hello. My name is Polly and I am very pretty. 

Just say the word, pretty, and you'll know what I look like. I am arm candy and I like it that way. I'm naturally friendly and I've never met anyone who didn't like me. Well, they spent some time with me, anyway, so I assume they liked me. I'm definitely a BFF type. 

I know what you're thinking. How can anyone take someone named, Polly, seriously? Well, for one thing, Nirvana has a song, "Polly" and so did the Kinks. Polly Bergen was a successful actress and singer a long time ago. And sadly, Polly Klaas was murdered. 

Ooooohhh,  don't forget Aunt Polly in "Tom Sawyer."  And, the late great C.S. Lewis' main character in "The Magician's Nephew" is named, guess what, Polly Plummer. That's Plummer, not plumber. 

Okay. I've heard it a thousand times. Polly wanna a cracker. Polly Wolly Doodle. Pollyanna. Polly Put the Teakettle On. It gets really tiresome. FYI: Polly is a Norwegian peanut snack brand. Bet you didn't know that.

We looked up the name, Polly, in Wikipedia today. It says that Polly is a nickname, for girls. I don't claim to be a rocket scientist, but did anyone really think it was a name for boys? 

The name supposedly was derived from the name Molly. In 18th and 19th century New England it was a common nickname for Mary. I mean, if Molly is going to become Polly, then shouldn't Mary become Pary, not Polly? And to make matters worse, the two genetically engineered sheep were named Polly and Molly. 

What is a poor bird like me to do? I'm so lucky to have gorgeous feathers, a sweet disposition, a delicate voice, and well-manicured claws.  I got Latin Love Affair Pink this week, just love it.