KBTVonline

The Los Angeles AIDS WALK

2008-11-09T09:44:00.000-08:00

My first exposure to HIV/AIDS was when I lived in downtown New York City with my friend Fidel, more than a decade ago. His brother had been HIV positive for quite a long time. I’m not exactly sure for how long. Fidel came from a family of four boys.

Fidel was my best friend at the time. We watched his little brother die, together. I’ll never forget the day of the funeral. It was so unbelievably sad. I can still remember the look on his mother’s face – it broke my heart. Fidel’s mother died within the week of a heart attack. My thoughts at the time were: watching her son die – quite literally – broke her heart.

This is the reason that participating in the Los Angeles AIDS Walk was so special to me.

And this is how it all happened. I was hanging out in a great little coffee shop out here on Pico Street called UnUrban. I picked up LA Weekly and I saw an ad for the The Los Angeles Aids Walk. The next morning I went in to work and suggested to my team that we cover it.

I work with such wonderful guys (and a gal.) Tony Kucenski is my Executive Producer (read “my better half”). Joe Doughrity is my writer/field producer – his energy is infectious! Lance is my editor (he’s actually known as “Crabby” because his last name is Crabtree, which is ironic because he is the least grumpy person I have ever met!). Kirstin Gundersen is my graphic artist, she’s quite simply a doll. Jason is my webmaster, also a super sweet doll. Dave Freeman is my lead editor and perhaps the most laid back man I have ever met (he has to be, he deals with me on a daily basis! … read nightmare.)

So everyone was game to cover the event! Not to sound too cliché, but it was an amazing experience. Simply the fact that there was so much joy – and so much hope – at an event celebrating a disease riddled with so much sadness.

It gave me hope.

So don’t forget to check out the three-part series that is up on the Web right now, at either, www.kbtvonline.com or www.youtube.com/ProfilesInCourage.

The Gala!

2008-11-01T10:00:00.000-07:00

Finally the cab pulled up outside of the Virginia Beach Convention Center (“Virginia is For Lover’s,” I later learned, through many a bumper sticker.)

I pushed through the revolving doors and there was this wonderful moment when I set my sights on the Chief Executive Officer of Physicians for Peace – Retired Brigadier General Ron Sconyers. It almost felt as if we hadn’t been apart for a couple of months because the KBTV Productions team had just cut a five-part series profiling Mr. Sconyers’ work at PFP. You have to understand that this is a gentleman with whom I had accompanied on two separate missions – one in Nigeria and one in Guatemala. We have also spent countless hours on the phone discussing everything from fact checking KBTV episodes and Blogs to the birthday party for his twins. Something happens on these missions – you become very close, very quickly. This is why the Gala was so special for me – because I got to see my old pals, Dr. Margie, Nurse Evan and Nurse Francis, Jaya, Mary – and that’s just to name a few. It almost felt like a family reunion.

It was the Physicians for Peace annual “Celebrate the Nations” Gala. The evening started out with a VIP reception where guests from many countries who are involved in the work of PFP were able to meet and mingle. Among the distinguished attendees was Senator Bill Frist, M.D., this year’s recipient of the Charles E. Horton Humanitarian Award for Global Health; as well as The Honorable Abdoulaye Diop, Ambassador from Mali; Domingo Nolasco, Minister and Consul General of the Philippines; and Myra Obendorf, Mayor of Virginia Beach. Also during the reception, PFP gave special recognition to Hampton Roads area hospitals for their support of PFP’s mission work.

Then the evening got under way, and we all enjoyed an exquisite, Latin-inspired meal and mariachi serenade. The program, hosted by Kathryn Barrett of WVEC-TV, included the first annual Volunteer of the Year Awards, as well as a performance by Latin Ballet of Virginia. PFP Board Member Morgan Davis captivated the crowd with his charm as our very own auctioneer while raising money for our cause. An inspiring speech was given by Former Senate Majority Leader, Bill Frist, M.D., a leader in the quest for sustainable healthcare solutions for the developing world.

I’ll also mention that I was awarded the “President’s Award” for raising awareness for PFP’s causes through writing and video. It was an amazing feeling!

I want to thank Liz, Court and Dave for accompanying and supporting me at the Gala. And I want to thank Ron and everyone else at Physicians for Peace for allowing me the opportunity to be a part of their family.

Lights, Camera....Action!

2008-10-22T21:09:00.000-07:00

Court arrived on Saturday afternoon – soon after the rolling-down-the-hill-at-the-park event. Liz was meditating, Dave was at Kinko’s making business cards, so I grabbed Court and we headed to the Cheesecake Factory for a couple of turkey burgers. (One of my dirty little secrets is that I only eat half of my meal and I take the other half to go. In this case my intent was to bring the other half to Liz, who eats probably eight times a day. Nevertheless, Liz swore it was hamburger not turkey.)

The event started at 6 p.m. so we decided to meet downstairs at 5:30 p.m. A cab would be waiting.

As I mentioned, Dave Freeman, my FCP editor, had arrived late the night before and had gone to Kinko’s to make business cards because the ones we already had, hadn’t arrived in the FedEx. Dave Freeman is one of my best friends, my on-again, off-again roommate and I simply adore him. All said, he lives in his own Private Idaho. He is one of those super talented, creative people who (pretty much) wakes up when the sun goes down.

I mention all of this because we were supposed to be at the event at 6 p.m. Dave arrived downstairs at, you guessed it, 6 p.m. I can’t really complain though because he was in charge of the video equipment, still photography equipment, audio, business cards and copies of the trailer for our documentary “Two Million Tears: Africa’s Silent Epidemic.” He is just so adorable – that is “how he rolls.”

This is my favorite part. We pushed through the revolving doors to jump in to our chariot. Court is the consummate gentleman. He approaches the curb and opens the door to what can only be described as a jalopy (according to Wikipedia a “Jalopy is a common slang nickname in the English language for an old, decrepit and unreliable automobile which has limited mechanical abilities) I am wearing a Christian Dior red dress with a white mink stole (fake) and all I could think of was: being petrified that there would be professional photographers shooting me getting out of a taxi cab from the ‘70s in a multi-thousand dollar dress. I know, I know, I could have worse problems. The good news is that when I told Court of my fears, let’s just say I have never seen him laugh so hard.

Stay tuned for Part 4!

How I Became Tigger

2008-10-14T16:04:00.000-07:00

Ok. Let’s go back five days so I can start at the beginning.

I left Los Angeles to meet my dear friend Liz Brown; we spent a day hanging out on her boat – a gorgeous boat with a gorgeous captain named Chris Fox!

The following day we were slated to fly in to Norfolk Virginia in advance of the Annual Physicians for Peace gala in Virginia Beach. Liz decided to come in a show of support. I was a little down – my grandmother had died; well, let’s just say I was feeling a tad unsettled. My dear friend Court Coursey came as well. There is something so wonderful about putting a bunch of friends together and watching them interact – my experience is that they get along almost immediately. (By the end of the weekend, I thought Court and Liz were going to run off in to the sunset!)

Liz and I landed on Friday night around 7 p.m., checked in to the Westin and quickly realized we were smack in the middle of a PUD. According to Wikipedia, a PUD is “a designed grouping of varied and compatible land uses, such as housing, recreation, commercial centers and industrial parks, all within one contained subdivision.” I was thrilled because everything was in walking distance. We went for sushi at a place called Zushi and went to bed – not without watching Angelina Jolie kick some serious ass in a terrible movie called “Wanted.”

My Final Cut Pro editor, Dave Freeman, was flying in that night (he arrived after Liz, Angelina and I all had gone to bed.)

So I wake up the following morning to Liz calling me “Tigger" because of the way I bounce in and out of beds and bounce around hotel rooms. I didn’t know who Tigger was until I Googled him. (I’ve decided to take it as a compliment.)

We woke up Dave to go to breakfast. When we arrived back at the hotel, Liz announced (read mandated) that we needed to “go get some nature.” We asked the concierge to direct us to a park. He recommended one called “Trashmore” … it was beautiful! (We were later told by the cab driver that it was called Trashmore because it is built on a landfill.)

We stumbled upon an event being thrown for children with Down Syndrome. We chatted with the locals and ate snow cones. Then Liz decided that she and Dave were going to play a game where you lie down on the grass and roll down a hill. This is what ensued … (see pics)

Don’t forget to check in for Part 3!

The Week I Started Blogging Again …

2008-10-08T21:21:00.000-07:00

On Tuesday, my grandmother died.

On Wednesday evening I flew to the East Coast to bond with one of my dearest friends and tele-shmooze with my family – over the death, but frankly – well, really, a lot of other things.

On Friday evening, around 7 p.m., I landed in Norfolk, Virginia in advance of a black-tie event where I was set to receive an award at the Physicians for Peace Gala recognizing "a person outside of the medical field" who worked tirelessly to help those less fortunate.

It's Sunday – and depending on what time zone you're in – I am somewhere over Chicago flying back to LA. Let's just say I'll land around 4 p.m., PT.

This blog is a four-part series. But I am going to begin at the end – and then take you back through the last four days with photos and my impressions.

Let's start in Dulles. My flight is set to leave at 11:31 a.m. EST. I board the plane – its layout is a 3-3. What that means is that there are three seats to the left, three seats to the right and one, narrow, Medieval-esque aisle, in between.

It is over-booked and the passengers are breeding and bleeding. I look down at my boarding pass – 26-B. I stumble and bump and angle and slither and beg and request and the list goes on and on. Somehow I make it to 26-B. I look up at my two mates for the flight – 26-A and 26-C – and it's almost as if I've been slapped right down in the middle of an early Monty Python movie.

I am bookended by two passengers that by all accounts are morbidly obese. The guy in 26-A weighed-in somewhere over the 400 pound ballpark and his wife, 26-C, weighed north of 300 pounds. (How do I know this? I later asked the flight attendants when they were scrambling around to find me an alternate seat – they didn't.)

I was one of the last passengers to board, which is somewhat typica;. But what was atypical was the fear I read in their faces. It was as if I had kicked-in a fully-loaded home invasion. They looked terrified.

And, as I was told later, so did I.

I shimmied in between them, locked my elbows to my side and began to stew. Seethe about how unfair it all was. I recalled the Op-Eds in USA Today and Time Magazine about how unfair it was that "fat" people weren't forced to buy two seats.

It was then that the Head Steward arrived and provided them with "seatbelt extensions." I later learned that these are given to those folks whose seatbelt is not large enough to "hold them in or provide them comfort in their physical state." I freaked out. Five hours of this?

Then I calmed down and pulled out my laptop and began photoshopping pictures I had taken over the past four days. It always relaxes me.

I was acutely aware of how excruciating it all was, each time 26-A brushed up against my elbow … or how his wife, 26-C, would continually edge away from me into the aisle when the flight attendant wasn't around. We would all visibly – physically and emotionally cringe. It got worse when we heard a teenager – he was probably 17 years old, and a punk I might add – say to his friend that I looked like "a slice of turkey between two oversized bagels."

I'm not sure what happened next but I suddenly saw the flight attendant offering these United Airlines snack boxes that came in four different flavors/styles. I had my Bose head phones on so I simply shook my head no. I thought the tunes in my iPod would make this 5-hour sandwich-situation a bit more soothing. 26-A and 26-C shook their heads "no," too, instead reaching – or attempting to reach – for their "home-packed-lunches." They couldn't bend far enough to actually reach the containers – I was happy to assist. But, suffice it to say, it was getting more and more bizarre.

I looked left at the husband, his flesh was pushing so hard into the arm rest he (from the sound of it) was precluded from taking deep breathes. He smiled and opened up his Tupperware container of carrots and celery and began chomping away – providing a bigger smile. I smiled back – as hard as I could. And I prayed.

I put my lap top away and I shut my eyes. When I reopened them 26-A was just finishing swallowing a huge ham and brie cheese hoagie (with "the works") and tucking the wrapper into the pocket of the seat in front of him.

I thought nothing of it. I was just waking up from a nap … getting re-oriented into the space where I was.

26-A assumed what he perceived to be an expected level of disapproval emanating from me. He grimaced and cringed and then visibly whimpered. I touched his hand, returned the smile and as I was again tucking in my elbows, I saw a tear slide down his right cheek.

I handed him my United Airlines napkin and smiled – a smile of hope and empathy. He simply said: "I'm sorry; I'm trying."

I replied: "Aren't we all." And we laughed – that conspiratorial laugh – one from one stranger to the other. That we're all dealing with our "stuff" – it just comes up in different formats.

I imagine the whole point of this piece is: if I hadn't just attended the Annual Gala for Physicians for Peace, and won the President's Award for my efforts to help those in the developing world … I know I would not have had the sympathique that I had that Sunday afternoon for this morbidly obese married couple … my two fleshy bookends for this five-hour flight.

I understood at that moment that's all we can do – keep trying. And to keep praying.

This KBTV Productions Blog is a four-part series … I began with Part 4 … to be continued …

Two Million Tears: Africa’s Silent Epidemic

2008-09-29T09:17:00.000-07:00

“I have no friends and my family won’t speak to me. Wherever I go, people run away from me due to the horrible smell that comes out of me because of the condition I have.” – Madeline, a 13-year-old girl from Zaria, Nigeria.

These are the words of a young lady, a teenager – barely – from Nigeria. After 24-hours in labor on the dirt floor of a hut, miles away from the hospital and doctors who could help her, she gave birth. But instead of a healthy baby, she was left with a stillborn son and a large tear that constantly leaked urine and feces.

The hurt of a dead child coupled with her new condition was too much for Madeline’s husband and family to bear. She was thrown out of her home and abandoned by everyone she ever knew.

This year, 130,000 girls and young women in the third world will develop what is known as a “vesico vaginal fistula” – a condition mainly caused by prolonged or unattended birthing labor. This devastating circumstance — known commonly by the acronym VVF — can be prevented with the proper medical care and fixed with a specialized, but relatively routine surgery. Yet sadly, most local surgeons are not trained to treat these young women; thereby they live out the rest of their lives without help, suffering silently; they hesitantly walk through their villages carrying a white, plastic bucket because they have no way to control the constant leakage.

This “leakage?” VVF leaves a woman – typically a very young girl – continually dripping urine and other vaginal fluids from fistulas, abnormal connections or tears formed between the bladder and vagina. Not only are these young women in immense physical pain, they also deal with tragic, emotional damage – in the form of complete rejection from their families, friends and communities; they become social outcasts.

While AIDS, famine, and war grab national attention, the growing VVF epidemic goes virtually unnoticed. Though the exact magnitude of the fistula problem worldwide is unknown, estimates have put the number of women living with the condition at nearly four million; at least two million of those live in Nigeria.

“Two Million Tears: Africa’s Silent Epidemic” tells their story.

To get at the heart of this devastating problem, The KBTV team and I traveled to northern Nigeria, the country hit worst by VVF. At a small hospital in Kaduna, in the southern region where 70 percent of the country’s VVF cases are, we followed a team of American surgeons and health care practitioners on a medical mission to repair dozens of women with VVF. We also delved into the stories of some of their patients, very young women like Madeline, who have known nothing but sorrow. From their journey to the hospital, to the operating table to the recovery room, we have followed their road to recovery and what it means for other women with VVF.

Part of the reason this epidemic has largely been ignored is the culturally sensitive nature of VVF. Some 97 percent of VVF cases are caused by prolonged obstructed labor during childbirth, which often occurs when women have no access to health care. However, a large proportion of these problems are the result of girls having children before they are fully developed. African culture, like many others in the developing world, practice early marriage; UNICEF estimates that 42 percent of girls in Africa are married before age 18.

In some African countries the figure is much higher, such as in Nigeria where there is a 76 percent incidence of child marriage, and in some areas of West Africa and in Ethiopia, girls are sometimes married as early as 7. African governments, such as that of Nigeria, are beginning to address the massive VVF problem, especially with the push of the United Nation’s millennium development goals, help is coming slowly. Africa is severely lacking the medical professionals trained to do these kinds of procedures.

It is organizations such as Physicians for Peace that make a difference by not only embarking on these missions – but raising awareness.

KBTV Productions, through our feature-length documentary “Two Million Tears: Africa’s Silent Epidemic.” We seek to bring light to an issue that has remained in the dark.

The Pod

2008-08-18T05:30:00.000-07:00

In the blog prior, I mentioned "The Pod."

I'm not really certain about how much I can write about it but suffice it to say that I went on a spiritual retreat – somewhere in New Mexico – and I learned a heck of a lot about the architecture of how I can embark on being happy. Of course, now I just have to execute it. Let's also say that Liz Brown of the www.kbtvonline.com "Liz Brown Series" was involved.

I did something called a Sweat Lodge. I did lots of other stuff as well, but one of things that happened on my journey was that I met three people, Hope, Scot and Whitney. All of whom I know will be lifelong friends and all of whom have been doing this spiritual gig for eons. I was the newbie.

I couldn't take photos; and I don't want to write too much because apparently it takes the energy out of The Place. So I'll leave it to your imagination.

To be continued …

The Nightmare

2008-08-16T11:18:00.000-07:00

You see I didn’t realize that I had completely stopped sleeping. Night after night, every night, I'd go from snoozing with...some enemy...my enemy...to the Torturous Recurring Nightmare. I'd be strolling through winding paths at some swanky, insane asylum in northern Massachusetts. The dream always began with me walking the grounds of the asylum. Then it all gets a little hazy.

In the morning I would slip out of bed, feeling relieved to know it was only a dream – but terrified that I'd dreamt it yet again. This is when I streak off to work (the office twenty feet away) terrified by the dream. What's it supposed to be telling me.

I'm terrified of my life, by the silence and the solitude; petrified of my unrelenting loneliness, like a decaying limb that needed to be amputated. Terrified by the fact that I have to walk into life and pretend everything is fine.

Everything is normal.

Everything is just fine.

But all of this was before … it was before I met the “Pod.”

To be continued …

2008-08-13T20:56:00.000-07:00

I looked in the mirror on Tuesday morning and the eyes of a refugee stared back at me. Gaunt, haunted and several other unflattering – rather unhealthy – adjectives come to mind.

I can’t take it anymore.

What? I wasn’t sure.

The only thing I knew was that I had been working too much and playing too little.

As luck or chance or The Spirits would have it my antidote to my perceived crappy life was just around the corner – in the form of a “Pod.”

Yes … a “Pod.” And, in fact, my life is not crappy.

I had – with great enthusiasm – agreed to meet Liz Brown of the KBTV-Liz-Brown-Series-Fame (www.kbtvonline.com) in New Mexico. We were set to embark on a spiritual retreat with three others, who had been friends of Liz’s for a long while. Scot, Hope and Whitney and I all met for the first time at the airport in Albuquerque.

It wasn’t until the next day that I realized how special these new friends really were...are.

To be continued ….

Barfing in Nigeria

2008-07-22T18:54:00.000-07:00

Let me set the scene: We’re in the operating room and I’ve never even seen an operating room – unless I was on the table! It was full of rows of steel beds covered with a piece of cloth. Young girls with sad eyes sitting and recovering from the operations to fix their fistulas.

I conducted roughly nine or ten interviews with these young girls. Clearly, I don’t speak the language where we were in Zaria, Nigeria, but we somehow communicated.

Suddenly I was overtaken by the stench, the smell of urine, feces and blood – it became overwhelming. My cameraman Renato told me that suddenly all he heard in his Mickey Mouse head phones was “BLEEEHHH." He’s doing an extreme close up on a baby and he hears another "BLEEEHHH" and Renato tells me he asked himself “Where the hell is she?” At the time he was going in close on the baby.

Then Renato tells me all he sees is this little white hand, with perfectly manicured fingernails that's attached to a 5-foot-eight 120-pound woman (me), push Dr. Sa-ad Idris, a gigantic-jolly-intensely-talented-Nigerian surgeon, out of the way and watches her sprint down the aisle past rows of very confused Nigerian girls. About 30 yards later I found a sink and just started puking – puking my guts out. I haven’t puked like that since I had the ‘flu last fall.

Well. What does my pal Renato do? He chases me down the aisle while I am running, and dry heaving at the same time. It’s actually hilarious when I look back on it. On the tape, all you can hear is me puking and Renato laughing his ass off as he pulls in on an even tighter shot of me puking. He laughed and said: “This is great TV.”

The following morning Frances, one of the EMT nurses, said to me: “That cameraman, I thought he was your friend. You seem so friendly together. Why would he film you when you were vomiting, instead of helping you?” She was truly confused.

“It’s just TV honey,” I replied, dryly. “It’s just great television.”

Physicians for Peace: Nigeria

2008-07-14T16:22:00.000-07:00

I am back from Nigeria; what an experience. Among the many lessons I learned was that we have so much to be grateful for here in the United States – education, health care, social services. Hey, it’s not perfect. But I think we often forget what to be thankful for. Well, sometimes, at least I do.

According to costofwar.com we have spent

$536,637,282,851 on the war in Iraq.

All I could think of when I was in Nigeria was if we spent that amount of money – the huge waste of capital in Iraq – with NGOs such as Physicians for Peace we could spread international goodwill and help out those less fortunate. Perhaps then the international community would be less inclined to bomb us.

So, back to Nigeria. I tagged along on a mission with Physicians for Peace. Ron Sconyers is the CEO and he was the one who delivered the invitation. I accepted.

I was there for eight days. And, for lack of a better description, it changed me – forever. I’m including a photo album with this blog … because the old cliché is that pictures are worth a thousand words.

Being a scribe myself, I sort of resent that, but it’s the truth. What I experienced was unimaginable – for me, anyway – and the pictures tell it better than I can.

We began in Abuja – the capital. I flew out there with my camera man/director/producer Renato Moore. We pulled two back-to-back red eyes. LA to London; London to Nigeria. Not fun.

My idea was to get there early to acclimate but we just hit the ground running. We then traveled to Kaduna and down to Zaria. The story I was covering was that of a medical condition called VVF: “A VVF is an abnormal communication between the urinary bladder and the vagina that results in the continuous involuntary discharge of urine into the vaginal vault...”

Okay. Now let me tell you the short answer. A young girl gets pregnant and the baby is often stillborn. Because of the obstruction in delivering the baby, she basically ends up with a tear between, I don’t want to be too graphic here, but let’s just say the tear is from the front to the back – where we ladies sit.

She spends her time walking down the road dripping feces and urine. When we attended the clinic in Zaria, I saw a line of young girls that looked like children to me – with buckets – sitting in line for an operation.

Let me tell you about the team. These doctors, nurses, an EMT technicians, etc … do the flight on their own dime. They are folks in the medical practice and they are at the top of their game; they are volunteers.

Jaya Tiwari is the Director, Global Health Programs, Physicians for Peace. She made the whole mission work. She was the project manager from HEAVEN!

What was fascinating for me, was that very few of the people knew each other before the mission, I knew Renato, of course, but by the end of the trip it felt like we were a family – in an amazing, amazing way.

Well, you already know about Brigadier General (Ret..) Ron Sconyers; who is a man to be recognized and admired.

The Team Leader was Ogubuike Emerjuru, M..D. – a doctor who was so smart and talks so quickly that I was very much minding my P & Qs. Then there was Dr. Margie Corney, M.D, who I just fell in love with. She’s an OBGYN from Virginia..

Dr. Mark Helbruan, M.D. was also a special soul. I got really, really sick and he and Evan took care of me. Evangeline Epper, RN was one of the nurses on the mission and she quite literally spent 24 hours with me after I threw up my guts – over and over – but that’s a story for the next blog!

Frances Dargan, S.A. was a dream. I am still getting my feet wet about the whole OR thing … but, let's just say, I would want Miss Frances by my side if I was lying on the gurney!

I have to send special kudos to Nurse Tim Harrison, RN, EMT. When I was barfing up my guts in the OR he threw an IV into me with saline and an anti-nausea injection. He’s what is called a “flight nurse” meaning he does medicine on choppers. His sense of humor? So dry. I just love him. Full stop.

Enjoy the pics!

To be continued!

Kate The Misanthrope … With Hope?

2008-06-25T19:12:00.000-07:00

Two members of my team came all the way from Florida to visit me this weekend. Team? Huh? They are the crux of the KBTVonline team but, hey, they are also my best friends. There are times when they refer to me as their “boss,” and I look over my shoulder and wonder about whom they’re speaking. Then, I’m like: “It’s me! Who knew?”

Kirsten Gundersen — the queen of art direction — and Rachael — my managing editor and definitely my better half — arrived on Friday night, and we had a fantastic weekend.!

I have come to believe, at the ripe old age of 41 years old, that loneliness and fear are my primary demons.

Meeting people and connecting is so difficult for me. I’ll be given a business card, and I promise to follow up. But I usually don’t. I’m not sure why though, because I love meeting people and hearing their stories. The checkout gal at Albertson’s, I know her entire life story. She doesn’t even know my name.

Instead of reconnecting with these men and women that I am genuinely interested in, I just return to my office and crawl back into my shell. Again, I don’t know why.

And it’s not because these people I meet aren’t interesting, intelligent, attractive, funny and scintillating. It’s not that.

It’s me. I’m beginning to believe that I’m like my father. (Which is terrifying, by the way!) He spent his life in his attic office. I used to call him Anne Frank.

All that said, moving to LA with no family, no friends, no staff — I had no idea how difficult it was going to be.

But it’s gotten a lot better.

Kirstin and Rachael coming out and bonding with Renato — my new supervising producer — and Dave Freeman — I call him my cutter, but he is really my Final Cut Pro editor — made all the difference.

The pictures tell the story …

Aging Out - What Happens After Foster Care?

2008-06-20T06:40:00.000-07:00

Next week's Profiles in Courage webisode examines an interesting question: When foster care kids turn 18, do they graduate or just age out?

I'll be talking to a "wonder woman" of sorts. Her name is Liz Brown, and she's a powerful person making a difference in a lot of foster kids' lives.

Here's a peak at what she'll be talking about on my upcoming show.

Imagine yourself as a kid who has been taken away from your family and placed in as many as 10 different homes with adults that are supposed to parent you. Now imagine it's your 18th birthday and your most recent "parent" hands you a trash bag filled with your belongings, says goodbye, and sends you out into the world alone.

Watch Profiles in Courage next week for the first of a three part series on courage and strength of Liz Brown and the important work she does. Suffice it so say, Liz is one of my heroes! You'll see why in the series running next week.

Adventure in LEGOLAND!

2008-06-16T13:38:00.000-07:00

So the next day we went to LEGOLAND! It was fascinating.

You know what? I have NEVER been to a theme park. Ever. Oops – that’s not true. I went to Halloween Horror Nights with the KBTVonline team at Universal in Orlando – but that has been my only experience. I went as Little Bo Peep – which went off pretty well ;-)

Legoland was completely different – it was art, truly art!

Let the pictures speak for themselves!

Exploring the “American Riviera”

2008-06-16T13:34:00.000-07:00

Last weekend my friend and I traveled down to Laguna Nigel – I had to work – he needed a much deserved rest after completing a grueling deal.

I’m from the East Coast – and I am a New York City girl. So this part of the country is fascinating for me. First of all – I can’t figure out if anyone really works. The first time we were down in Santa Barbara it was Prom Night. And I saw all these young girls – dressed like they’re about to walk The Red Carpet. And I thought … huh … I think I wore my sister’s hand-me-down to the prom. Bummer.

This time we were at the Four Seasons Avaria, again, I was working, but it didn’t feel like work. Because this part of the world is simply so, so beautiful. Stay tuned for tomorrow’s blog – I went to LegoLand!

To be continued …

Palm Springs Pleasure!

2008-06-06T10:06:00.000-07:00

I visited Palm Springs two weekends ago and had such a wonderful time. My favorite part were the … kind of awning spritzers … does that make sense?

Actually … the really best part was going to the Salton Sea.

The present-day Salton Sea? Historic evidence and geologic studies have shown that the Colorado River spilled over into the Salton Basin a number of times. That’s what has created this huge lake.

The other Dead Sea – the famous one – was created by a unique landscape created (together with the Sea of Galilee and the Jordan River) by the great Syrian-African geological depression which occurred nearly 1 ½ million years ago.

My boyfriend and I arrived to find no one there. It was the strangest thing. There was one car in the parking lot – other than ours.

It was a gentleman from Sacramento State University – who is taking a degree in Parks and Recreation Administration. His name was Justin Bell – he was adorable. I think he was so thankful to see a human being to interview that he nearly attacked us!

See the photos below!

PROFILES IN COURAGE: THE MISSION

2008-05-31T07:52:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time a very wise man was walking along the beach; the sun was shining and it was a beautiful day. Off in the distance he could see a stunning woman dancing … well, it looked like she was dancing. As this wise gentleman came a little closer, he noticed that the figure in question was not dancing at all … she was reaching down to the shore, picking up small objects, and throwing them into the sea.

He came closer still and called out "Good morning! May I ask what it is that you are doing?"

The lady paused, looked up, and replied "Throwing starfish into the ocean."

"I must ask, then, why are you throwing starfish into the ocean?"

To this, the young lady replied, "The sun is up and the tide is going out. If I don't throw them in, they'll die."

Upon hearing this, the wise man commented, "But, young lady, do you not realize that there are miles and miles of beach and there are starfish all along every mile? You can't possibly make a difference!"

As she bent down and picked up yet another starfish, and threw it into the ocean … she said: "Hello Wise Man … It matters to this one.”

Profiles in Courage, a KBTVonline Productions web series, puts faces on people who are making a difference—one starfish at a time.

So often we look at the despair and suffering and great need all around us, and—overwhelmed—we look away, feeling helpless, powerless to help change “the way things are.” More often, busy in our own lives, we are not even aware of the terrible things happening to the people who share our world – half of the people in our world … live on less than one dollar a day.

Through this series of profiles, we hope to raise awareness of the great need for people to become involved in changing their world. We hope to encourage people to be courageous and, like Rigoberto Perez, to take the most difficult step of all—the very first one.

Physicians for Peace

2008-05-23T12:30:00.000-07:00

My last piece about embarking on my mission with Physicians for Peace in Guatemala was the set-up. That was the news hit; now comes the meat.

I was quickly introduced to two serious problems facing children in this developing country: severe burns and lost limbs. But I saw hope. And a solution provided by dedicated doctors and medical practitioners with Physicians for Peace.

What has these volunteers from places sometimes facing bitter divides and even violence working so well together? A dire need. The developing world carries 90 percent of the global disease burden yet has only 10 percent of the medical resources, according to the United Nations Foundation. And most of these diseases are curable. Here in the United States, we’ve been able to receive these treatments since the 1950s.

In spite of the acute problems with our healthcare system, we do have access to many medical procedures not available in poorer countries. When, for example, the eighteen-month–old son of a poor, single mother in South Carolina fell into a fire and severely burned his hands (the son of a friend of my mother’s), he was taken to a Georgia burn center forty-five minutes away. He was then treated and then received follow-up care.

What happens to babies in Guatemala is quite the opposite. They get burned, and if they’re lucky, they receive treatment within 24 hours. Then these children and their caretakers often have to travel 12 hours – door to door -- for an aftercare rehabilitation.

As a result of PFP’s efforts, medical personnel are trained in the latest burn protocol. For example, medical students from the School of Medicine of the Francisco Morroquin University rotate in their sixth year to a village that I will be profiling in my inaugural series. It's set in Guatemala City, with PFP, where they make calls in the health center which is open 24 hours a day – all year round. I spoke to a resident named Alex, who had some fascinating thoughts on why young children end up so badly burned.

Don’t forget to tune in on June 1 for the inaugural series of “Profiles in Courage” … you can tune in on www.youtube.com/ProfilesInCourage or at www.KBTVonline.com.

Profiles in Courage

2008-05-18T18:26:00.000-07:00

I think it’s time for me to tell everyone about my new show. It’s called “Profiles in Courage.” It’s dedicated to telling untold stories, raising awareness about often painful issues that are habitually ignored, and profiling the heroes dedicated to helping those less fortunate.

My first series of webisodes takes place in Guatemala where I joined a mission set up by an organization called Physicians for Peace. PFP is an international humanitarian non-profit medical education organization based in Norfolk, Virginia.

PFP is headed up by Retired Brigadier General Ron Sconyers, who now serves as its CEO. Sconyers turned down an almost requisite opportunity for a lucrative consulting job in Washington to head up this non-profit dedicated to training medical professionals in third world countries.

I saw Sconyers for the first time at a reception at a private home in Palm Beach, Florida. I was there ... just by chance … joining a friend … bored to tears … when suddenly Sconyers stood up and launched into a passionate pitch for Physicians for Peace. I had never heard of it. I listened closely. He closed with the following statement: “If you give a man a fish … he will eat for a day … if you teach a man to fish … he can feed himself for a lifetime.” I was intrigued. Within a week, I had aired a KBTV episode about PFP and this non-profit organization’s efforts to further the cause of international goodwill by sending in teams of medical volunteers who specialize in areas of care that a specific country needs most.

These teams will stay from one to six weeks. During that time they train local medical professionals and begin a variety of medical programs, which the host country sustains and replicates. They also offer their expertise by treating the people. They reshape eye sockets, correct urinary and genital defects, fit prosthetic limbs, and repair burn scars and clef palates. They’ve even done open-heart surgery and performed a range of cancer therapies.

After my story aired, Sconyers invited me to join the PFP team on a mission to several clinics and a major hospital in Guatemala to help patients with pediatric burns and constructing and fitting prosthetic limbs for children.

So last week I joined a whole host of volunteers from all over the United States and headed over to Guatemala. My series is set to begin airing on June 1.

Virgin America ROCKS!

2008-05-13T05:25:00.000-07:00

Just before I left for Guatemala I headed north for a meeting with the editorial group at Youtube about my new show – no longer called KateInLA – it will now be called “Profiles in Courage.” I also met briefly with Business Development.

My best friend Erika told me about Virgin America – she said everyone she speaks to is raving about it.

Well, there was a bit of a snafu on my flight going out; I had to run to United, then bribe the bus driver $10 to take me over to Southwest … argh! South WORST!

But on the way home, they compensated me by giving me a First Class ticket for $50, plus access to the First Class Lounge!

Take a look at these pictures!

Florida: Here I come!

2008-05-09T13:48:00.000-07:00

It all began innocently. I think it all began innocently. You see I had thought that I had wanted to go back to writing – and I was searching around for some way to re-sink my claws and paws into a project. But I wasn’t sure. That I remember; I wasn’t sure.

I had co-authored Donald Trump’s “Trump: The Art of the Comeback” – and we had reached pretty healthy levels of success, hitting #1 on the Wall Street Journal’s Best Seller list and #3 with the New York Times' prestigious list.

The short, official story, is that I had burnt out in New York and came to Florida to recharge my engine. There are and have been other stories that have circulated.

The “official” story is that I thought I’d live the life of an artiste – barefoot, sun-kissed, stroking a big black Labrador, perched under a palm tree, outlining the next chapter of my new project. It would be an ambitious tome detailing the a ruthless Titan of Industry’s creation of wealth, a memoir that he didn’t have time to write, but wanted to say he had anyway. I had gotten a call from one of my editors at George Magazine. He had told me there was a book in the works about this Titan of Industry and that his agent at William Morris had told him that I was on the short list – of a list of 5 writers. Well, actually ghost writers – not exactly as illustrious as being a writer. But, suffice it to say – I listened. Florida + This Project = Better Life.

My mind drifts back. How did I end up in Florida in the first place?

It was an icy evening in mid December. My Holiday red and gold lame Versace gown hung like a smock on my rail thin frame. The firm’s Christmas party, again. What a chore. Another year, I thought, I’m just not sure if I can do this. I break into a Hollywood smile and push through the revolving doors of Doubles, in the basement of the Sherry Netherland in the Pierre Hotel on 60th and Fifth Avenue, the last bona fide private club in Manhattan. The sea of faces slowly came into focus. Ah, Walter, our corporate counsel. There’s Mitch, the comptroller, and conceivably the only person at the firm whom I liked anymore. Certainly the only colleague whom I’d eat lunch with. Then I saw them, the two aging, unctuous, haughty board members. I loathed them only slightly less than their wives. Be charming, Kate, please. It’s only one evening. You can do it. “Hello!” I waved pleasurably and ambled across to their table. “Can I get you all a glass of champagne?”

It was 2005, the firm’s Christmas party. As the horns in the swing band whined, the aging dined, and the corporate glitterati wined, I become what felt like the omniscient narrator of my own story. I watched myself from above mingling in the crowd, nibbling on hors d’oeuvres, smiling politely and making pleasantries. Then suddenly, the crescendo of the horn section became a near screech, the room started to spin – around and around like a ride in an amusement park – until I found myself standing in the middle of the dance floor bewildered and faint. I looked up and thought: There is no one in this entire room that I ever want to break bread with – let alone speak to – ever again. I picked up my sequined bag, slipped my mink stole over my shoulders, walked out, and raised my hand signaling for a cab. As I marched past my doorman at 141 East 56th Street, I turned around and simply said: “Julio, I’m done.” Three weeks later, I’d moved to Florida.

It took me five months and two writing projects to figure out that I was achingly bored. My real problem was that I kept fibbing about it – and I’m not terribly effective at masking tedium, which gets me into heaps of trouble at cocktail parties. I was bored and anyone who met me knew it. Although if anyone dared suggest it to me, I would retort with a weary combination of indignant half-truths, and withering excuses, which gave the air of “Thou doth protest too much!”

That’s when I got the e-mail:

Kate...basically I think there is an opportunity for a new voice/personality on the Internet; each technology creates at least one.

Charlie Rose and Larry King in their 60’s; a new set of such personalities are developing now. The idea of KBTV would be to produce 3 minute segments on a set of subjects that you really care a lot about, upload them to Youtube and its competitors, and use the viral nature of the web to develop a new audience. The data says that such audiences prefer short, humor, quirky and are very personality driven. In your case the content plus you should really work in this medium! The shows could be produced on a balcony with the ocean behind you (with some front lighting) and you could do all of it yourself to start with and see what works. All you would need is a camera, Macintosh and a light/microphone. The uploads would refer to your website for more info/more depth..

I was intrigued. What an opportunity, I thought! I’ll become a video blogger in South Florida. Hmmm. That’s different. Sounds exciting! And on a shoe-string budget. How romantic! I immediately sent out a much copied (and subsequently forwarded) e-mail announcing my new career opportunity!

The only push back I remember getting was from an old friend at The Wall Street Journal.

“Kate … Whhhat? Videoblogging on YouTube at your age?”

Stay tuned for why I moved to Santa Monica!

Carma … not Karma!

2008-05-04T16:51:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in a prior blog, I’ve been attending a lecture series at Caltech University. The subject of the last lecture was a talk by Stephen Hawking on The Black Hole. Fascinating … I loved it (see blog dateTK)

Well, last Wednesday morning I looked on the “Calendar of Events” and I saw that this week’s Caltech lecture was to be on Karma. Except it was spelled Carma. Hmmm. I told my friend Kat: “Hey I love Karma stuff … want to come to the lecture with me?”

She said: “Great!”

So we set off in the hideous traffic to head over to Pasadena to hear about Karma. Well it was something entirely different because it wasn’t Karma – there hadn’t been a typo in the brochure – it was CARMA.

CARMA means Combined Array for Research in Millimeter-wave Astronomy – not KARMA … the (according to Wikipedia) (Sanskrit: kárma … kárman- "act, action, performance"[1]; Pali: kamma) the concept of "action" or "deed" in Indian religions understood as that which causes the entire cycle of cause and effect (i.e., the cycle called samsara) described in Hindu, Jain, Sikh and Buddhist philosophies.

This is what OUR lecture was all about. Professor Anneila I. Sargent was at the podium answering the following questions …

What do astronomers do when they find that the telescopes they are using limit their ability to address questions about how stars and planetary systems form or how galaxies originate and evolve? They try to build a bigger, better instruments!

Over the last few years, Caltech radio astronomers have moved their Owens Valley Radio Observatory millimeter-wave array of telescopes to Cedar Flat in the Inyo Mountains of California. There, the Caltech antennas have been connected with others from the Berkeley-Illinois-Maryland array to create CARMA, the Combined Array for Research in Millimeter-wave Astronomy. The higher elevation of Cedar Flat, the larger number of telescopes working together, and a series of upgrades and innovations make CARMA a novel and exciting new instrument that will provide new views of the universe.

For most of the lecture, I didn’t have a clue as to what she was talking about … but the pictures of the telescopes were fascinating

For more information on all of this, the Web site is captivating … www.mmarray.org/.

Where am I from?

2008-04-29T15:01:00.000-07:00

This whole process of moving 3,000 miles has been quite enlightening. People ask you things like: “Where are you from?”

I've never known quite how to answer that ubiquitous question: Where are you from? I guess I could say I'm from Newark, Delaware. That’s where I was born – but I didn't spend much time there as a kid because we traveled so much. Our first odyssey around Europe began when I was six. Dad moved the family to Europe for a year or so while he finished a novel.

He had a passion for travel, fueled, in some part, by his contempt for American culture. Both he and my mother were English literature professors. My parents had developed a weird arrogance for the way Americans educate children. I remember the glee they shared when yanking us out of school – and lying to the government – to cart us off for years at a time. I guess you could say we were educated at home, well before it was cool to be home-educated.

My father took slides. He loved that ancient Nikon camera, invariably heckling us into posing for carousal upon carousal of slides. The documentary of sorts began when I was six, southern Spain, the Costa Del Sol. Our family moved to a little fishing village called La Herradura (the horseshoe). I remember we arrived at our new home (a villa about to slide off a cliff) to find the cook, Encarna, had prepared American hamburgers. My older sister, Chris, and brother,Russ, and I were thrilled. My mother sat mortified. Dad boldly requested ketchup, fueling her unease.

We were told that we wouldn't be attending the local school because Dad had seen the girls in the village. They didn't wear shoes.

"The kids will turn into peasants," he told my mother.

I didn't even know what a peasant was. So as kids, we'd sit on the floor of the villa diagramming sentences and solving equations in yellowing workbooks. Until that day we realized our parents didn't check up on us anymore. The following morning Nick and I packed our knapsacks – stuffed full of workbooks – snagged a pack of cigarettes, a couple of Cokes, and sped up the cliff to an abandoned lighthouse. There we had the ceremonial burning. The workbooks went unmissed.

Russ and I ran wild, scampering around town placing paper bags full of dog poop on neighbor's stoops and setting them on fire. We constructed stone forts on the beach, hid Dad's slippers, tied up the cook when she refused to give us snacks. My poor sister. She was responsible for trying to control us. I'd often shout to her: "Get off the cross; we need the wood." Russ would crack up. The Loving Siblings. Despite our hideous behavior, Chris would dutifully read aloud from the Narnia Tales, C.S. Lewis, sometimes two to three hours a day – anything to get us to stay still.

Nothing worked.

In those ten years between six and seventeen, I lived in more than 60 villages, towns, cities, islands – different country, different language, different alphabet, different kids.

Right, the kids. My brother and I discovered that the local kids didn't like us much. We wore brand new Levi's and red converse hightops.

The rich Americans.

We were different. It became too painful for us to hang around and wait and see if the kids liked us or not. That's when we decided we would categorically hate them first. We made a pact, a bond: The Don't Fuck With Us Bond. That pact solidified in Corfu when some punk made fun of my brother's haircut and I chased him down the street, whipping the Greek kid's back with a rubber hose. I arrived home with a black eye and a broken pinkie. It was then that the nanny began calling us the Evil Twins. The moniker stuck. We'd become urchins, darkly-tanned hellions roaming the countryside with no chance of becoming civilized.

Until that day, just after my seventh birthday.

I met a grand man called Colonel Stevenson. My world changed in what seemed like a kaleidoscope. He taught me about the impressionists and revolution, abstract expressionists and alcoholism, politics and taxes, methadone and Mozart. We'd walk the steps up the big cliff on the south side of town to his villa and play piano for hours. Mrs. Stevenson – his wife, whom he adored – taught me to take tea. I learned about watercress and clotted cream. For Christmas that year, she gave me a blackwatch kilt. I remember her elegant laugh – as she looked me over in my brother's hand-me-down blue jeans, flannel patches on the knees. She and The Colonel took it upon themselves to make me a lady. Despite my decent pedigree, there became a Pygmalion aspect to it all. I suddenly no longer wanted to be a pirate, like my brother, but, instead, the prima ballerina of the Royal Ballet.

It began one afternoon in July; it must have been 100 degrees out. My mother sent me to town to pick up a kilo of lemons. As I bargained furiously with a woman-in-mourning at the market, a friendly old man with a knobby cane stopped me and asked me why a little girl with such aristocratic cheekbones would speak such peasant Spanish. I stood still, absolutely stunned. Indignant.

He asked me if I was American.

I said yes.

He told me I was giving Americans a bad name.

I called him a plebeian, in English, by the way.

He insisted we share a lemon soda at the cafe, to hash it out. I told him he had aristocratic cheekbones, too. So, what was he doing in a peasant, fishing town? He explained that villages like La Herradura were havens for the Brit Dodgers – a term he graciously defined: over sixty-fivers who spent exactly six months and one day out of England in order to avoid what he explained to be the unforgivably cruel and unfair British tax structure. More importantly, he explained, the climate improved his arthritis.

We became fast friends.

Everyday at noon, I'd slip on my red-patent-leather clogs and clunk down the stone steps from our villa, onto the beach, and into town. The Colonel and I would meet at Cafe Pinata and sip expensive brandy. He taught me to play poker. And I was good.

At nine, I could whip his ass at five-card draw. We played for pesetas. He'd front me twenty, and rarely win them back.

The Colonel's wife would occasionally walk down the cliff and join us. I was told she was the best ballerina who ever lived. Sometimes The Colonel would ask her to prove it: she'd extend her arm straight out, horizontal to the floor, for more than ten minutes at a time. Stone still, not even a shudder, no shakes, at age 71. "She's still got the old touch," the Colonel would proudly pronounce. Once she brought me a photo of a bronze statue outside of the Ballet Conservatory in London. It looked like a bronzed Degas. The ballerina in the statue; it was her.

So the two of us – The Colonel and The Kid – everyday, like old comrades, would take over Cafe Pinata. The proprietor once commented that we looked like two soldiers, plotting to overthrow the government. We'd shout for more brandy and lemonades. We'd battle about cheating, and laugh until we got cramps.

I started washing my face and wearing dresses.

His arthritis slowly went away.

To be continued …

THE BIG MOVE TO LA. What was I thinking?

2008-04-24T19:05:00.000-07:00

I thought uprooting my life, moving 3,000 miles, meeting new friends (which I am TERRIBLE at) I thought it was all going to be a snap.

It hasn’t been. When I was in my early twenties – things were different. I don’t know, I could just MOVE. No worrries.
I had moved to Manhattan to work at Lazard Freres & Co., an international investment bank. I was to be one of six banking analysts in the mergers and acquisitions department. The partners quickly assigned me to the International Banking group – cross border deals – because of my diverse background.

Every other week, I'd push off to Dallas for a few days. A partner and I were taking a chemicals company public there (82% of profits came from polystyrene – like no one knew that styrofoam would become obsolete? Hello?).

I was then assigned to a deal in London: two partners and I were asked to fend off a hostile bid – a British shipping company, a Lazard client, had been hit by the monstrous Swedish shipping company, Stena AB. We were sent to run the defense. I hated defense work. It was so reactive – swerving and dodging bullets. We'd scramble for weeks to find the cash (or a friendly buyer) to top Stena's bid, the obvious way to woo shareholders. We'd just manage to raise the bid – after three grueling weeks. Stena would top it the following morning. No sweat for them, but it was back on the treadmill for us – always a losing battle. The pressure was excruciating before I found out the partners refused to get me taken off the Dallas deal. Lazard was weird that way; the firm hired only six analysts a year, while Goldman Sachs, First Boston and the other sweatshops would hire, literally, hundreds. We were perennially short-staffed. Analysts did everything from run the numbers to sometimes run meetings. No infrastructure, whatsoever. The partners liked it that way – fewer mouths to feed.

Life went something like this: Three days in London, two hours at Kennedy, one day in Dallas, a two-hour layover in Kennedy, four days in Stockholm, four hours at Heathrow, two hours in Newark, two days in Dallas. After a few months, I'd memorized every flight, the time each flight departed, which carriers sucked, which airlines had the best wine selection, which flights always had open seating in First Class.

I worked mostly for the man who headed up the international banking unit, Robert Agostinelli. I ran the numbers. He did the talking, seducing clients with his mesmerizing charm. He was a bean-counter from upstate New York done good. I think he'd even managed to marry French Aristocracy.

"Leverage up, Katie, Leverage up." That was his philosophy on life, he'd explain. I'm not sure I ever really understood what he meant. Often times the clients had no idea what he was talking about, either. They just loved him. And so did I.

We were quite a team – speeding around town in radio cars – cell phone to cell phone – planning the next 48 hours. I was his lackey – his flunky – doing all the shit work that no one else wanted to do.

We'd bemoan the workload, trash The Morons at Lazard, discuss the stupidity of our colleagues, and bust on clients. God, how we loved to insult them. We gave each client a different Code Name: The Idiots, The Dufflebags, The Dandruffettes, the Imbeciles, The Ignoramuses, The Dimwits, The Simpletons, to name a few. We'd use the Code Names instead of the company's name in elevators, on cell phones, in restaurants – because this merger business was so, so secretive. The firm had already had one insider trading scandal; it didn't need another. So everything was written about, and spoken about, in Code.

I'll never forget the silence that befell a meeting with Agostinelli, the top guns at a British steel company, and a pack of lawyers. There we sat, the Knights of the Roundtable. In front of each man lay a navy blue plastic covered dealbook, "Lazard Freres & Co." printed in gold on the bottom right corner. Ago (as I called him) began the infamous pitch, gesticulating madly with a Cuban cigar. As he demanded, everyone at the table turned to the first page: PROJECT NINCOMPOOP, read the title, in gigantic, bold, black capital letters. Ago shot me a look. I met his eyes. Whoooops. Short meeting. Ago didn't care. He knew I'd been working on about 45 minutes of sleep. There was a hell of a lot more business to nab. We fled the meeting and headed over to Blake's to split a bottle of Veuve Cliquot. They won. We lost. Next.

It was the eighties. We were just kids, jogging through airports in Ralph Lauren suits, dragging laptops, dealbooks, and The Wall Street Journal – usually unread. The work was grueling, detailed, anal, brutal. We were the analysts. Personnel called us The Resume Kids. I did it for the so-called glamour, Manhattan, and mostly because everyone else wanted the job. Twenty-one years old, earning $42,500. And that was before my $35,000 bonus that year; the firm had had a bang-up 1988.

My first day was exhilarating. Investment Banking. Wall Street. Wow.

But a few weeks after that first day, I'd find myself wandering around the office with the clothes I'd worn the day before. No food, except a little General Tao's chicken that some exhausted vice-president had left in the conference room. Sleep deprivation became a huge issue. Depression was a close second. Sometimes we'd sleep under our desks. Sometimes we'd order $200 of sushi at 2:30 a.m. and whoof it down with sixteen-ounce oil cans of Foster’s flanking our keyboards.

We'd blearily stare at spreadsheets, checking each other's work with HP-12C calculators. My office mate once ended a 48-hour marathon by hurling a Toshiba laptop into the window. The window exploded. The laptop bounced on the carpet. Despite the $8,200 bill, he didn't get fired. The partners understood. It was laborious drudgery. They'd been there.

Cut to the Sunday before Thanksgiving. The London-based General Electric Company makes a hostile bid for a Lazard client. The client wants to fight. The phone rings. "Katie, it's work," says my sleepy roommate. It's the partner who heads up the Investment Banking unit, he so much reminded me of Frankenstein.

Sorry to phone so early but, a big client has been hit, can I go to London with two partners and a VP for a few weeks to run the defense? We chose you because of your strengths (right), your brilliance (barf), your work ethic (yeah, right). It should be quick, Katie. (sure). If we scared them off, I could be home in four days for Thanksgiving. Terrific. Thanks for helping out. By the way, could I leave for the airport in about an hour? The 9:00 a.m. Bullet. I'll get Kathy (his abused secretary) to call you in a ticket. Concorde (bribe) waiting for you at the counter. We know you'll do a great job. Yeah. It's tough – Thanksgiving and all. Thanks a lot, though, kid.

I stuff a few suits in my hanging bag and whoosh, I'm off. Car service. Concorde. Taxi. I move into Claridges. Every morning at 7:00 a.m., a car picks me up and takes me to work. I'd return to the hotel every night at 10:45 (15 minutes before Room Service quit). As the gentleman behind the desk handed me my messages, I'd nod and smile: The Usual. Fifteen minutes later I'd hear a knock. Dinner: Salmon mousse with aspic and a bottle of 1985 Meurseault.

Each night, every night, for five months.

Sometime in late April, I saw the Manhattan skyline, stepped into my apartment with five British Airways cardboard boxes full of the clothes I'd bought at Harrod's – on Lazard (my secretary Fed-Exed me Donna Karan stockings). Eleven milk cartons of mail met me at the door, plus five months of telephone messages. Two of my four roommates had moved out. I said hello to the two replacements. They nodded. The damage at Claridge's had been about seventy grand.

Thanksgiving? Be home for Thanksgiving? Hell, I didn't even catch Easter, not to mention Christmas.

Why was it so easy back then? Why is it so difficult now – maybe we get more set in our ways? But lets just say I’m lonely out here. It’s self-inflicted, of course. The people I’ve met in LA are lovely. Perhaps I’ve just lost the inability to reach out.

Stay tuned.

My Feng Shui Part 3

2008-04-22T13:00:00.000-07:00

The final installment – the final, final shoot of the Feng shui series.

Kartar arrived at 11 in the morning – clip board in hand. Renato arrived shortly thereafter with his cameras, lights and fantastic personality (and patience!)

OK. The house was supposed to be metamorphosized – well, not completely. I can show you some pictures of the house and how it's coming along. And a whole bunch of pictures of ME!

But you’re going to have to wait for the whole story when we air “Feng Shui Home & Office” … set to launch June 1.

Don’t forget to mark the date on your calendar – you won’t be disappointed ;-)