Snack Food Crisis 2018


Ever Since Peerless of Gary, Indiana closed last summer we have had a persistent and unsolvable problem involving potato chips, puffed corn and pretzel rods. The Peerless story was sad enough: A 90-year-old family business. An owner with terminal cancer. Not a buyer to be found. A distribution center that was keeping Peerless alive but through its own hubris, went bankrupt.
But the true tragedy was that Peerless products were Peerless. Probably many of us who snacked on Peerless on an almost daily basis took Peerless for granted. I certainly did. I started to sense what a colossal catastrophe Peerless’ closing was going to be as shelves quickly became depleted of puffed corn, then chips and finally pretzel rods. (Pretzels in any other format are an anathema to me. I can’t make a meal out of them and rounded, or nuggets are always too salty.) I bought the last five bags of Peerless pretzel rods I found at the gas station in Ogden Dunes. Eventually those rods were consumed too.
Then came the challenge of finding what we would use to replace Peerless. Of course, the best option would have been to just quit eating snacks but realistically, in the late middle ages, minor pleasures take on much greater importance. In my case, petty indulgences took on added value around the same time I had developed very finicky taste for food. I don’t eat anything out of a can. I hate anything stale: vegetables after the first day, for instance. Fish beyond a day.
Being a Peerless eater, I had learned the difference between potato chips that are too old, too dense or too rubbery to eat only by eating someone else’s potato chips at a party. Pretzel rods were, however, a rude awakening. Walmart’s house brand was simply inedible and thrown away after one bite. What was I thinking? Snyder’s, the most common brand out there, was barely edible, too salty, stale, over-baked, bad consistency on the coating. Out of desperation, we finished a bag, though those pretzels seemed to last forever. I bought a bag of Rold Gold, knowing it would be worse than Snyder’s and I was right. Limping along through the winter, I found the CVS house brand, Gold Emblem, tolerable. I also saw this sad video by The Steel City Storm: Goodbye Forever – Peerless Potato Chips.
On the potato chip and popcorn front, my husband was not doing much better, but he settled quickly on Jay’s Oke-Doke corn puffs after the demise of Peerless. I seldom partake but when I do, I end up thinking about Jay’s not being as good as Peerless, but I could be misremembering—corn puffs were a new product for Peerless. We tried corn puffs only because Peerless made them.
Finding an adequate substitute for Peerless Potato Chips was just going to be impossible for me. But Jeff tried and managed to zero in on Sea Salt and Vinegar flavored, Cape Cod Kettle Cooked chips. Cape Cod chips are inferior to Peerless as my husband admits, but he has learned to like the exotic and different taste.
Finally, after months of trial and error, I found Utz Pretzel Rods. I have only vague memories of Peerless now, but Utz is close. Unfortunately, when I returned to the store where I purchased Utz, the rod version had disappeared. Pathetically, I have looked ever since and only found Northwest Indiana is outside of Utz’s distribution area from Google. (Walmart carries Utz’s horseshoe pretzels.) Utz Snacks is an old, family-owned business in Hanover, Pennsylvania started in 1921, seven years before Peerless, that persisted through the Depression and presumably expanded when Peerless should have but did not.
I am a desperate person.
The shipping costs are more than the pretzels, but I ordered directly from the Utz family factory. This may sound ridiculous, but I promise the Utzs I will never take them for granted. And Jeff Strack, if you are reading this, please think about an update for your snacks aisles. You can reach Utz through their website. I don’t know how much Peerless you sold, but I’m sure you do.

Excerpt from Hugh Hefner’s First Funeral and Other True Tales of Love and Death in Chicago by Pat Colander


This was the beginning of the end of the sexual revolution. In Chicago.


By January 15, 1975, we were doing what felt good, eating birth control pills, reveling in loose attachments. We had decided on healthy, acceptable levels of selfishness, the only cure for chronic unhappiness, sworn enemy of the free spirit.


Hugh M. Hefner pointed the way.  A cultural leftist who made a career out of being true to himself, he worked hard to ride the crest of this wave and so became a hero. He was a nobody from nowhere, a prophet of the flaunted convention, and finally a billionaire.  The story of how he built his magazine into an enterprise was media folklore, and Hefner was already a living legend.


Ironically, by the mid-70s, some of the heady excitement of two decades of Playboy’s success dissipated, and Hefner, seeking a quick romantic fix, had recently been touting himself as an F. Scott Fitzgerald character.  But he had forgotten the end of the story.



The Press Conference


Jay Gatsby had never had a day like the one Hefner was having that day.  The Chicago press corps saw that Hefner was upset.  His face was contorted with pain.  This Hefner was enough to make any public relations manager cringe.  Not to mention the lawyers, who had already been politely told to go to hell.  He had a few words to say about Bobbie Arnstein, his employee and friend, found dead a day before.


Nobody in the Great Room at Chicago’s Playboy mansion had ever seen Hefner that distraught.  Several years earlier, Hugh Hefner had appeared on the Dick Cavett Show in a confrontation with Susan Brownmiller and another feminist, and the two women had thrown him off balance.  He was vulnerable. But this was different.  Hefner was physically drained and visibly harried, despite the fact that he had not an enemy in the room.


Hefner had always enjoyed an excellent relationship with the press, especially the local, celebrity-starved Chicago press.  Reporters gladly accepted party invitations to the mansion.  Journalists liked his hospitality, his cooperation, and his funding of First Amendment causes.  Hefner was a colleague in a sense to many of the people at the press conference—a couple dozen photographers, scribes and television personalities packed into the auditorium-sized room at the mansion on North State Parkway. The lords and ladies of gossip in their cashmere coats.  The pressed and polished network news guys. The scruffy 20-somethings from the city desk, who knew this press conference could make page one. The special topics writers, “new journalists,” scribbling notes about Hefner’s clothes and Gallo sculptures and the polished wood paneling in the near north side castle.


Hugh Hefner did not disappoint them when he launched into his accusation of murder and blood on the hands of the prosecutors at the office of the U.S. Attorney James Thompson.  Thompson, positioning himself as a tough law-and-order man, already anticipated his win in the following year’s gubernatorial race.  Hefner said Thompson was leading “a politically-inspired witch hunt,” and publicly proclaimed that the federal investigators had manufactured a drug charge against one of his people in a calculated effort to hang a criminal charge on him.  Here in the palace hall, above the dimly-lit swimming pool fashioned into a tropical paradise, next door to a game room with wall-to-wall pinball machines, Hefner screamed that “the motherfuckers” had killed Bobbie Arnstein, whose body had been found in the nearby Maryland Hotel.  A sealed envelope on the bed stand was marked: “This is another one of those boring suicide notes.”


Nobody in the room wanted to see it come to this.  There were reporters and writers who winced and turned away. But there were others who sensed that Hefner’s brand of slick hedonism had reached its zenith, at least for the time being, that perhaps the suave persona was getting old and jaded, that the pendulum was swinging back towards Richard Nixon, Phyllis Schlafly, and Jerry Falwell.  There were journalists who smelled blood, who claimed to have inside information that the U.S. Attorney’s office was indeed after Hefner, and what was more, their leaking sources told them there was evidence against him. The audience went wild over the Bobbie Arnstein business; readers always loved the newspapers when somebody rich and famous got into trouble. Nothing new there.


Undeniably this was a good story.  There were chuckles among the cynics Hugh Hefner had been wining and dining for years. That afternoon more than one person overheard a reporter who said that old Bunnyman looked like he was on something himself.  That was the cruelest part of the whole, absurd tableau.  That was precisely what Bobbie Arnstein was trying to avoid by writing a suicide note, which was tantamount to a press release for Playboy Enterprises as her last act on earth.  Friends of Bobbie could envision her pacing around in her small white office after the scene in the main room, shaking her head and asking, “What is all this shit, anyway?”


That there was a limit to the level of hypocrisy Bobbie Arnstein found intolerable was well-known around the organization.  She was impatient with the bureaucracy that inevitably sprang up at Playboy. “What is this?” she said when presented with a memo, a quick reminder of policy, or something in writing, evidence of growing corporate paranoia. Teeny, tiny Bobbie, with the Jean Shrimpton face and the Bianca Jagger wardrobe, came on with the funny looks when a middle manager refused, say, to authorize a $10 raise for a mansion hired hand or clerk.


“You’re being outrageous, Bobbie,” the person making twelve times the amount of the valet or the chauffeur or the waiter or the security guard or the laundress would admonish her.  Bobbie Arnstein would not argue over a few lousy dollars.  She loathed the mentality of those who would.  Small dishonesties bothered her, too.  She was positively stupid some said, when it came to that silly pinball machine.  The scoreboard had a tendency to roll over too fast when the game room sessions stretched to six and eight hours.  The machine would heat up, tacking a hundred or a thousand unearned points onto a score already into six figures.  Bobbie’s fellow players were inclined to let the matter pass, if they noticed. But it was not Bobbie Arnstein’s style to collect points she did not earn.  The amount may have been trivial, but the principle of the thing was not.


She could not just let it go, so her opponents could not either.  Because even if inclined to let it go, pint-sized Bobbie would stand up there in her platform boots, her leather vest, her feathers and beads and get plain, full-tilt righteous. The scorekeeper would deduct the thousand points from her lead, even if she was far and away the front-runner in the game.  People who played with Bobbie learned to play fair because that was the way she wanted it.  She wanted to get it right.  She wanted to tell the truth. That’s all.


A group of Playboy executives and hangers-on were eating at an Indian restaurant one night.  The waiter, a native Indian recently immigrated to Chicago, could not speak or understand English very well.  He stammered his way around the table, having a difficult time taking orders from the eight people.  Haltingly the waiter made his way over to Bobbie, who stared at him through large, tinted lenses. “What would you like, Sir?” he asked with a slight trace of arrogance.  Bobbie moved one hand to pull open the left side of her shirt, revealing the fact that she was braless.  With the chewed-up edge of her middle finger on the other hand, she forced the waiter’s attention on some lackluster cleavage.  Bobbie Arnstein was 34 years old and was accustomed to the hysterical laughter she got from a group who witnessed her response to some social outrage.


Making a joke at the expense of a bumbling steward in a restaurant was not a very nice thing to do.  And why would Bobbie Arnstein, then the assistant to the president of Playboy Enterprises, the most important woman at the 74-room mansion, want to pick on some puny waiter? He had crossed the line into the world of what Bobbie found impossible, in this case the Anglo-Saxon vocabulary distinction between men and women.


In Bobbie Arnstein’s workplace you were reminded of the differences often.


Clowning around was a cover for Bobbie that softened the things she rarely confided, things that hurt.  When she complained about her salary to Hefner, he laughed because he thought she was kidding.  She tried to argue that she was a specialist in his organization and understood his moods, biases, and makeup better than anyone else.  Bobbie wanted to get paid the money a specialist demanded, she said.  She wanted the amount of money that would signal that she was important to him.


Bobbie Arnstein told more than one of her friends that she wanted a title that would define her 24/7 duties more accurately than executive secretary did. But even though she had been with Hefner for more than 10 years, she was not able to come right out and say what she wanted.  She protested to others that she and Hefner did not have that kind of talking relationship.  And everybody else that Bobbie made her case with was slowly going deaf on the subject.  Hefner could have easily fixed the situation, but the publisher-genius who parlayed $600 into a fortune because he knew what every American male wanted, could not see what this woman needed. And it was a monetary equivalent of a pat on the head, a paper reassurance that she was valuable, possibly irreplaceable to him. She was not getting either, and that was one of the reasons she tried to kill herself the first time.


Bobbie Arnstein used to say that she had not wanted the goddamn job in the first place.  Bobbie was barely older than a teenager when she joined the ranks of the Michigan Avenue slaves. She followed a series of low-paying Girl Friday posts at a shoe store, a car dealership, and a radio station, around the coming posh north end of downtown, where the shopping district intersects the residential Gold Coast. An inauspicious career at Lakeview High School had not prepared her to tough it out in the secretarial pool.  Bobbie was smart and had been steered into track one classes.  Her teachers thought she would make an excellent teacher.  By the time her four years were up, Bobbie Arnstein was sick of school.  If she ever thought of continuing her education, she kept it a secret.


The market was awash with sweet young things in the same exact predicament. But Bobbie Arnstein had a slight edge: she oozed public relations savvy.  She had bleached blonde hair, an infectious smile, and brains enough to act sophisticated—all advantages in the customer service bracket.  A counselor at a local employment agency knew Bobbie was beguiling enough to work at a company with one of the better addresses.


She was first placed at an advertising firm, the most glamorous job immediately available.  She was pretty happy there when the agency called again a few weeks later, urging her to look into an offer at Playboy. “This job is you, Bobbie,” the agency woman insisted. Bobbie was not so sure.  She thought it over and called the agency back.  She did not know if she could measure up physically.  There was a mystique about Playboy, and though Bobbie thought it might be fun to work there she was reluctant to give Playboy the opportunity to reject her.  The employment counselor was adamant, and finally Bobbie decided to give it a try.


At Playboy, Bobbie was well-liked from the beginning.  She was young, fresh-faced, and very pretty.  Bobbie started at $70 a week in September 1960 as a “floater,” an attractive girl assigned to no particular desk or person.  Often she ended up stationed on the fourth floor of the magazine office at 232 E. Ohio Street, the slight, sexy-looking guardian of the editorial sanctum.  But Bobbie was still uncertain about the job, which gave her pangs of insecurity.  One tangible reason: Cynthia Maddox, who was the receptionist on the first floor.


Cynthia Maddox was a beauty.  She had been a beauty at Lakeview High School.  She was a beauty when she went to work for Playboy—before Bobbie did—as a combination receptionist, model, bunny, and company promotion gimmick girl.  Bobbie Arnstein took a job that would present her with a daily reminder of what she considered to be her own deficiencies.  She even took a small apartment on Dearborn Street with Cynthia. Bobbie’s way of coping with a jealousy she could not rationalize was to confront it, accompany it, live with it, and to try to conquer it. Bobbie wanted to get it right.


“Of course we were all in awe of her beauty,” Bobbie’s mother remembered about Bobbie’s friend Cynthia. Cynthia and Bobbie would come to dinner at the Arnstein’s on Friday nights when they were first living together.  The girls would sun themselves behind the building where Bobbie’s family lived.


“Even I watched that figure.  We had an old apartment with a long hallway, and Cynthia would walk from the kitchen down to the living room, and I’d watch.  She’d come over sometimes, and in those days the girls didn’t wear bikinis much, but Cynthia wore a bikini, and they’d go down to the backyard to sit to sun themselves, and I used to say, ‘Cynthia, if you’re going to wear that here, everybody in the neighborhood is going to be over here.’ And I used to watch her go down the hall. Even I used to watch her. I never saw such a figure.  The most gorgeous figure that girl had.  Bobbie used to say, ‘She’s so pretty.  She’s so much prettier than I am.’”


Hefner was working at top speed in those days.  His girly picture magazine was morphing into a literary forum.  Plans for book projects, real estate acquisitions, and other magazines, claimed his time.  The Playboy Philosophy—one of the few philosophies without a death clause—was born then. Hefner, always at the center of the operation, seldom slept and never went home.  Hefner made his office on the fourth floor his living quarters.


The sheer proximity of a bright, attractive woman in his outer office eventually commanded his attention.  Bobbie was, for a short time a social companion.  Hefner described it as having dated some.  Bobbie gave a more specific explanation of what she considered a very temporary physical liaison. Everybody at Playboy knew what Hefner meant when he talked about dates.


The money was pouring in.  Like a wild fantasy, a great modern capitalist adventure—that was how Playboy grew.  Hefner and his burgeoning staff surged ahead, and Bobbie was along for the ride.  Some months after she started, Hefner bought a big, brick house at 1340 N. State, not far from the headquarters of John Cardinal Cody, then the ranking official of the Archdiocese of Chicago, one of the largest concentrations of Roman Catholics in the world.  The original idea of the house was for Hefner to get away from the office once in a while.  Like most of the ideas he was having at that time, it worked out better than he expected.  Now, instead of living in the office where he worked, he was working in the mansion where he lived.


Bobbie had acquired a mentor by then.  Bobbie’s friend Nancy was Hefner’s private secretary.  “She’s so smart,” Bobbie told her mother.  “Nancy knows everything.” Nancy knew she did not want to work at the mansion.  When the inevitable summons came, Nancy opted to stay at the office.  She sent the next best person though, and Bobbie Arnstein became Hefner’s social secretary in 1962.


Soon afterward, Cynthia Maddox and Bobbie Arnstein moved in with Hefner.  Hefner was never secretive about how much he liked having pretty girls around, but he was also a benevolent provider known for his generosity.  At the time Hefner was a notorious soft touch, who was always supporting a retinue of “artists” and sycophants who were down on their luck.  Cynthia and Bobbie’s subsidized apartment in the house was just doors away from Bobbie’s office.  After a short time, Bobbie had the place to herself.  Cynthia Maddox became ensconced as Hefner’s main girlfriend; a title she would hold for about four years.  Playboy was most often described as the “Playboy Empire” now.  The house was hectic with parties, filled with celebrities of the moment and a growing number of paid employees.


Hefner, who spent most of his time cross-legged on the famous round bed with a fur cover, talking on the telephone or looking at page proofs, was fighting a battle with the clock.  Large amounts of money were at stake, and he was not good at delegating authority. He ended up making most decisions himself.  His quarters looked more like a data-processing center than a bedroom.  Bobbie Arnstein’s occupation was increasingly occupying.


She found herself screening requests, responding to emergencies, holding temperamental hands, digging up interesting monopoly partners when Hef fancied a game at an odd hour.  If a financial disaster could be averted by Bobbie’s ability to get an answer from Hef, she would sit with him until he was ready to decide.  She was a tireless diplomat.  There were times, her friends recalled, when she was pitifully exhausted and disorganized, but she always broke the tape at the right moment. Bobbie Arnstein was Hugh Hefner’s umbilical cord to a business that had grown huge, bigger than he imagined.


Dick Rosenzweig entered the picture. Rosenzweig was someone you would have called a dynamic businessman in those days. He had been moving steadily upward in the organization for six years.  As a fledgling publishing executive, he sold ads for Playboy and the short-lived, (maybe ahead of its time) Show Business Illustrated.  Rosenzweig then became assistant to the promotion director, Victor Lownes, and later worked in the editorial section as director of special projects and books projects, then in syndication and production of the television show Playboy After Dark. A suggestion made its way up the ranks, across Bobbie Arnstein’s desk, that the post of executive assistant to Hefner be created. Rosenzweig got the job and established an office in the mansion in October 1963.


It never occurred to anybody that Bobbie Arnstein might be (and probably was, in fact) capable of doing part of the job Rosenzweig had been transplanted to do.  But it was the Golden Age of Playboy, and there was plenty of room at the top. Bobbie was queen of the hippest high society Chicago had ever known. The quite likable Rosenzweig became her ally and friend.  Bobbie shrugged it off, figuring she could not handle his work, even if Hefner could conceivably have accepted her in Rosenzweig’s place.


“She could have done my job a hell of a lot better than she thought she could,” Rosenzweig said later.  Afterwards. Bobbie had a corner on the market as far as being a capable assistant to Hefner, but she considered herself unqualified to do anything else. The low opinion Bobbie Arnstein had of herself became apparent to the people around her.  Feeling that she was at the peak of what would be her career at Playboy did not help.


Constantly comparing her own body to the thousands of pictures of naked women that crossed her desk on their way to Hefner did not help.  But Bobbie Arnstein was never too nuts about herself….Read the WHOLE story at






sherilynnfenn1991   Sherilynn Fenn then and now sherilynnfenn2017

I was just reading a story about David Lynch and the revival of Twin Peaks, a TV show I have been thinking about for 27 years, but never saw. I came close: I may have even rented an episode at Blockbuster or put it on my wanted list on Netflix, but never got around to watching the either season of the show. The photos that went with the story I read, of Kyle MacLachlan, Sherilynn Fenn, Lara Flynn Boyle—all look quite like the promo photos from 27 years ago. There were Twin Peaks stars who died of course, like Richard Beymer—whose claim to fame was the romantic hero in the movie version of West Side Story—and Piper Laurie, another movie star when I was a child. (What a name, would I have remembered her without it? It didn’t come up again until 2013 and the heroine of Orange is the New Black.)  Twin Peaks, in two seasons (1990-91), had 121 cast members, one of the reasons it took 25 years to get the money together to make 18 more hours of the show.

Even though I never saw the TV shows, I know that Twin Peaks was critically-acclaimed, called surrealist, and thought to be ahead of its time. The photos for the new Twin Peaks debut were shot at the London West Hollywood. There must have been a photo-op press fest at the hotel in Los Angeles.

I considered this setting appropriate because I once had a surrealistic stay at the London West Hollywood for several nights before it officially opened to the world in 2008.


The London West Hollywood Hotel is, or was, a Gordon Ramsay-inspired hotel. My husband and I had received an invitation to stay in a deluxe suite there on a preview rate, $300 for 3 nights, an offer we still think of as dirt cheap. I’m not exactly sure why we got this invitation but it probably had something to do with buying autographed copies of Gordon Ramsay cookbooks when we were in London some months earlier. We also had lunch at the Gordon Ramsay restaurant at Claridge’s on that trip. We were with our kids—son, daughter and daughter-in-law, in their twenties at the time—and we went to the Tate, and the Tower of London, Harrods, Hachette’s bookstore, drank a lot of wine by the glass, ate good cheese and took home a fascination with Gordon Ramsay. Like an infection we picked up.

Once we got home we discovered Gordon Ramsay had food shows on three different channels.

We had better reason than curiosity to take up the Los Angeles London West Hollywood offer though. We were having the floors in our house refinished because we were putting our house on the market and we had to leave the place for at least four days.  It was either the London West Hollywood or the Radisson in Merrillville.

The housing market was tanking at the time, but flights were cheap and Los Angeles is a nice place to visit. The hotel was right on the Sunset Strip, which had already gentrified, defying its seedy past and was full of nice stores and restaurants with outdoor cafes. I got a pedicure at a pedicure spa with a hundred chairs lined up along the wall with dozens of pedicurists working on people’s feet.

These spas are everywhere now, including Chesterton where I go for pedicures now, but in 2008 they were new to Midwesterners. Also, I walked down the street after that pedicure and purchased my all-time favorite Bernardo sandals for $20. The Bernardos have thick, black rubber soles and thongs made of plastic orange tubes. For years, I have searched for sandals like these on the internet and, although I can easily find the Bernardo brand, I have never found another pair of that material in those colors.

Over time, I have seen other examples of availability of different merchandise in different climates. Contrary to popular opinion, you cannot find everything on the Internet. This has always been true. There are certain things sold by the truckload in California, that never get shipped back here to Chicago.

My cousins who live in San Diego have a similar complaint. They can only buy sweatshirts and sweaters at certain times during the year in California at certain mainstream stores. Around Chicago you can get sweatshirts everywhere—including gas stations, restaurants and grocery stores. There’s always a chance the weather will turn cold.



The suite in the West London had a bathroom I will never forget. It was a large completely tiled room with shower heads and walls at either end. There were two sets of double sinks lit up in the center and at least one step-in tub. Mirrors everywhere. The bathroom was lit up like a stage behind the regular room with a big bed and a couch that curved out from the bed.

Our first night at the London West Hollywood, my friend Susan came from Silver Lake to have dinner with us. We made reservations at the Gordon Ramsay restaurant in the hotel and ordered the nine-or-ten-course chef’s tasting menu that were all the rage back then. The meal was impeccable and so was the service and at the end we got the surprise of our lives.

The manager thanked us and said good night and that was it. No bill. We wondered if it would show up on our hotel bill when we checked out, but it didn’t. It was totally free, the Gordon Ramsay people must have been practicing that night, because the restaurant wasn’t really open yet. There wasn’t a name on the door. Just a time and the word dinner.

There was a contest going on a Gordon Ramsay TV show we hadn’t had time to watch, where the winner was supposedly going to be put in charge of the restaurant at the London West Hollywood, but that didn’t seem quite real and probably wasn’t.

We asked the person at the front desk about the television winner and he just laughed. He was probably thinking we had a lot to learn about what’s real and what’s television and what’s reality television because I sure felt like I didn’t know what was going on. Hollywood has these surreal moments all the time, as I’m sure everyone knows by now, no doubt bolstered by David Lynch work on shows like Twin Peaks.

Another excellent feature of the London West Hollywood was the bookstore next door to the hotel. It was impressive, especially considering we were in LA. Probably not as intriguing as Hachette’s in London, but we still managed to spend several hours and too much money there.

The last day of our preview rate, real guests began arriving. There was a big meeting coming in, possibly the American Booksellers Association convention and all the New Yorker people were staying at the London. In the bar, which had tall tables throughout the room, there were reservation cards with the Eustace Tilley logo and names of famous people like David Remnick, Malcolm Gladwell and Adam Gopnik written on the cards. (I might have dreamed this, but I’m pretty sure it was real.) Then while we were waiting for a cab to the airport, I saw Vera Wang get out of a limo. She is a very small person so it had to be her. She wrote a book that year.

I was relieved when we left in the nick of time. I didn’t like the idea that celebrities were going to be staring at me and wondering why they didn’t recognize me. Or thinking I was a famous person who had just put on weight since they last saw me. It was the right time for us to go.  I checked the rate as we headed out and it had gone up to over $300 per night.

Our floors were gleaming when we got back. They looked beautiful and they still do. We never sold the house. Very few houses were sold in Miller Beach that year. None of the nice ones anyway, and we loved and still love our house.

But a strange thing happened, due to the fumes created from the floors being refinished, the hot water heater sensed danger and shut itself off. When we called Sears, who sold us this extra-large hot water heater maybe a year earlier, the salesman said that the hot water heater could not be re-started without exploding. We would have to buy a new one.

My brother, who was a technology director at a major hospital in Chicago at the time, said that was impossible. If a computer shut itself off, then a computer could be reset. But that was a moot point by then and the hot water heater crisis was just beginning. Since we obviously could not buy another hot water heater from Sears, which we no longer trusted, we had to get a new hot water heater from Menard’s. My husband’s friends—a painter and carpenter— who were also working on our house at the time, had a charge account at Menard’s so they brought over another hot water heater and tried to install it but they could not get the hot water heater to work.

I kept thinking about all the hot water spraying from all the nozzles at the London West Hollywood.

The carpenter decided the hot water heater was defective and had Menard’s come and pick it up and send it back to the manufacturer. Then Menard’s brought in another hot water heater and the carpenter and the painter installed it and still couldn’t get it to work.  The carpenter couldn’t believe he got two defective hot water heaters in a row, but that was the assumption we were now living with. By the fifth or sixth day of this, I was taking showers at my neighbor’s house—I honestly don’t know where my husband was showering because I wasn’t speaking to him—getting mad, and thinking maybe my husband and his friends should call a plumber.

Nobody was listening to me until finally the painter told me he secretly thought we should call a plumber too, but he was too scared to tell the carpenter. Before I left for work the next morning I told my husband I would not come home again unless somebody called a plumber.

The plumber finally came. He looked at the second defective hot water heater, took out a wrench and hit the valve on top of the tank as hard as he could. That turned on the hot water.