AudraFay's Blog

MOM

I went to a party,

And remembered what you said.
You told me not to drink, Mum
So I had a sprite instead.


I felt proud of myself,

The way you said I would,
That I didn't drink and drive,
Though some friends said I should.

I made a healthy choice,

And your advice to me was right,
The party finally ended,
And the kids drove out of sight.

I got into my car,

Sure to get home in one piece,
I never knew what was coming, Mum
Something I expected least.

Now I'm lying on the pavement,

And I hear the policeman say,
The kid that caused this wreck was drunk,
Mum, his voice seems far away.

My own blood's all around me,

As I try hard not to cry.
I can hear the paramedic say,
This girl is going to die.

I'm sure the guy had no idea,

While he was flying high,
Because he chose to drink and drive,
Now I would have to die.

So why do people do it, Mum

Knowing that it ruins lives?
And now the pain is cutting me,
Like a hundred stabbing knives.

Someone should have taught him,
That it's wrong to drink and drive.
Maybe if his parents had,
I'd still be alive.

My breath is getting shorter, Mum

I'm getting really scared.
These are my final moments,
And I'm so unprepared.

I wish that you could hold me Mum,

As I lie here and die.
I wish that I could say, 'I love you, Mum!'
So I love you and good-bye.

MADD (Mothers Against Drunk Drivers)

"People" magazine

 BATMAN ARRESTED!

The Dark Knight's Christian Bale is accused of assault by his mother and sister
with his wife, Sibi, by his side, Christian Bale celebrated the
monster success of his film The Dark Knight at its London premiere July 21,
signing autographs for fans and posing for photographers. But the next morning
brought a very different scene: Arrested for an alleged assault, Bale, 34,
entered a London
police station for questioning. The assault accusations were lodged by Bale's
mother, Jenny, 61, and his sister Sharon, 40, following an altercation at
London's Dorchester hotel on the eve of the premiere, Britain's newspaper The
Sun reported. In a July 22 statement, Bale's attorneys confirmed that an
allegation had been made to the police by his mother and sister: "Mr. Bale, who
denies the allegation, cooperated throughout, gave his account in full of the
events in question and has left the station without any charge being made
against him by the police."

The fiercely private Bale, who has a 3~year~0Id daughter, is expected to return
to a police station in September pending further inquiries. His mother, a
former dancer, and sister, a musician, could not be reached for comment. (The
Welsh born actor's parents are divorced; his father, David, married feminist
Gloria Steinem in 2000 and died in 2003.) The actor's intense approach to his
work is well known, but a friend of Bale's was shocked to hear of the assault
accusation. "I can't imagine Christian being violent in any way. He's such a
warm, wonderful person."

I Brenda Rodriguez, with Monique Jessen and Courtney Rubin in London

"Fitness" magzine
Locker Room Confidential

One brave editor's account of what really happens in the women's changing room,
including more than a few revealing facts about human nature. BY CHEE GATES

Females are a voyeuristic lot. Beneath lowered eyelashes, we check each other
out-assessing calf muscles, cheekbones and general sex appeal. We do it
secretly, of course, because it conflicts with an unwritten law, which I call
the Female Visual Privacy Act (FVPA),

Stipulation No, 1: Staring at another woman's body,is to be avoided at all
costs, No, 2: looks lasting longer than three second should be accompanied by
a smile, that "Don't I know you from somewhere? No, 3: Intensely
scrutinizing another woman for five seconds or more requires justification in
the form of a compliment, preferably on her shoes or her purse.

So now here's my dilemma: My assignment for FITNESS is to observe and analyze
how women behave in one of the most sacred, cherished citadels of the X
chromosome-the gym locker room. In high school, this was where girls affirmed
their rank in the pecking order. For adults, it's a level playing field, where
former geeks and
cheerleaders comming le; a place where interpersonal politics bend and women let
it all hang out, revealing physical and emotional hang-ups. No doubt a gawking
reporter in their midst violates the aforementioned Privacy Act. I'll have to
be discreet. This is my account of what happens in the women's locker room.
There's drama. Nude scenes. BOndjng~ But unhke in the movies, there's a lot
of clicking

Monday, 5:45 p.m.

I arrive incognito at a swanky New York City gym locker room, dressed in jeans
and a blue I-shirt with a peace sign on it, as if to say, "See, I'm friendly."
Good thing my skin is too brown to show flushed cheeks-the room is filled with
more naked bodies than you'll see during tourist season on the French Riviera.
I drop my bag by a locker as a middle-aged housekeeper chases a stream of
toilet paper down the center aisle, turning it into a makeshift catwalk for
braver women who strut back and forth in their frilly pink thongs.

I wonder why, outside the locker room, women work so hard'to cover up their
"flaws" and lose the extra 10 pounds that create such divine,

take a good, long look at themselves without the Hollywood airbrushing. That's
why they ogle other women's legs, bellies and butts-as if they're thinking, So,
that's how hips look without Lycra support. Not badl I do my own share of
peeking and spot a faded tattoo of two dolphins on the shoulder of a woman who
also bears the scars of a C-section. Being privy to that body "art"-one by
choice, the other presumably by necessity-makes me feel an odd kinship with
her.

The way I slice it: Nakedness strips women of. competitiveness. The friction
and envy frequently found among us in the "real" world is gone. Here, divisions
of race, age and class have no bearing, because each woman shares in a common
pursuit: self-improvement. Simply showing up at the gym is confirmation that
you are a work in progress-and in this locker room, there are 107
interpretations of a body in transition.

stop watching one another-and why many of us don't mind being seen. A new
beauty queen wins the crown every moment.

Tuesday, 8:00 p.m.

Another day, another chapter. I'm hunkered down in a nook by the showers. At
this hour, the locker room's pulse slows down. Less hustle, more flow, fewer
bodies. I see a full-figured, starknude brunette, badly in need of a bikini
wax, flinging her hair around beneath a w;all-mounted blow dryer as if she's
int~, 'Motley Crue music video. She sings 10 herself, periodically pausing to
share comments with those passing by: "Fun shoes," "Ooh, gimme

that dress" "Am I in your way?" 'Just one more

sec, dollface."

Another, an earth-mother type, hums as she tugs a shower caddy as large as a
suitcase toward the vanity counter. She's buck-naked, and as I strangle my
calves into tight-fitting jeans, I think, What inspires this uninhibited
behavior, anyway?

Here's my take: By nature, a woman is constantly morphing. Curves shrink and
expand. Water is retained and released. Weight-let's not even go there. The
outfit that best accommodates these fluctuations is, clearly, the birthday
suit. Yet most women remain slaves to sizing charts; we evaluate our worth
based on measurements. I applaud the nudists in the house for challenging the
ideology of buttons and zippers. Watching them own their fleshy queendom, I
decide that being

naked is not a lewd act; it's a radical expression of personal freedom.

Wednesday, 11:45 a.m. The jOint is nearly empty, save for the neo-prudes
scurrying frol!1 the showers in a tizzy, knees knocking together, torsos
swaddled in towels-perish the thought of revealing an inch of skin.

The first woman I see looks like a quivering college coed-awkward, shy and
still lacking the inner gravity that one attains after becoming fully
acquainted with her body. The second is the uptight sort in need of a stiff
drink or a yoga class-or maybe she's feeling a bil of body shame? Having my own
qualms aboUlnuclity, I get the whole "keep your personal business personal"
thing. That's why Woman made vertical blinds and God made the subconscious. But
this sister has been in the dark too long.

Braless, on a whim, I approach the

figure swathed in white terry cloth. hE

"Is there free deodorant here?" I ask. lil Gripping her towel to her chest, she
sF

mumbles, "Umm, err, I don't think so." bl

"They give us razors, but no deodorant The manager must be French or bE male,"
I say, jokingly."Or both!" she fires back. The two of us bust up so hard that her towel
slips, exposing a sliver of her hip and waist. And she doesn't even bother
to hide it. Laughter loosens you up that way.

Thursday, 4:00 p.m. Amidst rush-hour traffic in the locker til room, I
hear patrons singing an apologetic chorus. "My bad Let me squeeze past you," says the guilty party. I (

"Sorry oops, sorry-did I bump you?"'speaks another, her tone at least
three odes higher than normal. and I'm like, "Sorry for what?" as I accidentally elbow someone's ribs. Shouldn't there be a "Who cares?" clause when
nine people are trying to maneuver in a space fit for a groundhog?

Instead, the women attempt to take up as little square footage as possible.
They stand with their inner thighs squished together, crouching their posture
into a nonthreatening C shape.

vVhat really gets nie is that on the city's subways, we ram against each other
like we're playing rugby, and no one expects an apology. It'S as if our
business suits funcLion as mock body shields. But really, it's not the clothes
that make us feel prolected~il's how we perceive ourselves as impenetrable in
them. Only when we're stripped down to our drawers do we become defenseless.

Friday, 9:00 p.m.

It's the final scene of my undercover act in the locker room, and I'm
surrounded

by women who are getting

their groove back. There's Miss Single-by-Default (she has a librarian vibe),
Miss Single-by-Choice ("Girl, I just left his crazy ass," she announces) and
Miss Single-for-an-Hour (I watch

her tuck her wedding ring into her bag like a gum wrapper). All of us share a
special sense of achievement-we're building healthier, fitter bodies while
the rest of the city drinks too much r beer. It's a small sacrifice for
longevity.

Unfortunately, my Sherlock detail is alIf most over.

i, Originally, I thought spying on

women in a locker room was a betrayal of trust. But it ended up being an act of
respect. After studying how women live unabashedly in their imperfect but
perfectly beautiful bodies, I think it's
time I call a truce with mine. Take the teeny pouches at each side of my waist
e that I abuse with 100 crunches dailyI can be gentler. Maybe my body won't )
drop the fat because it repudiates the t notion of conforming to an unrealistic
ideal. That rebellion is empowering. And it's best celebrated in the buff. �

"People" magazine


Loni Anderson

Happily Ever After

The legendary blonde bombshell weds musician Bob Flick
45 years after they first met.


It was a dream job for
a teen girl: In high school Loni Anderson
was hired by the Minneapolis Star Tribune to greet and pose for photos with
visiting celebrities. One job perk? In 1963 she met Bob Flick, a folk singer
whose group The Brothers Four had a hit song, "Greenfields." Recalls Anderson:
"I was totally infatuated. I used to write Mrs. Loni Flick on my notebooks." It
took four decades but Anderson's wish has finally come true. On May 17, 45
years to the day after they first met, Anderson and Flick were wed at the Hotel
Bel-Air in Los Angeles.

Though the couple dated for seven months after they first met, Anderson, now
62, went on to Hollywood fame and three other husbands (including Burt
Reynolds, whom she divorced in 1994). But she never stopped thinking about the
crooner who got away. "Once a year I would pull out all his albums and play
them," says Anderson. "I always kept wondering what happened to him." Finally,
she tracked down a phone number for Flick on the Internet-and called him. Soon
after, Anderson and the twice-divorced Flick fell in love all bver again. "It
was as if no time had passed," says Anderson. "He makes my heart flutter just
like he did when I was 17. You know it when you find the one."

by Liza Hamm & Frank Swertlow