Just for today, I am a success. Why? I am a success because I am financially solvent, a kind person, and I try to be of service to my recovering fellowship. Just because I don't have my own television show or own a house or have a husband or kids or own a boat or shop at Barney's, doesn't mean that I'm not successful. Just for today (and the last five year), I process reimbursements for a living and live by myself with my cat, Ned. Some nights I stay home and watch movies or I clean my stove. Sometimes I go to parties and eat chips in the corner. I know that doesn't sound very successful. But, nonetheless, just for today, it's OK to say "Hi, I'm Stella and I am sucess..." no matter how akward, or strange it may sound. Just for today, it's OK to repeat affirmations that feel like they may not have a snowball's chance in hell of being true.

When I was a little girl I used to sing "The Body Electric" to myself in front of the mirror. My 6th grade teacher Ms. Yakota used to teach dance during our exercise period and she would play "What A Feeling!" from Flashdance. While we did our Jazzercise move I would imagine myself making my dance dreams come true in front of a group of stiff, crusty Dance Company Board Members (why were they so crusty in the movie? Weren't they supposed to be former dancers themselves?)

Well, nobody ever suggested I pursue another class, let alone a career in dancing, and while I can hold my own on the Karaoke stage, I don't know if I can put my sense of irony on hold long enough really belt it out. So, when Harlem Lee won Fame last night (after I had just finished my Trader Joe's Chicken Drummets with organic ketchup) I burst into tears along with his mother. For the victory of Harlem Lee wasn't just any victory. If this short, bald, Asian man, over the age of 30 can sing and dance and charm America (and he really did) then there is no physical attribute stopping anybody from letting their light shine in this country. It's time for Stella to make her dreams come true as an actress. Flabby thighs, freckled back, and grey hairs aside, just for today I am a chanel for God's greatness. Just for today, it's OK to want to express my talents. Just for today, I want to live forever and I want to learn how to fly...High!

"Oh, my God! Wow! This is so unexpected! Ok...I'd like to first thank the Academy for this honor. You know, when I started out as a writer/actor/director/producer, I was struggling to make ends meet and never, ever in my WILDEST dreams did I think that some day I would be up here. From the bottom of my heart, I'd like to thank my agent ________, and my manager ________. I'd like to thank my mother for telling me never to give up hope, and my father for teaching me how to let stuff roll off of me. But the people who I would really like to thank are my sponsor who I can't name (because I don't want to break her anonymity - but she's here tonight!), and most importantly, my therapist _________. Where are you two (except my sponsor)? Can you stand up? If these two people had not let me PROCESS MY STUFF, then there would be no screenplay, there would be no deep emotion for me (or Meryl, or Jack, or Frances) to really work with. Because, let's face it, we're all dysfunctional, we've all got issues, we're all afraid...but how many of us can find somebody willing to listen to our self-obsessed crap? Not many. And to all the little girls out there who dream of being up here some day....all I have to say to you is you can do it...but start therapy now! Ten, eight, nine, I don't care how old...Thank you for this honor! God, bless you! God, bless America, Iraq, and all the other countries we've invaded for their natural resources! (Oh, hey...what's with the booing...?)"

Just for today, I can work on my acceptance speech.

Last night I watched a famous director give a talk about his movie to a room full of Worshipful Film School Students. During the question and answer period the Worshipful Film School Students couldn't help parlaying their question into some sort of statement about how his movies had given their lives direction and saved them from whittling away their trust funds on season lift passes at Vale [PLEASE NOTE: I am extremely jealous of these people (must use x-tra brakets to offer the thought that "these people" could be a figment of my jealous imagination)...and from that base emotion comes my mockery], NOT TO MENTION, how they were available to discuss the nature of his superiority over a soy latte at anytime of the day or night.

To his credit, the director did everything he could to tame the zealot energy of their faith, but get down on his knees and cry, "I'm just a man! A flesh and blood man like you!" Having been through my people worship stage (that coincided with my lost youth and, perhaps, contributed to it) I felt tempted to stand up and the theater and yell, "Life's too short to waste creaming your panties for some guy who makes movies with way too many shots of middle aged white men clipping their toe nails!"

But I didn't because that would have been embarrassing. I also might have been killed.

Just for today, I abstain from people worship.

My boyfriend and I went to the Einstien exhibit today at a museum. We were sort hit over the head with the truth that the "greatest" thinker of the 20th century was a raging sex and love addict (i.e. womanizer for non-12-step-speak). The museum had all the letters he had written to his mistresses on display, as if the curators were trying to advertise the fact that we need to all take the crazy-haired dude down a couple of notches. Well, it worked. I arrived all ready to go into people-worship mode for the man who said that "imagination is more important than knowledge. But I left feeling that Einstein was, yet, another overrated white man with some charm, good ideas and a lotta confidence.

Why he gotta go and be like that?

I'm still waiting for someone that I can, like, really worship, you know? Like, Jesus, only without the cult following. It's hard to live in the land of celebrity culture and rugged individual when everyone with an iota of genius turns out to have the character of a reality television scapegoat. I know, I know....my parents were just human beings and I need to practice the art of forgiveness...but I'm kind of done with the people worship (does this mean I'm old?).

Just for today, I don't need anyone to look up to ('cept myself).

Last night I attended a small soiree (does anyone know how to add accents with Safari...please inform!) at a house that had been occupied by Robert Blake (the acquitted defendent of the murder of Bonne Bakley...in case you've been living in a cave). I won't say when he inhabited this abode, but let's just say that a name tag survives as proof of his occupancy. After I used the commode, I asked the owner, "Did Robert Blake sit on that toilet seat?" Apparently, he did not. What was stranger than almost having sat on a toilet seat once sat on by Robert Blake, was my dissappointment that this was not the case. I hid it well, though.

Robert Blake interests me not because he seems to have reached some high plateau of spiritual evolution (why you might think that, I have no idea...but we're dealing with a bizarre reality here), but because people who live lives that veer so far from what Americans call "normal" or (from what any culture would call normal), really interest me. For instance, take Carrie Fisher. How does one get to become the daughter of two famous actors and go on to star in one of the highest grossing, most-publicized, phenomenally seen films of all time (not to mention that she woke up next to a dead gay Republican a few months ago...was I the only one who read about that?). I won't even get into Michael Jackson (but oddly enough, he did enter this very same house at one point in time). THE POINT IS (and I do have one) that there's gotta be some force (no Star Wars pun intended) working here to create the hyperbolic lives these people live while I sit here in my boring life and write about it (I did splurge on a de-caf latte this week - which DOES have caffeine -...bad, bad girl, that I am).

Perhaps these people make me feel better (isn't that the point of famous people, to make us feel better or worse about ourselves?) during those times when I wonder why I was born into difficult circumstances. They make me realize that what I had was small fries; alcoholism, divorce, and parental disputes are one thing, but throw in being famous and having enough money to buy a lot of drugs...and having people you've never met want things from you. That sounds way harder!

Robert Blake, Michael Jackson, Carrie Fisher...and all others (Oprah, all the kids from "Different Strokes"...) God Bless their humanity. I'm not arguing their innocense or guilt, I just feel for a pain more painful than my own.

Just for today, I can have compassion.