Tonight's unexpected dessert - the black things are walnuts.
As far as dates go, tonight's was a pretty good one. Brenda is smart, funny and engaging, and if I leaned just a little bit more towards the whole Woody Allen thing, I'd be really interested. As it stands, well ... we'll see.The evening (sans date) began with dinner at Randy's - despite having recently emerged from the hospital, he rallied to make a killer chicken stir fry with cashews and a cous cous he'd prepared in homemade broth. Knowing Randy would go down for the count early, I arranged to meet my date for a drink afterwards. (When I say "meet" I mean that literally - Brenda and I had exchanged a few emails and spoken on the phone, but never actually met). The chosen spot was Vinoteca in Los Feliz, but I'd barely arrived when I realized I'd forgotten my wallet (classic Karen, unfortunately). No cash, no cards, no nothing. I sat in my car for a good minute or so deciding what to do next, then took out my cell phone and dialed.
"Hello, Brenda? You're taking the 134 to the 5, right? Good, well ... I was thinking, how do you feel about a change in plan? Turns out Vinoteca is a total scene tonight - it took me forever to find a place to park. And then there's the part where I forgot my wallet ... Would you be up for going a few more exits on the 5 and having a drink at my place instead?"
It's a good thing she said yes, since I was already halfway back to my house by the time I finished my spiel. Fifteen minutes later she arrived, a cute Jewish woman with an excellent sense of humor and a serious allergy to dogs and cats. I sequestered Sydney, Callie and Mojo (they were not amused) and we sat at the kitchen table and had a drink (no wine for Brenda, who's allergic to the tannens in wine. She instead had a Cointreau and Soda, even cutting herself a nifty French Twist with a lime peel).
We began talking and telling stories, and when she noticed the fruit on my table (a fancy selection given to me by one of the families I tutor), she suggested baking some pears. Right then and there. I liked that about her. Ten minutes later, after being dolloped with butter and sprinkled with brown sugar, walnuts, and cinnammon, the pears were in the oven.
Brenda was sweet and complimentary as we talked, and impossible not to like. I definitely got the impression she was interested. Did I feel a similar attraction? I'm not sure ... maybe. I'd certainly go on another date to find out.
The pears were delicious.
The Lighting of the Tree - 2006
For three years now (ever since I moved into my house), I've watched the woman pictured above make her daily walk around the neighborhood.Her pace is slow but steady, and her expression never changes. I've never seen her talk to anyone, carry anything, depart from a location, or arrive at one. I've never seen her stop walking, either.I've wanted desperately to take her picture, but I haven't for two main reasons: I don't usually carry my camera around, and I feel weird asking strangers if I can take their picture. I also worried I might offend her.I was driving home from my final goodbye over at George's on Friday when I saw her ... and this time, I had my camera with me. I guess my sadness made me bold, because I stopped the car alongside her, rolled down the passenger window, and asked if she'd mind if I took her picture.She spoke no English (and I know like, 50 words in Spanish), so maybe that's why she thought I was asking her to take a picture. She nodded - and reached out to receive my camera - and I snapped one shot. "No, I meant I wanted to take your picture," I said at roughly the same time. I suddenly felt guilty, like I'd stolen something.She stared at me for a moment, shrugged, and continued on her way.When I saw her again this afternoon, she smiled at me.
A Final Look Out George's Window - 2006...
When I was a kid, my family moved a lot. Florida, Virginia, New York, Colorado ... when someone asks me where I grew up, I never know quite what to say.As an adult, I've also moved more times than I care to remember. Since coming to Los Angeles 14 years ago, however, I've actually been pretty stable - I've only moved six times. It always sucks. Even when you're happy about where you're going, it's stressful. Watching George and Jackie prepare to move over the last few weeks has left me empathetic. It's also left me a lot of stuff.As he's been paring down to take off, George has been gifting me all kinds of cool belongings. It's a random assortment that's dribbled in as he's made tough packing choices: a half-dozen books, a painting he's had since high school, an antique meat scale, a gazillion This American Life shows on tape (all handmade), the extra-special 1977 presidential plate (featuring all 38 Commander in Chiefs, with Jimmy Carter in the center), an antique wooden mini bar (with amber glass decanters) ... the list goes on.The best gift of all, though - without question - is Door Monkey. I just noticed him tonight, sitting in the bottom of a box, smiling up at me with one hand raised in salutation. I picked him up and smiled.Door Monkey has been stationed next to the door at George's house for as long as I can remember. George's keys were generally hung on DM's hand - or, on occasion, tossed into the foot dish. When George used to wear a watch, I think I remember seeing that there, too, and sometimes, Door Monkey was in charge of George's wallet. He had a lot of responsibility. I guess that's why he wears the top hat.I was surprised George had gifted me Door Monkey. When I called him up and asked why he was letting him go, George said something about having had a lot of good years together, but it being time for someone else to steward him. When I mentioned that I didn't have a place for Door Monkey by my door - and that maybe he'd have to become Desk Monkey - the idea was gently shot down. Apparently, Door Monkey has a job to do, and if you deny him this job, well, George says he can't be responsible for the "mischief" DM might get up to.So ... I guess I'll be finding Door Monkey a home near my door. I actually kind of like the idea, because then, every time I walk in or out, I'll think of George.It's funny how one little thing - a strange little monkey, no less - can make a big thing somehow easier to bear.
I like that I can say "I've lost 40 pounds." It sounds so much better than saying, "I've lost 39 pounds."
I don't know why ... it just does.
Another parent gave me a box of chocolate today ... can you believe it? (I'm tempted to roll out the "fucktard" label, but I won't.)
I went out to my goodbye dinner with George and Jackie tonight. I'm going to miss them both in ways I can't even begin to think about. There were moments during dinner in which I was dangerously close to tears ... but I maintained. Why? Because (of course) I am not one to be maudlin.Well, until I think about the fact that I ate and drank 100 points. Seriously. But it was a great dinner, and worth every second I'll spend making up for it over the next 6 days (if that's even possible). I can't believe they're leaving on Friday. George was supposed to be here forever.
Sometimes, when you can't find the right art, you just have to make it yourself. I went on a date yesterday and actually had a pretty good time. We played pool during Happy Hour, and the games were fun. The conversation was lively. The girl (Alice) was cute, bright enough, and had a good sense of humor. On paper, we should have hit it off. But there was no romantic spark. None. Seriously - when you've each had a couple of drinks and you're still not flirting, well, that's just a serious lack of chemistry.It got me thinking about my take on the laws of attraction, and what it is I'm looking for. Then, on the drive home, it hit me: Alice was a nice girl and all, but nothing about her hit any of my bells (and, apparently, I hit none of hers). I wasn't picturing ordinary bells, though - they were those bell and hammer games you play at the county fair. You know, when you use a hammer to smash a platform as hard as you can, the goal being to make the little metal thingie shoot all the way up and ring the bell.I think four Hammer Bells need to ring in order for there to be a true connection: Emotional, Physical, Intellectual, and Companionship.Or, if you want to make an acronym out of it (and you know I do) ... A four-bell person is E.P.I.C. (there can be Epic Girls and Epic Boys; this is a theory that crosses gender and sexuality lines). An Epic Connecion is rare indeed, and if you're lucky enough to stumble across one, you know it in your bones.What needs to exist for a particular bell to sound?The E-Bell looks at a wide range of emotional issues, from basic kindness and compassion all the way over to stability (no mental cases, please), maturity (no drama queens, thank you very much), and sincerity. The ability to process a problem quickly and efficiently is also key.The P-Bell is the most obvious. Does the thought of kissing this person make you feel all melty inside? Do you even find his or her physical shortcomings attractive? And, at the end of the day, is this someone you simply like looking at?The I-Bell covers basic smarts, self-awareness, the depth, range and power of conversation, and the degree to which the person is both interesting and interested. Are you challenged, intrigued, surprised and confounded? Does the potential exist to grow in directions that might actually keep it that way?And then there's the C-Bell: Companionship. This one's about the day-to-day - the level of basic compatibility when it comes to everything from workday routines to shopping to vacations. Is this the first person you want to see when you wake up and the last one you want to see before going to bed?Granted, it's tough to know on a first (or second or third or tenth) date whether or not someone is Epic. But you can generally tell pretty damn quickly when someone isn't. (As a believer is all things idealistic and romantic, I suppose I should add that yes - I do believe in rare cases of love at first sight. I swear, it's a fucking miracle that I don't believe in unicorns and the magic of rainbows).Hey, if nothing else, the Epic Theory makes it easy to rate a date.She was a two-bell girl, but in the other two categories, she barely registered.Well, he only hit one bell, but since it was the P-Bell, I went home with him anyway.That date sucked - she didn't even have a hammer!
And then, there's ever elusive:
Holy shit - I think I've met someone truly Epic!Hope springs eternal ...
The Bottom of the Bowl - 2006
Log Jam - 2006
Butter's never met a stream of water he didn't want to attack.I tried not to get all worked up during my walk with George and the dogs today - I tried not to think about the fact that in two weeks, he'll be gone.
I succeeded on the outside, anyway.George and Jackie (and Butter) have found a place to live up north. Movers have been arranged. Belongings have already started going into boxes. It's definitely happening. They're going.The walk was also tough because it was the first I've taken with George in 13 years that didn't include Hawk. Denny was there to run up and down the hillsides after his ball (which he lost 10 minutes in), but Hawk's absence was certainly felt.I know everything will be fine. I know George and I will see each other, that our friendship will survive, that when friends become family, they last forever.I'm going to miss him something awful.
George earlier today, flanked by Desi, Butter, Sydney, and Callie (the one with all the junk in the trunk).
"In the Library" - 1974 One of my favorite students - a second-grader named Jackson - came running out to my car today to tell me he was a finalist in a district-wide writing competition. The story, about a boy who changes places with a macaw and then doesn't know what to do when the macaw refuses to change back, was inspired by his summer trip to Brazil, and the friendship he formed with a macaw that lived in the hotel's outdoor lobby.
When Jackson found out his name had been printed on the district website, he looked at me and said - quite seriously - "I guess people are going to be asking for my autograph." (The kid just kills me. Later in today's class, when asked to write a brief biography of himself, Jackson's paragraph began: "I have faith in God. I believe in science. Also I like Dreyer's Double Mint Chocolate Chip ice cream.")
I completely understood Jackson's exuberance over his writing success. It's truly a thrilling feeling when someone (let alone a lot of someones) responds to something you write.
When I was 11 years old, my elementary school spent big bucks on a new library, and to get everyone excited, they offered a cash prize - and publication in some silly kid's magazine - for the best student poem about the new digs. The librarian (oh-so beautiful Miss Northwood) took me on a tour, after which I sat down and wrote my poem. I remember Miss Northwood reading it over my shoulder and laughing, impressed. It was music to my ears.
That night, on my parents' typwriter, it took dozens of tries before I got off an error-free copy. I won the contest, and the poem was published.
The poem was awful. Really truly awful. Jackson's macaw story is a whole lot better.
But that's really not the point. The point is how that dumb poem stands as one of the early milestones in my career as a writer. It helped solidify my love of writing.
Listening to Jackson today - hearing his confidence, how much he loves to write - made me smile. 
My family got even smaller this week with news that my great Aunt Ruth recently died. This brings the number of living blood relatives I actually know down to ... let's see ...
Three.
I've never had a whole lot in the way of family, partly because I don't know my father (or anyone on that side). I'm an only child, my mother has only one brother (who's crazy and single), there are no grandparents left, and what few second cousins I have are scattered and unknown to me.
I only met my Aunt Ruth and Uncle Jack five or six times, but because Aunt Ruth always sent me $100 every Christmas (and because she and my great uncle were multi-millionaires who owned a national chain of drugstores that still bears their name), they always stood out. Funny how money does that.
I used to fantasize about cozying up to good ole' Aunt Ruth in hopes that I might make it into her will, but truth be told, I never had the heart to follow through. Uncle Jack was a hardcore Republican, one whose views were too far right even for his home state of Florida (he spent millions trying to get elected governor back in the day, and he still couldn't win the election).
More than the money, I wanted the family (at least before I figured out the Republican thing). I wanted the connection. I've never been satisfied being an only child; growing up, I perpetually bugged my mother and stepfather to give me a brother or sister. I wanted someone to hang with, fight with, live with, travel with - I wanted a built-in friend. I also knew - even then - that I'd want a sibling as an adult. It was a lifelong bond I felt I was being cheated out of. When people said that joke about being able to pick your nose and your friends but not your relatives, I'd nod inside ... Exactly. I still do.
(Note: Given the wholly unsatisfying relationship my mother had - and continues to endure - with her little brother, I can't say as I blame her for seeing this topic a bit differently. I'd say her experience is, however, atypical.)My desire for a sibling (or two or five or ten) was best represented by my wholehearted devotion to a certain '70s television show. This was not a hip show (nor a particularly good one), but its gooey family themes struck a chord of desire in me that couldn't be ignored.
I'll never forget being in fifth grade art class one day when the teacher had us all stand up and say our favorite TV show before leaving class. Everyone else was choosing The Six Million Dollar Man, Land of the Lost, Emergency!, Kung Fu, Happy Days ...
When it was my turn, I stood up and said - with a straight face, completely earnest - "The Waltons."
Everyone laughed - even the teacher. It was one of those seminal childhood moments in which one realizes exactly what it means to be uncool. I cared, but I didn't back down. I just wanted all those brothers and sisters ... not to mention a white mule named Blue.
And so, in the immortal words of any one of the Walton clan, "Goodnight, Aunt Ruth."
A Most Unwelcome Houseguest - 2006
I don't usually steal ideas from other people's blogs, but when you read something and literally yell out "Me too!" you feel kind of compelled to thieve.
(It should be noted that this is the same blog that got me started on Johnny Cash, so I guess I've thieved there before, but why focus on details?)
Anyway, the entry touched on what would be the most desirable superpowers. The one that made me blurt out my camaraderie was about your eyes being able to take pictures.
I wish that at least once a day - hell, I'm so queer I even blink my eyes shut sometimes and pretend they're shutters. Then I try and see if the image is seared on the backs of my eyelids like an instant photograph. (No, I don't bob my head - i.e., shake it like a Polaroid - but I've thought about it.) Without question, eyes that take pictures is the power I most consistently dream of possessing.
Flying was mentioned as the other most-desired superpower, but I can't say as it makes my Top Three. Sure, flying would be amazing (and it would make my Top Five), but if I'm only listing three, then time travel would clock in at number two.
I daydream about time travel with frightening regularity. It's rarely in the context of wanting to go back and change something; it's more about seeing places, time periods and people that are no longer available to me. For instance, I've always wanted to walk the streets of London in the mid-1800s. I long to wake up at my grandmother's house in Virginia Beach so I can bask in the early morning sun that spills through the picture window facing the ocean. I'd like to see Nick Drake, Nirvana, and the Doors play live. I wish I could hang around Los Angeles circa 1950. I want to spend the afternoon with Emily. The list goes on and on. I almost never fantasize about traveling into the future.
My third superpower choice is less set in stone than the first two, and might be different if I wrote this post tomorrow. Right now, though, it would be to become invisible at will. I realize this superpower has a potentially creepy edge, but when I think about being invisible, it's not to spy inappropriately (well, not usually, anyway). No, I think about getting into sold out, pricey or otherwise off-limits events. I think about thwarting the Heisenberg Principle (the act of observation alters the reality of that which is being observed). I think about disappearing in moments of danger, and the freedom that would allow. I think about making it look like stuff is floating. And that's just the beginning.But most of all, I wish my eyes could take pictures. I realize that's what memory is - the ultimate mental slide show - but to actually hold and look at life's fleeting moments, well, that would really be something.
Do As They Say, Not As They Do - 2006
Pipe Dream - 2006
Mildred was a mean and nasty witch. She never combed her hair, never took a bath, and never tied her shoes. Her face was covered in warts. She lived up on a steep hill in a little house.It was the night before Halloween, and Mildred was happy because she ruled Halloween. Mildred liked being in charge. Then she looked out the window, and in the distance, she saw some faintly flickering lights. They seemed to be getting closer. Were they basket balls? Oh no, they were Jack-O-Lanterns, and they were coming fast! Mildred hated the Jack-O-Lanterns because she knew they wanted to rule Halloween.Soon, she heard a knock at the door. She knew who it was: The Jack-O-Lanterns. Mildred opened the door and there they were. The Jack-O-Lanterns hated Mildred as much as she hated them. They said, "We challenge you to a war on Halloween night, and whoever wins gets to rule Halloween."Mildred knew she had no choice. "Fine," she said. "I'll do it." Then the Jack-O-Lanterns left, and Mildred thought, "Halloween is tomorrow night!" She had to get ready, so she went to the Halloween store and got a new broom. Then she went to bed.In the morning, Mildred put on her scariest outfit and got ready for war. She waited until night, then she said three magic words and set off.When she got to Halloween Street, she saw the Jack-O-Lanterns and landed. They were ready for war. The the war began. Mildred said a magic spell and two candy bags appeared in her hands. She threw the candy at the Jack-O-Lanterns, and the Jack-O-Lanterns threw candy at Mildred. Then the Good Ghost appeared and said, "Stop this war everyone! It's Halloween, and you're supposed to be nice like always." Mildred and the Jack-O-Lanterns stopped the war and thought about what to do. Then they said sorry to each other, and suddenly, Mildred's warts disappeared and she became nice.Mildred and the Jack-O-Lanterns were friends forever, and lived happily ever after.- Written by Shannon, Age 8 (Second Grade), 10-06Images From the 'Hood:
Carefree - 2006
Em Bat tled - 2006
George swings for the fences. Apparently, the end of the batting cages was just the beginning.
I can't imagine life in Los Angeles without George. I met him the first week I moved here, way back in August of 1992. Depending on the era, we've been classmates, writing partners, daily confidantes, traveling companions, stoners, opponents, neighbors - at one point, we were even estranged (I blame a particularly bad phase with the Ex).In short, George has always been my best friend here. He's been my family. I'm not exaggerating when I say I life without him would be ... less.I guess I'd better get used to the idea, because I found out yesterday that George is leaving Los Angeles in December. He and my housemate Jackie are moving to the Pacific Northwest to begin the next phase of their life together.Am I happy for them? Sure, in the same way you're happy when people you love get offered their dream jobs ... in Hong Kong.I wish I had something insightful to say about all this, but I don't. Not yet, anyway.For now, I'm just trying to adjust, trying to accept that the world as I know it is about to change in a big way. Sea change, indeed.
I sometimes wonder when coffee conquered the market as the non-alcoholic dating beverage of choice. Where did people go before there was a coffee house on every corner?One of these days, when someone suggests meeting over a cup of coffee, I'm going to respond with something random like, "How about grabbing a cup of guava instead?" If I'm lucky, they'll think I said "java" and it will lead to a moment of confusion. Or maybe I'll just suggest meeting over a glass of milk ...I suppose I'd better not try this out on someone I might actually be interested in. They won't think I'm funny ... they'll just think I'm weird (or a dork, or both). They might not be wrong.But I digress. My point was going to be that I went out on a low-key date tonight, and yes, we met over coffee.As you know by now, I have at least one red flag in advance of nearly every date I go on. This time, it was age - Justine is pretty much jailbait at 29. I decided to go anyway because she's bright, she's a writer, she lives close by, and she seemed to have a spark of personality.I was right on all counts. We had a nice conversation, and I guess I have to admit that her laid-back British accent made it all the more entertaining (I know, I know - I'm an American cliche ... but come on, it's a nice accent).Anyway, I was glad I went. Were there sparks? Well, I can't speak for her, but on my part, I'm not sure there were enough to overcome the part about being born in 1977.Oh well, if we do decide to see each other again, maybe I'll try out the guava line ...
Mojo in the yard, waiting for prey.I'm a dog person. I've never been a cat fan. The only reason I even have a cat is that when I was visiting Bambi 10 years ago, Mojo (who'd been recently saved from death at a shelter) was being abused by another cat in the house. Mojo insisted on sleeping with me while I was there, and she won me over. I took her home on the plane in a box.It hasn't always easy for Mojo. Over the years, she's had to put up with a houseful of dogs and, for the first few years, she didn't get nearly enough attention. Then, somehow, she won me over - she's an absolutely amazing cat.There's only one thing ... she likes to kill mice and then leave them around the house (she manages this even though her original asshole owners had her front claws yanked out). Despite the fact that dead mice in the house completely grosses me out, I reward her behavior because live mice in the house is even worse. I'm glad she keeps them away. This morning, however, was a bit much. I'm walking to the bathroom - in bare feet - when I step on something and feel two sensations: liquid, and the crunching of tiny bones.Yes, Mojo had left a mouse in the hall. I almost threw up on the spot, and I couldn't get the residue off me fast enough (I hope both Fantastik and 409 sprayed directly on the skin don't cause a rash ... so far, so good).I would have gingerly collected dead mousie and thrown him away on the spot, but I must confess that I chose another route. Thanks to the influence of one of my favorite websites (www.whatjeffkilled.com), I carried him outside and took detailed autopsy photos. (Said photos are down below - do not scroll down if you don't want to see them. Seriously. They're pretty disgusting.)Jeff is a huge orange cat who wandered into the lives of three people who live here in Southern California. He doesn't live in the house, but he considers their property his. Jeff also happens to be a killing machine who catches a wide variety of critters (mice, squirrels, snakes, lizards, even rabbits - I wouldn't be surprised if Jeff took down a coyote). After decapitating and disembowling his kills, Jeff eats everything but the head. He kills so often - and so publicly - that Jeff's caretakers started photographing him in action ... and then they made him a website. Even better than the photos is the writer's unbridled glee. "Poor bunny," it will say under a photo of Jeff killing a rabbit. "Poor, poor bunny" it will say as Jeff begins to dismember it. "Delicious bunny," it will say as Jeff begins to eat.I know ... it's disgusting. It's wrong. It's repulsive. It's terrible. And it's great. Jeff has become incredibly popular, and even has a Myspace page and an Amazon wish list (it's 100% cat products). For those who object to anything Jeff-related, there's a wonderful bit of writing in the website's FAQ that puts the entire exercise in perspective. You should read it.For me personally, there's a delightful side benefit to all this feline carnage. After stepping on a dead mouse today and then photographing it, I couldn't even think about eating for hours. I feel the same way after looking at whatjeffkilled.com - food becomes the farthest thing from my mind.Today was the day I chose to kick my ass back on track with the diet, and I did very well. I clocked in at 24 points (26 is my maximum), and tomorrow is going to be just as low and will also include both exercise and 64 ounces of water. I feel more excited about the diet than I have in a long time. I firmly believe the Harvest Moon had something to do with it, but so did Mojo and Jeff.See that? Cats aren't so bad.
Frozen Grapes Rule - 2006
Hard Headed - 2006
The Honor System - 2006
I'm the last person who would try and convince anyone that marijuana is good for you. And, like most things people tend to find pleasurable - alcohol, sweets, coffee, etc. - too much is a guaranteed bad idea.That's the primary reason I decided to give up pot for the year. I was smoking way too much of it, and I knew it wasn't healthy. It wasn't good for me physically (regularly inhaling any type of smoke into your lungs isn't wise) and it wasn't good for me emotionally.That doesn't mean I don't like it, and it doesn't mean I don't miss it. That's all yesterday's post was about - me missing something I'd always enjoyed.That said, I was surprised at the number and tenor of the comments generated. I respect and appreciate the views of everyone who reads this blog - a seemingly diverse collection of people from various countries and backgrounds, to say the least - but I do want to respond to a couple of ideas that were raised.First of all, with regards to pot, I've never said what I will or won't do when this experiment ends for one basic reason: I don't know. In an ideal world, I'd be able to smoke once in a while. Why? Because I enjoy it. Then again, that might be a slippery slope, and the last thing I want to do is go back to being a daily (let alone multi-daily) pot smoker.Second, it was mentioned as an aside that pot kills brain cells. Well, no matter how widely this is believed - thanks to years of propaganda - it's simply not true. There is no credible, scientific study, nor has there ever been, that proves marijuana kills brain cells. Consider this 2004 article published by none other than M.I.T.:Government experts now admit that pot doesn't kill brain cells. This myth came from a handful of animal experiments in which structural changes (not actual cell death, as is often alleged) were observed in brain cells of animals exposed to high doses of pot. Many critics still cite the notorious monkey studies of Dr. Robert G. Heath, which purported to find brain damage in three monkeys that had been heavily dosed with cannabis. This work was never replicated and has since been discredited by a pair of better controlled, much larger monkey studies, one by Dr. William Slikker of the National Center for Toxicological Research and the other by Charles Rebert and Gordon Pryor of SRI International. Neither found any evidence of physical alteration in the brains of monkeys exposed to daily doses of pot for up to a year. Human studies of heavy users in Jamaica and Costa Rica found no evidence of abnormalities in brain physiology. Even though there is no evidence that pot causes permanent brain damage, users should be aware that persistent deficits in short-term memory have been noted in chronic, heavy marijuana smokers after 6 to 12 weeks of abstinence. It is also worth noting that other drugs, including alcohol, are known to cause brain damage.
Again, I'm not saying pot is good for you, and I would never suggest that getting stoned in my off-time makes me a better writer, teacher, or thinker. I also respect a person's right to believe what they choose about pot and the effects of pot ... I just think it's important to remember that a belief isn't necessarily a fact.
I'm grateful to every single person who reads this blog. I hope that in the end, I don't disappoint you.
I hope I don't disappoint me.
The bounty from my single plant. I still haven't tried it, but those who have tell me it's pretty damn good. In case you're wondering, the pieces of orange peel keep things from drying out.For the past few weeks, I've been totally missing weed. You know ... bud. Ganja. Smoke. Machinery. Grass. The Kind. Pot. Cheeba. The Green Goddess. (I could go on, but I won't.)
I have no idea why I'm talking writing like this. Maybe because babbling like a dumbass makes me feel that much closer to being stoned?
Sometimes I really can't believe I haven't smoked in 306 days. I mean, I'm truly shocked I haven't caved even once (uhm, Radiohead at the Greek Theater, anyone??) It's actually kind of weird.
I have total confidence, however, that I'll hold out for as it long as it takes me to reach my goal weight. For whatever reason, I'm just ... solid. I won't cheat, and I won't break.
That doesn't mean I don't think about it. I think about preparing the clear glass bong with cranberry juice (adds a sweet flavor and keeps the glass from getting dirty), crumbling off a small bud, firing it up, inhaling, holding, exhaling ... and then, almost instantaneously, catching the emotional equivalent of a magic carpet ride. Certain things will be skewed as I float through my altered space, but not in a negative way. They'll just be slightly different. A little bit funnier. I'll notice moments from off-center perspectives. My thoughts will go places they don't normally go, and all of a sudden, I'll find myself laughing at some silly thought I can't believe I just had. That will in turn lead me to another thought, one which I will think might actually constitute a stroke of brilliance. (Unfortunately, out of 100 such thoughts, 96 will be later revealed as somewhat retarded. The other four, however, will indeed be good ideas.)
After maybe 45 minutes of these pleasant driftings, the reality of whatever moment I happen to be in will slowly start creeping back to the forefront, and eventually, life will return to its normal, everyday state.
That's just one scenario - I could have written about getting stoned with someone else, being stoned in public places, being stoned in movies, being stoned at ...
You get the idea.
I do miss it, but like I said, I don't worry about slipping. You would think, though - given my nostalgic waxing - that if nothing else, the desire to smoke again would push me to lose weight faster.
Then again, maybe that's exactly why I'm not losing weight faster.
Hmmm ...
