Day 158: Cashed.

Until recently, if I used the term "cashed" it meant the bowl was spent. Whatever had been loaded into the pipe, bong or one-hitter was gone, and only ash remained in its place. Alternatively, it meant I was spent, as in exhausted.

Now it means something different. To be "Cashed" means to have finally figured out that Johnny Cash is cool.

I know, what took me so long? It wasn't the Joaquin Phoenix/Reese Witherspoon movie - I haven't seen it. And it wasn't that I'd never heard of him - of course I'd heard of him. I used to be a music critic. I knew he was the Man in Black, I knew he was married to June Carter, I knew about the prison connection, and I knew basic songs like "Ring of Fire" and "Walk the Line." I certainly didn't think Johnny Cash wasn't cool - I just didn't think about him one way or the other.

Then, three weeks ago, I read a blog entry written by Molly, a friend of a friend. It was about Cash's "At Folsom Prison" recording, and it focused on a specific moment before the song "Jackson." Johnny asks June to come on stage and sing with him, and after she says she'd love to, and that she's "glad to be back in Folsom" (seemingly unaware that being back in prison isn't necessarily a good thing, the blogger comments), Johnny says, with complete and utter sincerity: "I like to watch you talk."

The blog writer goes on to say:

i like to watch you talk. is there anything more romantic than that idea? the notion of being so enamored, so enthralled by someone that the simple act of watching them talk is a source of pure joy? you can hear the happiness in johnny's voice when he says it and you can tell that he, at that moment, has nothing but june carter on his mind.

Maybe because I'm such a hopeless romantic, I was immediately smitten. I went out that very afternoon and, even though I'm poorhouse broke, bought "Folsom." (Unfortunately, Amoeba didn't have any solo copies of "Folsom" - I had no choice but to drop $28 on "Johnny Cash: The Collection," which also includes "At San Quentin" and "America." Why am I so obsessive that I couldn't order it on Amazon for $7.97 and wait a few days?)

Anyway, I began listening to "Jackson" as soon as I got in the car and then continued the lovefest once I got home. The romantic moment may have been what drew me in, but the song is what made me put iTunes on "Repeat One." Talk about ripping up the floorboards - I had no idea June Carter's voice was so incredibly ballsy. The final refrain, in which the pair explodes into a final "We got married in a fever," still sends chills rippling down my spine every time.

Since then, I've spent quite a bit of time with the rest of "Folsom," too. I love the first song, "Folsom Prison Blues" - and not just because I finally know where the line "I shot a man in Reno just to watch him die" comes from. "I Still Miss Someone" pretty much guts me, "Cocaine Blues," like "Jackson," is impossible not to sing along with, "Give My Love to Rose," sweeps me up in its longing, and I forgive "Dirty Old Egg-Sucking Dog" (and even laugh with it) because, despite its threats against a canine, Cash winningly introduces it as a love song to man's best friend.

But for me anyway, "Jackson" is still - hands down - the high point.

One of the great things about music is that there's so damn much of it. There's always something new - or something old - to blow you away. A month ago, I never would have imagined that I'd be playing a Johnny Cash record with such incessant fervor - and that's exactly what makes it so great. I should probably be embarrassed that I managed to go all these years without truly understanding Cash's importance (four years as a music critic, no less), but I'm not. I'm just grateful that I'm listening to it right now.


From the liner notes Cash wrote for the 1999 reissue.

Day 157: Chemistry Rules.

I never took chemistry in high school. The farthest I got was biology, after which I discovered a loophole through which I could drop-kick science and math and load up on AP English and AP History classes instead.

In addition to shining a bright light on some of the gaping holes in my knowledge base, this might explain why I'm both fascinated and confounded by the laws of romantic chemistry. It's not the physical attraction stuff that sidelines me - I get that we're physically attracted to some people and not others. That makes perfect sense. But the "why" behind the deeper levels of chemistry that exist between two people (or don't), well, that's a constant source of consternation.

I bring this up because, since returning from Hawaii, I've been out twice with a woman named Leslie - she of the coffee date that resulted in my messy and non-linear post (Day 137). She's attractive, bright, stable, interesting, loves dogs, and we have physical chemistry. We've had several excellent conversations and some very nice banter. But in the moments that matter most to me - when there's nothing to prop up a human connection besides spontaneous interaction manufactured out of thin air - I find myself bored. On paper, she's great - but the deeper chemistry, the chemistry that exists in the lulls, already feels strangled.

Why? All of the elements are there - she seems to have all the right stuff - so where's the Lull Moment Chemistry?

I'm tempted to blame the fact that my heart is elsewhere, but that's not it. That might explain why I wouldn't want to get serious with someone right now, but it doesn't address this "deeper chemistry" thing.

My greatest fear, of course, is that my expert Inner Saboteur is rearing her nasty little head. Remember the Seinfeld episode in which Jerry is confronted with the fact that he can find any excuse imaginable to dump a potential relationship? I think one flaw he cited was that a date's middle toe was longer than her big toe. That was enough for Jerry. So maybe this whole "Lull Moment Chemistry" shortcoming is actually fueled by my own bullshit. Maybe it's the result of my need to find something wrong. Like ... is it really so bad that someone would choose to install wall-to-wall carpeting? Or that she hates talking about politics? Or paints the walls boring colors? Or uses the word "pooches" when referring to dogs? Or doesn't talk about books enough?

I guess it is, because I know how I feel when the Lull Moment Chemistry is truly clicking (not to mention effortless). I know what it feels like to look forward to every single word that spills from someone's mouth, and to be delighted by the fact that what actually comes out is different (and far better) than what I'd imagined. I know what it feels like to be talking to someone and know that there's no other person on the planet I'd rather be talking to.

I like Leslie - I really do - but I worry that there's already an expiration date on our time together. I hope I'm wrong, but I'm probably not.

Tonight is Grace's 40th birthday party, and, thanks to the fact that she won the immigration green card lottery last week (she's Irish-born and grew up largely in Australia), she has two reasons to celebrate. I'll spend the evening surrounded by a gazillion West Side lesbians (Grace is far more connected to L.A.'s fashionable power dykes than I am), and as I mingle, I'll be contemplating the laws of attraction and the nature of chemistry. I doubt I'll figure anything out, but hey - you never know.

Day 156: Bambi in Wartime.

Kaiten, The WWII Japanese Suicide Torpedo. It's not phallic - it's just shaped that way!

I have a new favorite word. Kaiten (kai-ten) means "to make a radical reverse in the course of events," and I think it's just surpassed ichiban as the best-ever Japanese import word. (Well, maybe not, but I like it a lot right now, anyway.)

I heard kaiten for the first time last week, when I found myself in an unlikely place with unlikely company.

I was visiting Pearl Harbor with Bambi (Day 15, Day 69).

Bambi is (among other things) a yoga enthusiast and instructor, a musician, a former vegan (okay, it was a short-lived pursuit), technical director for a large acrobatic circus in Waikiki, and a liberal. She doesn't spring to mind as someone who would find a massive military display to be riveting. And yet, there she was, poring over the exhibits, rapt in the museum, listening to every word on the headphones as we toured the USS Bowfin Submarine. The Bowfin, which was first launched in 1942, now sits anchored in Pearl Harbor, and it's decked out exactly as it was 60-odd years ago.

Truth be told, Bambi kinda digs the hardware. Maybe it's the military genes in her family, but she's just that sort of girl. It's yet another stereotype-shredding aspect to her persona that makes Bambi one of the coolest people I've ever known.

We hadn't intended on going to Pearl Harbor - we'd been meaning to go on a hike. Bambi's friend Fawn had kindly procured a van for the morning (I had to be at the airport by noon), and the three of us were off to have an adventure. After stopping at Eternity Beach, however, we found ourselves running short on time, and the decision was made to scrap the hike and visit the infamous harbor (which happens to be near the airport).

Like Bambi and Fawn, I didn't expect to be so moved by what I saw. To be honest, while I respect the service of people in war, I'm more likely to be involved in an anti-war protest than pay much attention on Veteran's Day.

(Okay, that's a lie. I'm more likely to talk about being anti-war than actually get my ass downtown for an anti-war protest. I wish I could say otherwise, especially if we're talking about the current war we're stuck in ... In fact, I say "kaiten!" to my pattern of political laziness and hereby vow to attend a protest before this blog ends. There.)

Speaking of Kaiten, which was where this entry began, it's also the name of a Japanese suicide sub, and one of them sits on display in Pearl Harbor. It was fascinating. I peered inside (they've made little windows on the sides), looking at the cramped slot where the pilot would sit, wondering what they must have een thinking about in those final seconds before they sacrificed their lives for what they felt was right.

It got me thinking about 9/11, and the current memorial that's being debated and planned in New York City. I wonder if, among the exhibits, there will be imagery and artifacts related to the terrorists, Islam and the Middle East. Pearl Harbor is filled with information about Japan as well as America (at least overtly, it's a lesson in history, not patriotism), but for some reason, I can't see that same approach being taken at Ground Zero.

Maybe I'm wrong. I hope I am. As I wandered through the overwhelming number of exhibits in Pearl Harbor - letters written by doomed seamen in the days before the attack, a battered life ring from the USS Arizona, videos about the Japanese mindset - I felt more pride in my country than I have in a long time (like, a really long time). No one had to hit me over the head or present just one side ... I simply looked at what was and felt my heart swell.

Side note: I didn't have time to take the boat out to see the underwater remains of the USS Arizona. I wish I had. Next time.

Fawn and Bambi aboard the USS Bowfin.

Sleeping quarters in the front section of the Bowfin - sweet dreams above a live, ready-to-load torpedo.

Day 155: Skinking Up the Joint.

It's been a long week - and an even longer night - so I'm taking a dive.

I leave you with one of my favorite pictures from the recent trip - I don't know whether to call it "Beauty and the Beast" or "Petal to the Mettle." Samantha was the one who noticed the little creature, and he (she?) was kind enough to remain in place while I got my camera up and running.

It's the tail that really gets me (i.e., creeps me out ...).

Be back tomorrow.

*Note: If you read the comments and are confused, know that the original title of this post was "This is Not an Ad for Geico."

Day 154: Knock Me Over With a Feather (194).

Croissants. Lobster salad. Cheetos (puffed, never crunchy). Red Wine. Potato pancakes. Banana cream pie. Moonfish stuffed with crab. Weird purple dinner rolls. White wine. Island chicken and mashed potatoes. Part of a cheeseburger and way too many chili cheese fries. Rasberry Milanos. Omelettes. Potato chips. Twizzlers. Margaritas. Ginger snaps. A deep-fried side of breaded beef.

Okay, I didn't eat a side of breaded beef in Hawaii (which is a really gross thing to have written), but I most definitely inhaled everything else on that list (you try counting points at a place called "Cheeseburger in Paradise," or sitting next to a kid in the car who's eating the puffy kind of Cheetos).

As a result, I didn't even want to go to my weigh-in today. I wanted another week to make up for my cullinary crimes. Unfortunately, George had forewarned that if I wimped out, he'd leave a snarky comment.

And so, I went.

As usual, there were the Wednesday Morning Rituals to cycle through. When you're dealing in ounces, these things matter. Said rituals include the following:

1. Eat nothing prior to 9:30 weigh-in.
2. Wear linen pants and linen shirt (the lightest clothes I own) and nothing else (for propriety's sake, I wear a jacket that's taken off at the moment of the weigh-in and then put back on).
3. Drink a nonfat latte as early as possible to make sure that ... well ... let's just say it cleans out the system.
5. Check that I am wearing no jewelry.
6. Remove clogs before stepping on scale (no socks).
7. Go to the bathroom down the hall from the meeting minutes before weigh-in (just to make sure the latte is gone).
8. Do not shower or wash hair on weigh-in morning.

Needless to say, I'm looking mighty hot by the time I step on the scale.

When I walked into the little weigh-in room this morning, I shook my head sadly. "This is gonna be ugly," I said to Regina, who runs the scales. "It's gonna hurt." I took a deep breath, stepped up, and couldn't believe it when I'd actually lost half a pound. Talk about shock.

"Funny how exercise actually works," George said dryly when I saw him later this afternoon. An obnoxious comment? Yes. But it's true. In Hawaii, I was constantly swimming or walking or hiking or just plain moving.

The answer, then, is clear.

I need to move to Hawaii.

Day 153: The Hike From Hell (It Hurt So Good).

I'd only been friends with Samantha for a short time when she asked me if I wanted to go for a run with her. "Just a short one after school," she said. "Come over to my house and we'll go from there." At least that's close to what she said - after all, this was 27 years ago.

I'm not sure why I said yes. I mean, Samantha and I had less than nothing in common. She led the most popular clique in school, whereas I was a transplant who'd just arrived that year and knew no one. She'd done the whole "debutante-cotillion-homecoming queen" thing; I'd done the whole "smoke pot-start drinking-be kinda slutty" thing. She was an athlete with tremendous self-confidence; I was a slacker who thought I was the smartest person alive but loathed my body. Her boyfriend was the quarterback of the football team and a future Olympic skiier (Bill, to whom she's now married); my boyfriend was ... Oh yeah, I didn't have a boyfriend. Not unless you count that dorky guy with glasses - Craig - a mercifully brief affair that ended after we made out on his bedroom floor one day while he played "Come Sail Away" over and over again. I was not impressed (though I do still like that song).

Anyway, I said yes - something about Samantha rang true and sincere and important. I showed up at her house in the only pair of shorts I think I owned, and off we went. We only ran maybe two miles, but they were fast miles - after all, this chick ran indoor and outdoor track and sprinted like a goddamn greyhound.

I refused to admit I couldn't keep up ... so I kept up anyway. My lungs burned like they were on fire. My legs cramped. My head began to pound. I felt like I was going to throw up. I refused to stop because personal pride meant more to me than physical pain (those were the days, huh?). We finished the run and that was that. Samantha never knew a thing - not until many years later, when I told her the truth. She still likes to laugh about it.

Last week, history repeated itself when I not only agreed to but actually feigned excitement for a 6.5 mile hike into the Kauai rainforest.

If you know me, you're laughing. I can hardly bear to drive six and a half miles. And these weren't just any 6.5 miles. This was the Awaawapuhi Trail, which is described by trails.com as one that "descends to the edge of the sheer cliffs and razor-edged ridges of the Nualolo and Awaawapuhi Valleys. Rating: Difficult."

Shya, right. For me, more like "life-threatening."

The 3.25-mile hike in was mostly downhill, and it rained the entire time. It was so foggy we couldn't see any of the views, there was mud everywhere, it was chilly, and it was slippery. We didn't complain much, though - after all, it was an adventure. The highlight (on the way in) was when we came across a herd of wild mountain goats. It was eerie and unusual and extremely cool.

Once we reached our destination, it was still too foggy to see much. We decided to sit for a few minutes and rest anyway ... and then a miraculous thing happened. The fog suddenly lifted as if some Hawaiian god had blown it away, and there - a mere 2,000 feet below us - was the ocean. The drop was staggering ... and stunning.

We sat around admiring it for a while - I wanted to stay even longer, since I knew there was only one word to describe the walk back out: Up-fucking-hill.

Of course, I was the only one besides Tina who found this difficult ... and Tina's six. Samantha and Bill barely broke a sweat (not even when they took turns carrying Tina most of the way), Napoleon pretended to complain a little but then ran the last quarter mile just because he was excited, and Josephine, who's nine, grew tired of the wet and muddy conditions, but really didn't have much trouble with the distance or the terrrain.

This is what happens when you travel with the fittest family on the planet.

For 3.25 miles, it was 1979 all over again. Even though my legs were dying and my head hurt, I plodded stolidly along. For the first time in a long time, personal pride mattered more than physical pain (though I will admit to being just a little bit jealous of Tina's free ride. I know, I know - she's six).

When we finally got back to the car, I was so thrilled I almost kissed it (okay, so i did kiss it). And then, once my relief passed, I felt only one emotion other than exhaustion: pure satisfaction. Seriously, I haven't felt so victorious in a long time. The hike was long and hard and it hurt ... but I'd definitely do it all over again.

Just maybe not, you know, any time soon.

The view down the side of the trail as we hiked back out.


Samantha, last week in Maui. Unrelated to the hike, but since she's featured in this entry ...

Day 152: Fit For a King.

Tina (6), Napoleon (11) and Josephine (9) develop some prime Maui real estate.

There were plenty of amazing Hawaii moments with the Marshall clan, from the 6-foot shark Bill and I accidentally came across while snorkeling too far from the boat (yikes), the 6.5-mile mountain hike I thought might kill me (more about that later), the mouth-watering meals (Weight Watchers who?), the giant sea turtles we swam with ...

But I'm not sure it gets much better than sand castle day.

The six of us woke up early one morning and went down to the beach with one goal in mind: erect the coolest sand castle ever. We had no plan, no one was in charge, and everyone participated. We just started working, and after two hours of toting water, sculpting sand and scavenging palm fronds, we'd finished our mansion. It began with a grand entrance near the water, included moat-protected pathways leading up to a common area, and then featured both a bridge and final ramp that led to the Master Suite. We even had a jail (just in case).

Nobody walked past our castle without stopping to comment. Kids gawked. Tourists took pictures. We basked in the glow as if we were the Maui Trumps.

I'm incredibly grateful that Samantha and Bill would take me along on such a beautiful vacation. The snorkeling, the hiking, the food, the hotels - it was all perfect. Being so completely accepted as one of the family was even better.


The castle's common area. In the background, you can see the ramp leading up to the Master Suite.


Once Napoleon found out there's a secret underground jail in Disneyland that some call "The Mouse House," he made one for our castle by digging a deep pit and covering it with palm fronds. He and I now have a plan to visit Disneyland (neither of us have ever been) and figure out an acceptable crime that will get us thrown in the real Mouse House. Any suggestions?

Day 151: From Eternity to Here.

This morning I was staring at the spot where they filmed the famous lust-on-the-beach scene in From Here to Eternity.

Now I'm staring at my computer screen. What a difference 12 hours make.

I'm glad to be home (there's nothing like two insanely happy dogs to make you feel missed and welcomed), but what a wonderful trip. Details to follow when the hour is not so late.

Before I hit the pillow, though, I have to thank my most-excellent Guest Bloggers. Wow. Your posts were wonderful ... funny and smart and moving and hugely flattering. Yes, I'm a cornball for saying this, but I feel so very lucky to know the people I do (and Mom, your entry got me all teary - what you wrote was beautiful).

Okay, time to sign off now. My dogs are staring at me, waiting patiently to tell me everything I've missed.

Until tomorrow ...

Day 150: King of the Hill

I suppose I’m one of Karen’s many friends who has told her that if she wants to really lose some weight and keep it off she’s going to have to do some exercise. Not so shockingly, this kind of talk annoys Karen. Oh, but I wasn’t saying she should – dog forbid – sweat. No, all I suggested is that she should walk her canines. And from what I understand she’s actually been doing a lot more of that lately, which is incredibly encouraging. Karen’s got a couple of great hounds and when they’re running free, those dogs light up.

She mentioned in an earlier post how I guilt tripped her into walking by lamenting how jealous I am of her for having two healthy dogs who can still run circles around her. Oh, if only my beloved dog Hawk could still go on long walks ... While I’m certainly not above using guilt as a motivator, it was also the truth. You see, Hawk is twelve and weighs in at 115 pounds and while he’s still vibrant and very much full of life, he doesn’t get around quite like he used to.

It’s not so much a case of regret. I’ve known for many years to enjoy every moment I spend in the park with him. I knew there was an expiration date, I just didn’t know when. I suppose wishing we could still walk like we used to is more a case of gluttony, because those insanely beautiful days where he’d blaze trails up and down the hills of Los Angeles’ Griffith Park made me happier than any drug ever could. I wish we could go on the long hike through those hills one more time, but those days are pretty much over, the expiration date has arrived. Sure, we still go to the park sometimes, but never for too long, never too far.

The thing is, I don’t like walking without Hawk. It just makes me think about him sitting back home wondering why he got left behind. I see the other dogs at play and wish he were there in the mix. And when I return, he knows I cheated on him. He smells the park all over me and I’m busted. Sometimes I feel like my life is measured by the ways in which I can avoid disappointing that dog. But in then end, the truth is - the pleasure I get from walking is the pleasure I get from seeing Hawk be all the dog he can be.

We are blessed in Los Angeles with an incredible park system - lots of hills, trails and room to roam. And like much of this paradoxical town, while Griffith Park is an excellent place to be alone, there’s also quite a community to be found up in those hills. One of the more interesting people I’ve met is Sol. He’s 90 years old and walks in the park everyday even though he’s pretty much blind. The LA Weekly recently wrote a very flattering profile of him in their “people of LA” issue, crowning him “King of the Hill.” Click here and check it out. www.laweekly.com/la-people-2006/king-of-the-hill/13183/

I suspect we could all learn a lot from Sol. Sure, he’s a bit of a philosopher, but it’s his actions that resonate with me - his commitment to a daily ritual that enriches his life. (Dog knows, it’s easy to follow rituals that don’t enrich our lives.) Maybe someday I’ll find the same sort of solace (no pun intended) that Sol finds up in the park without the company of my faithful hound. But, more likely, it’ll be with another dog, not the one who’s splayed across my feet right now as I type these words. But no matter what, in my eyes, the real king of those hills will always be Hawk for he taught me one lesson over and over each time we walked those hills. A lesson that we all know, yet so easily forget. Enjoy the moment while it lasts ... and don't step on any rattlesnakes while you're at it.

- posted by George

Day 149: The Drugs Don't Work

When I first told Karen what I was planning on writing about, she said she’d kill me. So instead, I have no choice but to write about how Karen’s experiment has probably affected my relationship with her on a more tangible, mind-altering level than it has with anyone else she knows. You see, Karen and I are drug buddies – well, at least we were until she embarked on this project and swore off the reefer. From the first time we hung out at film school until last Thanksgiving the vast majority of the times Karen and I got together, we’d light up. It was hardly spoken of, it was just what we did – smoke pot. And we were pretty good at it, too, although as I think about it, I would frequently have to remind Karen to actually hold the smoke in her lungs if she wanted the drug to work. Oddly, for someone so good at reading people, Karen isn’t the best listener. Maybe that’s why she took to smoking all day long for six or seven years running – which was news to me, by the way - it takes work to get high when you smoke pot like you’re smoking a cigarette. I’m reminded of the scene in Easy Rider when Jack Nicholson gets high with the hippies for the first time and Peter Fonda counsels “You’ve gotta hold it in your lungs longer, George.”

Look at me, now I’m George. Which is appropriate, since in the scheme of things I imagine I’ve learned a lot more from Karen than she has from me. Oh sure, I’ve taught her a thing or two about baseball, but that hardly compares to the insight she regularly offers into little topics, like, say, the human condition.

So now when we hang out, obviously we don’t smoke anymore. And, sure, sometimes we both miss the nice glossy sheen it puts on the day. But really, it wasn’t hard at all. Like Karen’s mom noted in her guest entry, she suspects that Karen high isn’t much different than Karen not high. Well, as usual, she couldn’t be more right. Sober Karen’s pretty much the same, although I suppose the pot does take a bit of the edge off when her anxiety meter is running into the red zone.

Smoking pot, it turns out, isn’t so much addictive as it is a habit - a repetitive rut easy to slip into. My personal smoking habit has been on the decline for the past several years as I’ve come to realize that for me marijuana is an anti-social drug. It tends to shut me down on the outside even while the inside of my head is bouncing off the walls. And now with Karen on the sidelines, practically none of my friends smoke anymore and I’ve found it’s generally no fun being the only stoned person in the room … unless I’m literally the only one in the room. Then it’s still pretty fun or, at the very least, makes watching television palatable. In a social situation, the problem I have with being high is that I feel as if I’m part of the conversation, but then I realize I haven’t said a word. It was all in my head. With Karen, though, it was different, I never felt that way. It felt like we were riding the same wave. But it also felt that way when we didn't smoke. Basically, Karen is the sister I always wished I had.

So, I guess it’s not really right to say Karen and I were drug buddies because it sort of implies that once the drugs were taken out of the equation we weren’t buddies anymore and, thankfully, that couldn’t be further from the truth - not then and not now. We still do all the things we used to do. As always, we still talk for hours about nothing and everything. So as an homage to Karen’s obsessively compulsive need to wrap her entries up with a nice clean bow, let me finish by saying Karen’s experiment has shown us just how strong how friendship really is. Oh no, we don’t need drugs to amuse ourselves, not us … but without backgammon, baseball, TV, writing, politics, the general desire to deconstruct everything and our dogs, well, we might have a problem.

- posted by George

Day 148: College girls, hot professors and me

When you are almost 36 years old, as I will be tomorrow, you only go back to school if you are really freaking serious. There’s no way in hell you’d otherwise subject yourself to being surrounded by empty-eyed eighteen-year olds all day every day. I have a friend who amuses herself by trying to convince me that the girls on our campus are hot, but I refuse to play the role of the lecherous old dyke. That’s just wrong, y’all.

And anyway, when I see these nubile young things lolling about on the quad like so many sun-baked hounds, I think one thing above all:

I want to turn the hose on them.

Clearly I’m getting more curmudgeonly by the day.
(Word recommends “curmudgeonlier” –thoughts on that, anyone?)

But older women, now that’s a different story. I have a professor we’ll call HC (short for Head Crush - Karen shout out #1). This woman is so smart it hurts to look at her. Also, she is funny, harsh, lovely, neurotic, desperately uncool, unbelievably difficult and – to me – just one of the hottest things around. And I know we all learn differently, I know about “multiple intelligences” and all that, but I’ve noticed that there’s something to be said for a touch of the erotic in pedagogy. It works on my own students, too (these are college students, ok, I’m not advocating flirting with middle schoolers). But because this woman is so hot, I kick my own ass to impress her. I can’t hand in a pile of shite if she’s going to read it, right? I don’t want her to think I’m stupid; if she thinks I’m smart, I might get to keep flirting with her, in spite of the fact that she seems completely unaware of it. (Shout out #2 to Karen, who referred to this woman’s oblivion as “her Helen Keller way”.)

Which acknowledgement of Karen’s fine phrasing brings me to my own how-I-met-Karen story. I met her in January through Craigslist, while perusing the w4w ads looking for a place to watch the L Word. (please note that I’m not claiming not to read Craigslist ads at other times.) If any of you have ventured into that women’s personals territory, you are probably now (if you weren’t already) rabid tax-and-spend liberals, at least when it comes to education –

because the women in this city CANNOT WRITE OR SPELL. jesucristo, people. It’s unbelievable.

OK, but there was a post called “The difference between ‘you’re’ and ‘your’”. Now that kind of snottiness is irresistible, as bad spelling and grammar are huge turnoffs but also cause for hilarity, right? (the reverse, or inverse, or chiasmus or whatever is also true). Oh man. And I wish I could quote it here but don’t remember, except that it did lay out rules for usage and then propose, in a wonderfully cheerful tone, that people “try it in a sentence”! I had to respond. My first contact with the lovely Ms. K began, “Dear Literate Craigslist User”. She wrote back and told me that being called literate turned her on. Flirtation ensued, then abated. Eventually we met, we clicked, we watched the L Word and laughed our asses off, we walked, we talked on the phone about our obsessions, I fell wildly in love with her dogs…
and, having lived here only since August, I feel especially lucky to have met this one so quickly. And if you aren’t lucky enough to live in LA, or you’ve only met Karen through this blog, or you’ve met Karen but you haven’t seen her in a while, you should know this: the girl is looking good.

and that's what's up.

Day 147: Jell-O, Forever Wobbly

Karen called me from Hawaii today, worried that I wouldn't make my deadline.
"What, you haven't even read the instructions yet?!"
Never mind that during 20 years in the newspaper business, I never missed a deadline. Neither did Karen, as I recall.
"So," she continued, "what are you going to write about?"
Jell-O, I said.
"Noooo!! I already wrote about Jell-O! I want you to write about how you can read the blog. Everyone says, 'I can't believe your mother reads the blog!' "
Well, OK, but I'm still writing about Jell-0.
"WHY?"
Because I have a different point of view.
(Brief silence.)
"Oh. You're going to make me look bad."
No, silly.
"Hmmm."

So, for openers: How can I read the blog?
Well, I don't mean to play dumb here, but what's the problem?
Potty mouth? Please. Though I did tell Karen she should save the f-word for emphasis. Constant repetition debases the coinage.
Dope? Old story, though I was surprised to learn how often. Sigh. But my guess is that Karen stoned is not all that different from Karen not stoned -- still talking, maybe just a little more slowly. I don't know for sure. She doesn't smoke around me, a delicacy I appreciate.
Sex? Being shocked that your children have sex is a lot like being shocked that your parents have sex. What, you thought YOU were the only one?
And love? As I told Karen on the night she officially "came out" (in a crowded restaurant, probably so I wouldn't shriek), love is where you find it. It's rare to find it anywhere. Don't pass it by.

I do wince at the blog's occasional howlers (a recent one: "soley"). Happily, Karen's writing is rarely flabby and never dull. Even when she's obsessing about something (or lately, someone), she has an excellent ear for what her writing sounds like. Her inner editor kicks in and she revises until her ear is satisfied.

So far, however, only one thing about the blog has really bothered me: Karen's Jell-O theory of life (Day 127).
"We're all born as different kinds of Jell-O ... When we're born, we're in a liquid state, and we're placed in a refrigerator to set ... There's no such thing as a do-over ... We only have two choices: we can either spend our lives hating the way we've set ... or we can learn to appreciate the imperfections."
This is extremely important, even if the Jell-O thing makes it sound silly. (Sorry, writers are supposed to capitalize Jell-O and use the stupid hyphen and capital O. Like Kleenex and Xerox, the word is a trademark, even though it sounds generic. And you'd never want to say, "The Gelatin Dessert Theory of Life.")

Karen arrived in the world as herself, not as a watery mixture of gelatin and food coloring. She was a good baby. She started walking and talking very early and never looked back. She loved stories. I read her Kipling's "Just So Stories" -- "How the Elephant Got His Trunk," "How the Rhinoceros Got His Skin," "The Cat Who Walked by Himself." They're exotic, wise and mesmerizing. Once you hear about "the great grey green greasy Limpopo River, all set about with fever trees," you're hooked. And: "I am the cat who walks by himself, and all creatures are alike to me."

I bought Karen picture books to show her the world. She loved dinosaurs best. She knew their names by heart at age 3 or 4. "Brontosaurus!" she would shout, pointing at its picture in her book. "Apatosaurus!" "Stegasaurus!" "Pterodactyl!"
She loved being with other kids. She loved parties. She loved ice cream and cake. She hated cleaning up her room and being an only child.

The point is, she didn't set like Jell-O in a refrigerator. She had and has a DNA set of propensities, as we all do. After that, things happen. Things change. Nothing ever sets, not permanently. Everything is dynamic. Which, when you think about it, is good news. We're not stuck with some solidified, permanent self we are powerless to change. Think of the Jell-O (if you must) as changing and wobbling all the time.

The first lines of the "Dhammapada," the sayings of the Buddha, are these: "We are what we think. All that we are arises with our thoughts. With our thoughts we make the world." Most of our thinking, of course, is not very smart. It's full of delusion, ego and grasping. But if we keep trying to think as honestly as we can, we get better at it. Our inner editors can observe carefully, see our flaws, change them, remake ourselves. It's a world of vast possibility.

Karen is the best example of this I know, her Jell-O theory notwithstanding. What is this blog but an effort to remake herself -- in front of an audience? And I'm not just talking about the dope and the fat. I see her thinking about herself and her life in new ways, always pushing, pushing, until things make more sense. I like that about her.

An early warning: Karen says that Hawaii is too wonderful for her to count Weight Watchers points there.
Makes sense to me. The weigh-in can wait.

Posted by Mom, 11:50 pm.

Day 146: Messy and Non-Linear Redux

I could just kill her. I swear.
The anxiety of the last month has taken its toll and the day is finally here. I am the kind of person that dreams regularly about being in the high school play and it is opening night, I haven't learned my lines and nobody has a script.

She said it would be easy!!
Write about ANYTHING! Well in my humble estimation it is a hell of alot easier to write about something than just plain ol anything. But she wouldn't even give me an assignment. At first she asked me to write for half of her vacation break(4 DAYS!). When I asked her who would be following me she replied nonchalantly ..."Oh George..." (for God's sake: George is a scriptwriter, her former writing partner, a published author and numero tres in the Cinco Grande) My heart started to pound.
What about the 'invisible' and, might I say, judgemental audience! The comment section is one of my favorite parts of the blog! What if someone thinks I'm stupid. Or worse yet what if no one comments at all? What will 'michael' think?? My palms were sweaty.

Have I mentioned that I am not a writer?

I said I would do one day only because I love her.

I first met Karen in the early 1990's here in Rochester, NY where I still live.
She was the music critic for the large daily newspaper and I was the photographer for the alternative news weekly. We were at a birthday party for a mutual friend who owned the bar where we both hung out. Someone introduced us and gave us the job to write some kind of birthday speech together and that was it. We totally bonded over way too many cocktails and much later that night, when I was to drunk to drive home , she said I could sleep on her couch. This was WAY back in the "Garp" days. She talked about him that night ( the out of town boyfriend) but even in my drunken state I very clearly remember thinking 'this girl is gonna hit on me'. She never did. (Thinking back now, I'm sorta insulted....What was wrong with ME?)
just kidding.

I have never met anyone else who I have become instant best friends with.
Just like that. It is a rare and fortunate thing. We called ourselves 'evil twins seperated at birth' and we were pretty much inseperable from then on (well, until Sophie came into the picture! and then it was the three of us) It was the most carefree and wonderful time and it lasted less than 2 years.

I will never forget the day she told me that she had been accepted to the American Film Institute and was moving to Los Angeles. Yeah, I think she actually drove out of town three days before my 30th birthday. Double whammy. We remained close and in touch until the late 90's when she slowly started sinking into a 'black hole' of a relationship...the details of which are still sketchy even to me. The last time I saw her was in the Winter of 2000 a couple months before I got married. She wasn't able (or perhaps, wasn't allowed) to attend.

After that I resorted to reading her EBay item listings just to hear her 'voice'...
(that girl could sell icecubes to eskimoes, believe me.) Finally, there were several years of no communication at all. She didn't know I had a baby girl in 2002 and a baby boy in 2004.

So imagine my suprise when I get a call on a Thursday last August
saying "hey MK...I am in town until Saturday!?!? and I'd love to see you.
So of course I sped down to the lake to see my old freind and we picked up where we left off. No questions asked. Just like that.

I am so grateful that she has re emerged into the world with that wonderful voice of hers and is making such great progress in her 365 day experiment. Writing this single entry has given me a profound respect for what it must take to put it out there day after day after day. And with great relief that my duty is done I happily go back to being a reader.

Karen...please go down to the hotel pool bar. Get a float and order a 'Lava Flow'. Points be dammed.

Day 145: Grace's Musings

When Karen asked me to be one of her guest bloggers while she enjoyed a little break in Hawaii (wish I was there too) I was so excited!! Obviously I know how important this blog site & experiment is to my dearest friend & it kinda felt as though I was entrusted to caring for her baby for a day. Of course my head swelled with thoughts of being special enough to be invited to help that I didn’t even think twice before accepting. However, now on this first day of the guest bloggers I am filled with fear, anxiety & yes, even dread. Why on earth did I say yes? Apart from the fact that I am without question technically illiterate what on earth could I find interesting enough to write about? How could I be as witty, enlightening, funny or as brilliant as my friend, or the other guests? What if I can’t get the technical bit to work? The computer, the Internet, the pictures … ahhh what have I done to myself and to Karen’s amazing blog site? How could I have possibly agreed to something that could so easily be a complete disaster, and just to make matters worse I have no clue about blogs! I didn’t even know the term until about 12 months ago when I was in LA & enjoying an afternoon with K & George when he mentioned reading a fantastic blog entry. Of course I didn’t initially admit to my ignorance but after a while of not understanding their conversation I sheepishly asked … what’s a blog? They explained that it was a term referring to online journaling that was huge amongst Internet users and covered almost every topic imaginable.

Now I should explain that when I started high school in 1978 (an all girls Catholic convent, yes K would say that explains a lot) my desk was wooden and still had a hole on the right side that originally held an inkpot … I swear that’s true! The chair was attached to the desk, you know an all in one piece, not the best for the fuller figured girls in our class, and the top of the desk lifted up so that you could store all the schooling essentials underneath - pencil’s (I didn’t have an ink pen until year 10), rubbers (K & I had many funny experience’s of the fact that although English is the primary language in Ireland, Australia & the US it doesn’t always equate to the same translation. We discovered this about erasers at an office depot once, she was wandering through the paper section when I called out loudly – “do you need any rubbers?”), paper & various textbooks. In fact I think these desks are represented in the original “Goodbye Mr. Chips” (great old flick made in the late 1930’s, long before “Good Will Hunting”, “Dangerous Minds” or “Mr. Holland’s Opus”). Gosh I wish that I still had that desk today, it had carvings from girls indoctrinated decades before me.

Anyway, the point is that even in the late 70’s my school experience was just a little behind the times. I remember my first type writer, I was so excited to have one though my parents picked it up at a local school fete (the equivalent of a school fair, see what I mean about translations) it was produced before the arc and didn’t have any replacement tape, you can imagine how quickly my excitement turned to frustration. I managed to graduate to an electronic typewriter during my first year at University in 1983 (I dropped out of three separate degrees before finally finishing a fourth when I was 30 some 14 years later, yes I did start young) it even had an automatic erase button which I managed to break a month after purchase clearly from overuse. Thankfully Liquid Paper had been invented (White Out) but it’s hard to type a 5000 word paper with white stuff stuck to every key. I didn’t buy my first IBM computer until I was in my early-20’s and could never work out how to use it, all those F buttons, floppy disks, word perfect - it was as difficult to master as learning French (after 4 years at school all I managed was a sad bastardization of “parlez vous Francias” with a strong Australian/Irish accent. It didn’t help that my French teacher for three of those four years was a tiny Vietnamese nun whose English we could barely understand and every year she fell for the same juvenile tricks of us swapping desks, names and test answers. Though I did discover during those years of learning French that I apparently have a natural ability to roll my tongue, which has come into excellent use over the years). There were at least four parts to this computing antiquity including a screen, keyboard, various cables and a flat box that you inserted the numerous disks before ever getting anything that remotely resembled a legible word or two on screen. I eventually gave up trying to use it and left it to gather dust for many years before I finally donated it back to my old high school; I figured it was only fair to participate in assisting them to get up with the times.

My first experience of email was in 1995, which coincided with a job promotion. Fortunately as part of the new job role I had an assistant who was a computer whiz, so as embarrassing as it is to admit this today I hand wrote all my computer based responses and gave them to her so that she would arrange for them to get to were they needed in cyberspace. When I came to LA in 1997 it was the person who introduced me to Karen that finally forced me to have an email address and to overcome my fear of computers … it was an enlightening experience & one that I can’t even imagine not having access to now.

However, the point of this long missive is that although I can now use a computer with a little more competence I still harbor a deep fear of moving outside my comfort zone to learn a new computer orientated skill, such as writing a blog entry. My fear is so deep that last night I tossed & turned for hours dreaming about loosing a bunch of important papers, trying to put together a broken computer and letting down my dearest friend.

Hopefully I will manage to get it all together and I apologize to all in advance for boring the living crap out of you with my sad tale of retarded computer and internet skills. The anxiety attached to all of this writing is hard enough so there will be no amazing pictures (though I wish I had one of my old school desk) the thoughts of attempting that are just too overwhelming. If I manage to get it all together without calling George in tears begging for his assistance it will be a miracle.

Good luck to all the other guests, I look forward to reading your entries through the week.
Love Grace

Day 144: A Week of Guest Bloggery.

There was one thing I knew I didn't want to do while I was in Hawaii this week - I didn't want to write the blog every night. In fact, I didn't want to look at a computer, period.

That said, I also didn't want to let the blog go black.

My solution was to employ "Guest Bloggers" - people who'll post entries while I'm away. There are no rules imposed, so people can write whatever they want to. It can be about me, it can have nothing to do with me, it can be all about them, it can be a rant of some kind - it can be whatever they want.

Here, then, is a schedule of what you can expect while I'm away:

Monday, Day 145: Grace (Day 15)

Tuesday, Day 146: Mary-Kate ... Her no-nonsense comments have been sprinkled throughout the blog (in the comments section, also as MK) ever since it started. She and I have been friends for 16 years - we used to hang out when I worked at the newspaper in Rochester, N.Y.

Wednesday, Day 147: Mom ... (Day 5, Day 15)

Thursday, Day 148: Teresa ... (Day 81)

Friday, Day 149: George ... (Day 6, Day 104, Day 15)

Saurday, Day 150: George

So, there you have it - Guest Bloggers for your enjoyment. See you next Sunday!

Day 141: Supposing ...

SUPPOSING a nasty old fortune-teller told me I was going on a journey and just to spite her I stayed home for the rest of my life ...

When I was six years old, my mother gave me a book that (I'm pretty sure) changed the way I looked at the world.

"Supposing" was written in 1960 by a British poet named Alastair Reid, and it's the kind of book that probably wouldn't get published at all these days (in fact, it was never published again after its first run). It's just too wrong. "Supposing" taps into all sorts of secret childhood desires, from defying authority to being orphaned to just plain being right (I'm serious about the orphan thing, by the way - it's young kids' #1 fantasy).

I read "Supposing" over and over and over again, year after year. I'd re-read the text and stare at the weird pictures and get totally lost in the fantasy being proposed. In some ways, I swear it was like kiddie pot. It blew my mind.

The fortune teller was one of my favorites. On the one hand, I thought it was hilarious. But I also remember actually contemplating the notion of staying home for the rest of my life just to make a point. It may have been the first time I realized there was a price to be paid for taking a stand.


SUPPOSING I were a famous scientist and knew all about the stars and looked through my telescope and saw that the world was going to end next Sunday, and told the newspapers and government and everybody and they all made fun of me, and when Sunday came I had a big dinner with all my favorite foods and then sat at my telescope and just as I said the world ended ...

I'm sure the astronomer panel appealed to me because, as the only child of two professors (okay, and maybe because I was - and I repeat, was - a bit of a spaz), I almost never got to be right. I had to settle for having the best eyesight in the house ... whenever we were driving, and looking for a place or a sign or something, I'd be the one to spot it first. Mom would call me "eagle-eye." It always felt good. Then there was the whole "world ending" idea to consider ...


Left: SUPPOSING I had fur instead of skin ...
Right: SUPPOSING I looked in the mirror one day and saw someone who wasn't me at all and I said "Who are you?" and he said "Mr. Endicott ..."

The fur panel was wacky to me - and I loved the picture - but the Mr. Endicott business pretty much freaked me out. I distinctly remember looking into mirrors and being torn between desire and fear - did I really want to see someone else's reflection staring back at me? Kind of, yeah. The subject matter came up again years later when, as a 12 or 13-year-old, there was that whole "Bloody Mary" game (though not a game at the time, really) where you'd stand alone in a dark bathroom (your friends were in the next room) repeating words into the mirror that were meant to evoke some evil mirror spirit. Oy.


SUPPOSING I had a twin but we never told anyone and only went to school half the time each ...

A twin to go to school half the time for you?? Come on - who didn't have that fantasy!


Left: SUPPOSING I telephoned people I didn't know in the middle of the night and practiced my horrible sounds over the phone ...
Right: SUPPOSING I had a great house with valuable paintings and furniture and things and I came home one day and it was all blazing and burned down and people came rushing up to me crying and being sorry for me but I just laughed and took off my clothes and threw them into the fire ...

Regarding the horrible sounds: Yes, I have made prank phone calls in my day. Yes, this panel may have contributed. Yes, I probably would have made them anyway. No, I don't do it anymore. (Well, not often, anyway.)

Regarding the Right Panel: I still think that's one of the coolest human responses to tragedy I've ever seen in my life. I know - it's fake and it's a cartoon. But still ...


Left: SUPPOSING I read a book about how to change into animals and said a spell and changed myself into a cat and when I climbed on the book to change myself back I found I couldn't read ...
Right: SUPPOSING a very beautiful lady fell in love with me and wanted me to marry her but I just yawned and said "Maybe" ...

I read "The Chronicles of Narnia" about a thousand times when I was a kid (who knew they were religious?), so I always had fantasies about either talking to animals or becoming a talking animal myself. This taught me an important lesson: Memorize the return-to-human spell before you start the process. In fact, it's something I keep in mind to this day ... just in case.

As far as yawning in the face of a beautiful woman's desire, well, I still haven't got that one down. I'm working on it.


Left: SUPPOSING I told an inquisitive woman on the train that I was an orphan and had no family and when I got off the train and went over to where our house was, there was nothing but trees and nobody had ever heard of me ...
Right: SUPPOSING I stole old hair from a barber and sent it in parcels to people I didn't like ...

The Right panel - sending old hair to enemies - well, that's just too bizarre not to love. Even as a kid I thought it was a really strange thing to put in a children's book. Of course, that made it all the better.

The orphaned child ties with the fortune teller as my favorite supposing in the book. It wasn't that I wanted to be orphaned so much as I was both fascinated and terrified by the idea that we could control our own fate like that. Granted, I wouldn't have put it in those terms as a kid, but I definitely got that I needed to be careful what I wished for.

Those are just a few of the 30 or so panels in "Supposing" - and don't think I wasn't tempted to put every single one in this blog entry. The mere fact that a copy will run you $60 on Amazon bums me out (you can get a really banged-up one slightly cheaper on bookfinder.com). For a while now, I've been thinking about getting some color copies made and encouraging my students to create their own "Supposing" panels.

SUPPOSING I tried to write a blog entry without a final line that wrapped everything up ...

Day 139: Finally, Something Good on TV.

Some people call it Television Graveyard, others call it Television Hill. It happens to be around the corner from my house, and I never fail to get a kick out of driving past it.

For a long time, no one knew who was responsible for the impromptu installation. The decorated TVs started appearing in January of 2005, and over the next six months, the Silver Lake hillside became increasingly crowded. What made the site so perfect was the collection of 75-year-old concrete pillings; they're all that's left of an old trestle bridge and they make great TV stands. In July, when the TVs were abruptly taken down, the artist was revealed to be a local guy named Tomas Hinds.

Over the last month or so, Message Television has returned to the hill. And whereas Hinds' previous sentiments were largely random ("Make Art," "Stop Cellphone Abuse," "Find Rhythm," "True Friends Are Few," "Expect the Least," and personal favorites "This Too Will Pass" and "It's Not All Good"), his new batch is far more political.

Who can blame him? I know I generally avoid writing about politics here, but those of you who know me are all-too aware of how caustic my rants can get. My disgust for this administration is matched only by my shock that everyone isn't outraged.

I know it's only a matter of time before someone takes the TVs down again, but in the meantime, I'm glad to see them back up. They're garish, they're loud, they're an eyesore ... and they're great.


The picture below was taken in the very green Spring of 2005 by Los Angeles artist Tofer. I guess "Impeach The President" proves that the TVs have always been political - they just seem more so now.

Day 138: Illusions.

Taken yesterday, when the sun was hitting a bottle in my house just so ...

Last night's post was hard for me to write, but not because of the emotional terrain it covered. Feeling pain is hard for
me - writing about it isn't.

No, the torturous part came with writing something in 20 minutes, abandoning the structure I cling to, allowing myself only one editing pass, and ending the whole thing without an ending.

I wanted to rewrite it all day. There were repeated words and clunky sentences and the all-one-paragraph-stream-of-consciousness format was absolutely killing me. Talk about a solid sheet of grey.

The whole point, though, was to take a break from my comfort zone. Teresa came over last night, and I was telling her how I'd been trying to write about this date I'd gone on but was getting nowhere. My thoughts were too messy - it was the date and it was Maggie and it was me and I couldn't figure out how to make sense of it all and write a coherent post with a clear point. She looked at me a moment and then said, "So let me ask you a question. Who are you writing this blog for?"

It's a good question. My first instinct was to say I was writing it for myself, but that's only partly true. If it were just for me, I wouldn't care if anyone else read it. On the other hand, I'm stubbornly loyal to what I consider the truths I want to write about, even when that means painting myself in a negative, shallow, heartsick, ethically challenged, dumbass, or otherwise unflattering light (recent example: I still can't believe I outed myself as a thumb-blowing nickel thief).

The more we talked, the more obvious it became that writing is my way of trying to shape, convert and control chaos. Teresa's point was not to imply that I suck or anything (my writer's ego would have roared at that one), but to wonder if my structured approach is always necessary. Her gentle suggestion was to break out of my mold a little bit.

Containment and control are just illusions, anyway. I can write a post that figures everything out - and end with some pithy comment that brings my thoughts full circle - but that doesn't mean I've actually solved anything. Illusions are beautiful, but they're not exactly reliable.


... and then 15 minutes ago.

Day 137: Messy and Non-Linear.

A picture, an introduction, a beginning, middle and end, a concluding line that wraps everything up with a neat and tidy observation ... this is the bread and butter of how I write. It always has been. I break my thoughts into bite-sized paragraphs as a way to bring order to chaos. To shape a reality I can wrap my head around. The problem is that not every feeling can be contained, not every story has an ending, not every thought can follow a comfortable, linear line. Tonight I wanted to write about a date I went on the other day - a very cool and bright and attractive and funny woman who's quite obviously interested in me. We met for coffee, spent two hours talking, had a very nice time - and then I got in my car and cried. I want to see her again because I do like her, but at the same time, I already feel an obligation to tell her that I feel a total lack of true emotional availablity. I could easily spend time with her, and I'm sure we'd have fun, and maybe we still will. Like I said, I like her. But the truth is that despite all these great qualities I see, she's not her. She's not the person I truly want to be spending time with. I tell myself these feelings will change as more time goes by, but all I really hear is my head talking. My heart knows the truth. My heart knows that certain connections are so rare they stand up and scream at you and you just can't hear anything else.

Day 136: Nickels in the Sun.

It's always fascinated me how some childhood memories are stubbornly fuzzy while others are so crystal-clear you can close your eyes and roll film on the backs of your eyelids.

I used to think it had to do with how important the experience was at the time, but if that were the case, why do I remember something as silly as rolling down the
front-yard hill one evening and then realizing I had to hurry inside or I'd miss The Sonny and Cher Comedy Hour? (don't laugh - I was nine years old and thought it was the funniest show ever made).

All of which brings me to one particular memory that's been popping into my mind pretty regularly these past few weeks. It's of the crystal-clear persuasion, and (coincidentally, I think) it happened the same summer as the Sonny and Cher hill-roll.

I lived in Denver (my parents both taught at Denver University), and there was a girl named Laura who lived up the street. I thought she was so the shit. She had two older brothers, whom we worshipped, and every once in a while they'd let us hang out with them. Their names were Steven and David, and they taught us how to do really cool things like put our thumbs in our mouths and blow really hard until we almost passed out. (I know. Retarded. Did I mention I was nine?)

One afternoon, I was walking up the street when I came across a big glass jar of nickels sitting in the middle of the sidewalk. The bright summer sun was bouncing off the coins to create a thousand-watt light show, and I was immediately entranced. They were just so ... beautiful.

After several minutes spent staring, I looked around to see who the jar belonged to. There wasn't a soul in sight. And so, I squatted down, looked around one last time, and plunged my fist into the nickels. I pulled out a massive handful, then reached my other hand in and did the same thing.

When I stood up to walk away, Steven and David burst out from where they'd been hiding. "Aha!" one of them yelled. "We put those nickels out to see who's been stealing stuff from houses on the street, and now we know it was you!"

To say that I was mortified would be an understatement. Other than taking change from my parents' pockets (okay, and my mother's purse), I'd never stolen anything from anyone, and now I'd been branded a house thief. I immediately opened my fists and dropped the nickels, and they clattered and rolled along the sidewalk.

I don't remember what happened next - I probably ran home and hid for a few days (weeks?). I don't think there was any fallout from the Nickels Incident, and I don't recall my friendship with Laura changing (it was always a rough friendship anyway - she had another friend named Debbie, who lived one street over, and I tended to feel left out when Debbie was around).

The question, then, is not why this memory is so clear (the whole thing obviously freaked me out), but why it's been so front and center as of late. My kneejerk pop psychology answer has to do with wanting something bright and beautiful that isn't mine - like, I don't know, a married woman - but perhaps that's too easy.

I was hoping that by telling the story, the answer would become as crystalline as the memory, but that's not happening. I guess I'll just have to keep thinking about it.

Unfortunately, I'm the kind of person who equates not knowing the "why" behind something with Chinese water torture. I love when things are neat and tidy and wrapped with a bow - the unknown, as you might imagine, is a control freak's worst nightmare.

I guess that means this is good for me ...

But I don't have to like it.


When Laura visited the set of "Bonanza" that summer, she got her picture taken on Little Joe's horse. I thought that was even cooler than "The Sonny and Cher" show.

Clearly, stealing was a theme that year. Interestingly, I have no memory of the "Carlose (sic) Chair Theft" other than this letter. In fact, I have no idea who Carlose even was. Only one thing's for sure - Laura couldn't spell for shit.

Day 132: Everyday People (and Their Dogs).

Did I mention Vaguely Hot Long-Haired Chick and her Bouncy Flouncy Poodle?

The thing about walking your dogs on the same trail every morning is that you keep running into the same people. You don't actually meet anybody (other than to nod hello, comment about one another's dog, or maybe dog-chat for a few paces until someone breaks free), but a familiarity begins to grow.

In my mind, I start referring to the regulars by extended nicknames.

For instance, there's Studly Dark-Haired Guy and his Dopey Dalmation. Studly always offers up a cheerful hello as he goes by, and there's never any choice but to turn around and watch him disappear down the trail. He simply looks too good in the faded-out jeans he favors.

Then there's Frizzy-Haired Lady and her Really Old Black Dog. She's there without fail first thing every morning, and her dog is always game in spirit if not in body. He's friendly and happy and fragile and the woman clearly loves him to death. It breaks my heart a little.

One of the stranger Dog Trail People is Aging German Rocker and his Big Balls Airdale. Picture Gene Simmons in leather pants with a thick accent and you're not far off. His uncut dog wants nothing more than to mount any and all female takers, but Callie (my black & white collie) isn't interested. He's a very handsome Airdale ... I guess he's just not her type.

Now, Callie sings a very different tune when Quietly Cool Grey-Haired Woman and Scrappy Benji Boy come by. Callie wiggles and wags and practically throws herself at Benji (who's half her size). I, in turn, am actually a little intimidated in my brief interactions with Quietly Cool. Something about her is wise and down-to-earth and makes me want to appear, well, not stupid.

Then there are the hard nuts to crack, like Silent Black Guy with Two Corgi-Looking Dogs. I pass him twice every morning (he does two loops, which I guess I'll need to start doing soon), but he never says a word. He doesn't even nod. His eyes merely rise in silent acknowledgement as he passes. His dogs are much the same - they trot by without a second glance.

Sports Team Sweatshirt Guy and his Husky Shepherd Mix are also regulars, but as much as it pains me to say it, he comes off as the most boring guy on the planet. Oh, I don't know, maybe I'm being harsh - but just looking at him makes me want to take a nap. His dog has a far more interesting presence and might just have a better sense of humor.

I think my favorite Dog Trail Person, though, is Hispanic Woman Who Has No Dog and Never Stops Walking. She must make that loop three times, huffing and puffing along at a clipped pace, no canine in sight. I find myself hoping she gets lean and fit and healthy. I mean, even if she doesn't have a dog, she sure as hell works like one. I admire her drive to keep going.

There's only one person I ever have longer conversations with, but she's not there that often. Probably a Dyke with Two Happy Mutts tends to run into me right by the horses who live near the top of the trail. (There are neighborhoods that border the park, and the people who own the horses have the greatest spot in town.) Probably a Dyke is laid-back and washed-out, in her late 30s, and talks like she's still high from a few years back.

I could go on (Pretty Woman with the Prancy Rhodesian Ridgeback Mix, Stroller Mom and her Drooly Newfie, Stone Cut Jogger Man, Hipster Girl and her Designer Bogle [boxer/beagle cross] ...), but you get the idea.

I can't believe I ever thought going for walks was a grind. The people-watching alone is worth the price of admission. It does make me wonder, though, how someone else from the trail might refer to me ...

I think I'll go with "Friendly Chick Who's Getting Thinner Every Day and her Smart, Beautiful Dogs."

Day 130: Platero and Mom and I.

"Platero is a small donkey, a soft, hairy donkey, so soft to the touch that he might just be said to be made of cotton, with no bones. Only the jet mirrors of his eyes are hard like two black crystal scarabs." (Platero and I - Juan Ramon Jimenez)

Three shelves in my bookcase are dedicated to books I've had since I was a child, but not all of them are really mine. Some are my mother's.

Platero and I was given to Mom (according to the inscription) as a late birthday present on August 22, 1957. Along with the book, she received a stuffed donkey. Both the book and the donkey became favorites, and many years later, when she passed them on to me, they became my favorites, too.

Platero and I is a book of stories about a Spanish poet and his beloved donkey. The writing, elegant and heartbreaking, is of a caliber rarely invested in children's stories anymore. The Platero vignettes reveal fundamental truths about friendship and love and a whole lot more - it's no wonder author Juan Ramon Jimenez won the Pulitzer Prize for Literature.

Earlier, Mom was poring over the bookcase, one of my favorite spots in the house. I heard the emotion in her voice when she saw Platero, who lives on the top left shelf with a few of his stuffed buddies. Then, of course, she wanted to see her old book. As she read the opening lines, I could almost see her as a child, reading them for the first time.

I credit my mother for instilling in me my love of reading and my passion for writing. When I was growing up, she not only passed along her old books, she was constantly buying me new ones. She was also my first reader. It began with my first short story (written when I was six, a blatant Kipling
rip-off) and continues to this day (she'll be reading and offering ideas for The Falling Joys Day 87 Day 124 while she's here).

Having Mom in town right now (the trip was planned months ago) is a true case of good timing. Sure, I joked yesterday.
I decided to have fun with April Fools Day and make light of things. But as you know, it has been a tough few weeks.

Too bad. Mom has no patience for any of it. Repetitive angst bores her to tears, so wallowing in her presence is just not an option. Luckily, Mom is great fun to be around, which definitely helps. Tonight, for instance, Randy (Day 26, Day 38) came over and made dinner, and in addition to amazing food, the conversation was like verbal pinball. Funny verbal pinball.

I may have missed out on the whole Dad thing (Day 48), but I totally hit the jackpot when it came to Mom.

It's a gift for which I never stop being grateful.


The aforementioned bookcase. A few years ago, I just couldn't bear to put the lights from the Christmas tree away.


First short story. A spelling bee champ? Not so much..

Day 129: The Ultimate Stumble.

I guess it had to happen.

I managed to keep this going for 128 days, though, and that's what I need to be proud of. That's where my focus needs to be if I'm going to move forward.

My excuse, I suppose, if I'm allowed to have one, is that I've been through a lot these past few weeks. I can't even begin to describe the emotional toll of it all.

I guess tonight I just couldn't take it anymore.

The fact that I was where I was to begin with tonight was my first sign of trouble. I spent the evening with someone I used to have a more intimate relationship with. Someone who not only doesn't care about this experiment, but would be secretly pleased to see it fail. Okay, so calling her a friend is a bit of a misnomer - she probably never got over her anger at me for the way I ended things (despite her repeated promises to the contrary).

Like I said, I haven't been in a very good place lately.

Anyway, the longer the night went - the more I gave in to her - the more horrible I felt inside. And so I tried to make up for it the old-fashioned way: by drinking.

After a few too many shots of Patrone, I managed to rationalize myself into a place where smoking pot would actually be a good thing. "It would be cool to describe how it felt to be stoned after a hundred and twenty-whatever days without it," I told myself. "This way, I can do a whole
'getting back on the wagon' type of thing. No one will care. It will be better for the experiment. It will be better for me to have proved I can get back on track."

And so ... I did a bong hit.

No, strike that. I did six or seven bong hits.

I'm not sure I've ever felt such conflicting emotions in my life. I knew I would regret it, but at the same time, it felt so fucking good. Just to feel the smoke in my lungs, that familiar numbness sweeping over me almost instantaneously, the gentle ride of the long, slow, exhale ...

Oh, forget it. I can't even keep writing this.











April Fools.

Come on now, people - you didn't really think I'd fuck this whole thing up, did you? My mom is in town, and we had a lovely dinner and a very nice evening.

Heh.

I slay me.