Day 271: The Deep End.

Hawk spears a Trout ... 8-22-06

The Lovely Sally Nash came over and kicked my ass today.

Ms. Nash, as you may remember, is the personal trainer who came into my life thanks to Grace, who gifted me with a series of sessions to kickstart my excercise program.

Sally doesn't mess around. She's good. Not only does she make me do things I don't want to do, she makes me feel good about doing them. After 45 minutes of lifting stuff and making repetitive motions and riding the bongo board for two minute intervals, I was tired and sweaty and my muscles were in total revolt.

I took it as a sign from above, then, when George pulled in just as Sally was leaving. He was on his way to take Hawk swimming, so I did what anyone in my position would do: I made him take me with them.

You may remember Hawk from George's guest blog entry back in April. He's an amazing dog, unusual and kind and gentle and (not for nothing) one of the best canine athletes I've ever seen. I've known Hawk since he was 6 months old (he just turned 13 last week), and over the years, I've watched him charge through ocean waves, chase balls up hillsides, drag logs (and small trees) through the woods, and twist into the air to grab Frisbees with the agility of a dog half his size.

Now that his back legs have begun to let him down, he doesn't do those things any more. The spirit is willing (it breaks your heart just how willing), but the body just can't keep up. Swimming in a friend's pool doubles as exercise and physical therapy, and George takes him over at least twice a week. I've never known a more devoted dog owner - and I'm not sure I've ever known a happier dog.

What really gets Hawk moving is the motorized trout. You push a button on the fish's belly and it swims all around the pool, taunting Hawk to swim out and spear it. He huffs and he puffs and he doesn't give up until his mouth is full.

Watching Hawk in action today made my heart happy ... and also made it a tiny bit heavy. Cliched as this may be, it really does seem like yesterday that he was young, powerful and fearless. We both were. The idea that either one of us would get old was a reality that existed in a future far, far away.

Making the most of right now isn't something I'm always good at. I spend far too much time reliving the past (those were the days ...) or escaping into the future (things will be better when ...).

Watching George and Hawk today, there was no place to be but right there. George is well aware that their time together is ultimately limited, and he certainly makes the most of every moment they have.

Now, if I could just find a way to have that same relationship with me, well, I might really be on to something.

Hawk on the beach, 7-98.

Day 268: Day of Rest.

Secret Orange Panel - 2006

Day 263: Dating Has Always Been Complicated.

When I was 11 years old, a boy named Mike Love (just like the Beach Boy) declared his feelings for me with a classic Will you go with me? Check 'Yes' or 'No' note. There were little boxes beneath the choices and everything, and if I hadn't had to check a box and give it back, I'd have the note to this day (oh, how I wish there had been fax machines and scanners back in 1974 ...)

Mike's note had come after a brief courtship consisting of one date (my first). He'd taken me for ice cream after school, and I don't remember anything about it except sitting on the banks of Oatka Creek with our cones.

What I remember more clearly was my agony over whether or not to check box "Yes" or "No." Mike may have been nice and cute, but he was a good foot shorter than I was. I was by no means tall; he was simply tiny. And while I hate to admit this, that sort of thing mattered in the 5th grade. I didn't like Mike enough to overlook the height thing (or my own insecurities), so I checked "No," and that was the end of that.

This formative experience tells me two things about myself. First, I can be truly shallow, and two, when I'm not smitten, I know it.

Since becoming single just over a year ago (after more than six years in a relationship), I've probably met 15 women for dates of one kind or another. All have come about through online means, and of the 15, I've only really flipped over two (Maggie and Heather). In each case, I immediately knew I was totally smitten. It wasn't something I had to think about, or weigh, or consider, or examine ... it just was. In fact, I can count the times I've been 100% smitten in my life on one hand (well, I could if I had six fingers).

My date last night had many good qualities (smoking hot was right near the top of the list, if I'm being honest), and we definitely had a good time. But I knew right away that I wasn't smitten and never would be. If we see each other again, it will be to have some fun - it will never amount to much more than that.

I was supposed to go on another date tonight (when it rains, it pours), but I postponed it until tomorrow. I just couldn't face another one so soon.

I definitely have to go tomorrow, though - the manicure and eyebrow wax is only going to last so long.

More early dating drama - a letter home from camp in 1975:

Day 262: Plucked and Polished.

The things women do to look good. I know, this is not a new thought. But when a team of women are working you over at beauty's equivalent of a pit stop at the Indy 500, it certainly crosses your mind.

As soon as I walk in, the Korean women look at me, nod, and start making motions at each other. They know what I need. Twenty seconds later I'm in a chair, my feet soaking in a tub of warm water, one hand soaking on the table, and a cushion behind my head so I can lean back and get the eyebrows under control. One woman starts carving away the cuticles around my toenails, another applies hot wax above my eyes, a third saws away at my fingernails.

The entire time, they're talking in a language I can't begin to understand. In the background, a Korean movie is playing - some cheesy crime drama that looks like the cheapest soap opera you've ever seen - and I truly feel like the whitest person on the planet (which I may well be).

When I hear the woman attacking my eyebrows make a clucking sound, I know what it means. She's decided the stray hairs on my face have to go. I know she's right (those hairs plague me like you wouldn't believe), but that means more hot wax and the endless ripping of little cloth strips. After the ripping comes the plucking, and this woman won't rest until my face is ready for prime time.

Thirty dollars later, I stumble back out into the sunshine, and I feel presentable. A little bit dazed, but presentable.

Why have I gone through this? Because this is what women do to prepare for a date. I don't care which gender you're dating - this is the routine.

Okay, it's 7:15, and now I need to go enter Phase II of the pre-date regimen: hair and makeup. I'll be back later to report on how things went.

*******************

1:06 a.m.

The Date went fine. Natalie is interesting, funny, sharp - and ridiculously hot at 46 years old. Online dating is generally a case of people not living up to their online/telephone banter and pictures ... but I have to say, Natalie exceeded expectations. If anything, I thought this might be an instance where I'd be the one on the short end of the dating stick - I was fully prepared to hear the "I'm just not feeling that vibe" speech instead of give it.

That's not how things went - she was flirtatious and attentive and all that ... but something still felt slightly off. We had a couple of glasses of wine, we talked, we listened to music ... but there was something strange about the dynamic. The best way I can explain it is to say that while she was definitely into me, it was almost like I wasn't there - or that it didn't matter who I was. It felt like sport.

I don't know, maybe I just need to sleep on it. Maybe I'll have some fresh perspective in the morning. But right now, the whole evening - despite being festive and flirty - feels somehow hollow at the center.

Day 260: Day of Rest.

The Hotel Cafe - 8.11.06



www.myspace.com/buddy

Day 258: They're Just "Things" ... Right?

I wrote yesterday about finding my necklace, and how relieved I was to reach into that vacuum bag and feel it between my fingers. In the process of telling that story, I mentioned that I have a habit of losing things, and that I've lost enough sunglasses, watches and jewelry to fill up a spare room.

I wasn't kidding.

The fallout from the entry - for me - was that memories of all those things I didn't find over the years (or ruined, or just somehow let go of) kept popping up today. Unfortunately, choosing my Top Three Greatest Losses was a real challenge. There were many choices.

1. The Rooster Lamp
When I was growing up, I thought of the rooster lamp like a little treehouse. The upstairs was under the rooster's legs, and the downstairs was the base down at the bottom, where the big white hen and white rooster lived (they were attached to the base). This is really weird, but I had these little plastic cylinders - maybe 1/2-inch tall, probably from some beading project - that were little "people" in my mind, and they lived both upstairs and downstairs. They even had names. I created a whole world for them, and they lived in the "Rooster Apartments." I thought the lamp was majestic and wonderful, and it went everywhere with me over the years. Finally, it began to fall apart. This was during my Bottoming Out Years (2000-2002), when I was withdrawn and falling apart and didn't care about anything anymore. I was living in a tiny house in the hills across from Universal Studios, and when the lamp stopped working, I stashed it up in the carport. I said I was going to get it fixed ... but I didn't. The carport was accessible from the street, and after a few weeks, someone took it. I never saw the rooster lamp again. I feel a physical ache writing this - I can't tell you how much I wish I still had that lamp. What was I thinking? Arrgggghh. All I have left are the white hen and rooster, which I saved when they fell off.

2. 64 Mix Tapes
In 1992, I was accepted into the graduate film program at the American Film Institute. It was thrilling to be changing my life - to be going from music critic to screenwriting student - and I was excited to move from Upstate New York to Los Angeles. To kick this new life off, my girlfriend Sophie and I decided to spend two weeks driving across the country (in a 3-cylinder convertible, but that's another story). I brought 64 mix tapes along for the ride, and they were 64 of the most amazing tapes ever made. There were dozens of theme tapes ("Break My Heart," "Dance, Baby, Dance" "Happy Happy Joy Joy" and "Write, Bitch!" spring to mind), concert tapes, demo tapes made in the studio by bands and artists I hung out with, mix tapes other people had made for me, and several demo tapes made by my friend Dillon. Almost all were irreplacable. When we stayed in Austin one night, we got in late and I was exhausted. Instead of unpacking the car like we did every night - and lugging everything into the hotel room - we decided to just lock the car up and leave our stuff inside. The next morning, we came out and saw that the roof had been jimmied and the car had been broken into. My case containing 64 mix tapes was among the casualties. I was crushed. We called the police, but nothing was found. I drove around looking in dumpsters (who would want a bunch of homemade mixes, right?) but they were gone. It makes me angry to this day.

3. Pearl Ring Up a Tree
My grandmother died from lung cancer in 1985 at the age of 62. I don't have a lot of family to begin with (no siblings, no cousins, no aunts, one crazy uncle, etc), and this made her loss all the more painful. The year before she died, she gave me a pearl ring that she'd had for years. It rested in an elegant gold setting, it was stunning, and I loved it. Why I wore it to an outdoor Cyndi Lauper concert (I was visiting a friend at the University of Buffalo) is beyond me. I suppose the ring could have survived the trip ... but the tree proved more problematic. About halfway through Cyndi's show (and I'm mortified to admit this on several levels), I decided that what I really needed to do was climb a huge tree for a better view. (Did I really need to see her sing Time After Time that badly? I mean, I know it was a song that made me cry over Garp, but still ...) Anyway, when I went up the tree, I had the ring. When I came down, I didn't. I searched the area around the base of the tree, but no dice.

Over the years, I've tried to take better care of my things - tried to be less oblivious and more mindful - and I will say it's gotten much better.

There's still room for improvement.