Cutting Through The Fat

Costa Rica Was Very Hot.

2008-04-26T08:45:00.000-07:00

They kill you by dragging you into the water and rolling until you drown.

Costa Rica: The Ultimate Patty Melt.

These monkeys are mean. They eat other monkeys.

When I was very young, my mother had a parrot a lot like these.

Coolest Jeep Ever!

Napoleon, poolside, at the hotel.

Not That I'm Going to Fight You For Him ...

2008-03-29T17:21:00.000-07:00

Too much auto signage is a problem in and of itself, but when you throw in some proprietary message about how Jesus belongs to YOU and you alone, well, that's just plain rude. I mean, I don't even believe in all that stuff, and I'm still -

Huh? What's that?

(Pause)

Oh.

Apparently, this is not an issue of ownership, but one of syntax.

Okay, then. I still say the images seen here constitute a disturbing aesthetic trend (at the very least!), but as far as my initial rant, well ...

Nevermind.

Close.

2008-03-25T22:54:00.000-07:00

Almost Heaven ... But Not Quite - 2008

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Sky Skiing From Vegas.

2008-03-19T09:14:00.000-07:00

Every once in a while I see a cloud that looks so cool I have to take a picture (even if it's just through the windshield). This Sleepy Hollow-inspired athlete appeared as Tea and I were driving home from Vegas last week.

We'd left L.A. at 6 in the morning, and four hours later we were standing in Sin City. Well ... sort of. The strip felt less like Sin City than a busy construction site - moving only my eyes, I counted 16 cranes in one view. We wound up leaving town after a few hours in Circus, Circus (we first watched the trapeze artists, then sat a few Blackjack hands, and finally won slightly creepy stuffed animals on the midway ... does throwing darts at balloons or zapping a clown in the face with a stream of water ever become boring? I don't think so). It's a shame that Circus, Circus counts as an Old School casino now that every last beautiful building in Vegas has been been ripped down (go here for visual heartache) to make way for offensively bland (or just plain offensive) luxury crap like this. Spending time in Vegas is like spending time with someone who was interesting and quirky in college but turned into a heartless prick on his way up the corporate ladder. You long for time travel and it's almost instantaneously depressing.

By 4 p.m. we were on the road to State Line, a Western-style, three-casino compound on the Nevada/Californa border. I was justifiably nervous about this adventure (what could I expect for $24 a night at a place called Buffalo Bill's?), but I have to say, it was great. The room was clean and quiet, the casino was over-the-top Old West in the very best way, and the Blackjack table we parked at seemed to attract interesting, likable people all night long.

Oh yeah - and there's a huge roller coaster ... and a futuristic-looking tram that glides between the three casinos. Stateline rules!

As far as the diet, writing and exercise thing goes, the week could have been better, but it also could have been worse. I went on three good walks, began writing the new book (only a few pages in, but better than nothing), and at least I didn't gain any weight.

More soon.

P.S. Please reassure me that John McCain won't be the next president? I mean, it's fair to be worried. As some talking head recently said, "No one grabs defeat from the jaws of victory better than the Democrats ..."

Tim Gunn Would Not Approve.

2008-03-11T11:33:00.000-07:00

Eight months ago, I had nine pairs of jeans to choose from. Today I have just one.

That's right - I've packed on so much weight that I only have one pathetic, ripped-up, busted-at-the-seams pair of jeans left that fit (and no, I wouldn't call them a very good fit).

This is no way to be fashion-forward.

Adding to this serving of Misery Stew are the results from yesterday's visit to the doctor: I have gained back 28 of the 40 pounds I lost.

So. I guess it's time to turn this shit around: Back to Weight Watchers, back to exercising, back to writing, back to some semblance of discipline.

As far as the rest of my life goes, I would say things are good with the potential for great ... assuming I can manage to get myself back on track.

Along those "back on track" lines, here's an entry I wrote on February 18th but never published:

I fear I will ultimately lose her because, while I understand why she would want to be with me, I don't truly get why she would be attracted to me.

That's right, the same old insecurity-abandonment-self-esteem crap I can never seem to ditch . Then comes the internalized domino effect: confusion leads to fear, fear to suspicion, suspicion to paranoia, paranoia to mistrust, mistrust back to a whole new level of fear, and finally ( this is my favorite part because it's so constructive!), New Fear feeds directly into my self-sabotage tendencies.

And yet, because it's so deceptively easy to push all that aside, I'm happy most of the time.

If this is why I've frittered away most of the progress I made last year as a writer and a healthier person, well, that's a pretty sorry statement, indeed.

Not to mention the part about being a paranoid idiot in the face of evidence and actions that consistently point to the contrary.

I don't want to blow this relationship, especially not from the inside out ...

And I'm not just talking about my relationship with Tea.

Day 802: No Longer Scary ... Just Gross.

2008-01-18T06:57:00.000-08:00

80 Days Later - 1/08

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Day 739: Scary at Last.

2007-11-16T14:42:00.000-08:00

23 Days Later - 11/07

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Day 715: Funniest Episode Ever.

2007-10-30T08:12:00.000-07:00

Day 682: Wikifaith.

2007-09-27T21:50:00.000-07:00

Pretty cool, huh? Despite my now-erased attempts to connect by way of a "sleight-of-hand" theme, this art has absolutely nothing to do with this post. I simply stole it from some random blog. If you want to find out about the artist/s and all that, go here.

Just for the record ...

I find myself going to Wikipedia more often than I ever thought I would. I actually like the fact that anyone can fuck with what's up there.

It restores my faith in the idea that people are collectively capable of making sure that the truth prevails.

Or maybe it's just that I'm having the 8th-graders I tutor read Lord of the Flies.

Day 681: What's Wrong With This Picture?

2007-09-26T07:43:00.000-07:00

Photo: AP via NY Times

At first, I thought it was weirdly funny that soldiers would need shields when surrounding peacefully assembled Buddhist monks. I mean, monks are pretty much the paragon of pacifism, right?

Then I read the accompanying story and it all made perfect sense.

Not only does one need a shield when tear-gassing said Buddhist monks, one needs a shield when clubbing them to death (you know, to protect the uniform from splatter).

In related news, this might be the first time I've ever liked Laura Bush. Her symbolic gestures aren't actually helping or anything, but at least she seems sincere.

Mrs. Bush, known for her campaigns on literacy, education and health, has turned the fate of Burma and its jailed opposition leader, Mrs. Daw Aung San Suu Kyi, into a cause of her own.

She has met repeatedly with the UN envoy to the so-called "Myanmar" government, and last year, she moderated a discussion at the United Nations to draw attention to the country’s repressive policies. In May, she joined the 16 women in the Senate to appeal publicly for Kyi’s release. In June, she met in the White House with refugees and exiles from Burma.

Day 676: Why Must They Be So Delicious?

2007-09-21T10:59:00.000-07:00

Pig Snouts on the Highway - 9/07

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Day 645: Serious Negotiations.

2007-08-20T23:16:00.000-07:00

The man ... the myth ... the legend, as he was back in January of 2006.

I couldn't do the official weigh-in this morning (I had to be at work at nine), but the unofficial scale here at home, which is always two ounces above the Weight Watchers scale, tells me a mere pound has been lost this week.

I find this somewhat surprising since the dogs and I hoofed it up the trail not once, not twice, but three times this week (take that, "woof-woof").

Then again, it's not all that surprising ... I may have eaten just a tiny bit more than one would ideally want to in a diet week (damn you, Phillipes!!).

Anyway, I'm grateful for the pound, especially since the challenges are only going to get tougher from here on out.

First, the Big Event drops on Friday when Napoleon makes his way across the country for a visit. We'll spend a few days tearing up the city before we fly back East together to join the rest of the Marshall clan for a restful week at the Lake.

Good times? You bet.

Diet times?

I don't think I need to answer that one.

Fortunately, my Inner Negotiator is already on the scene, buttering up my brain for control of my mouth.

"Lighten up," my I.N. coos. "It's just an end-of-summer blowout. You'll get serious again as soon as Fall begins. You'll be lower than your lowest weight by Christmas."

I'm not sure how to respond to that. It all sounds so ... real. Finally, I manage a few random thoughts.

But ... my favorite clothes don't fit. I have to keep wearing the same crap over and over again because I'm 10 pounds past a manageable weight and I refuse to buy fat clothes.

"I know, I know" I.N. sighs. "But what are you supposed to do? Worry about every little thing you eat while Napoleon is here? That doesn't sound like much fun. And then what? Are you going to drag the poor kid to your weigh-in next week?"

I.N. can definitely sense my weakness.

"Just have a good time for the next two weeks and then deal with it when you get back. Besides, you'll be on the move a lot when you're with the Marshalls. It'll all balance out. Go have fun!"

Damn - that bastard's good.

Then again, the idea of Napoleon sitting in on the weekly Weight Watcher's meeting really is kinda priceless ...

Day 638: Of Deep Throat, Eggz, and Rooftops.

2007-08-13T08:23:00.000-07:00

I'm not 14, I don't wear a bikini, I don't weigh 100 pounds and this is not my house. Who cares - you get the idea!

Unfortunately, just ditching the weed again has not been enough to make the pounds magically melt away.

Apparently, there needs to be dieting as well.

Even worse, I have learned (from a high-ranking government source I refuse to name, so don't even try) that there's been all kinds of research into this newfangled weight loss theory known as "egg-zer-size" (my source will only speak to me through a handkerchief over the phone, so I have no choice but to use phonetic spelling). I'm told this "eggzersizing" is required if one ever plans to: a) eat like a halfway normal person, and b) permanently keep weight off.

Don't you just hate the way government wastes our tax dollars? I mean, seriously, I could have told them this before they spent billions on research. You see, I've gained back half of the weight I lost by eating like a fool and sitting on my ass. There's your research, Uncle Sam!

On a more terrifying (and only slightly less obnoxious) note, I am returning to Weight Watchers this morning at 9:30 to face what will be unbearably bad music. I won't post the results because it will be far too demoralizing, but will definitely post next Monday morning's results. That way, if I can manage even a slight loss, I might not be tempted to throw myself off the roof.

Okay, so I live in a one-story house and there's plenty of uncut grass to break my fall. What's your point?

I'll hurl myself to the ground, I tell you!

Day 624: Pulling the Weed (Again).

2007-07-30T22:12:00.000-07:00

MotoCat (2007)

Well, I quit smoking pot again this weekend, so I guess that's a step in the right direction ...

I am amazed at how quickly I fell back into a familiar routine after 500+ days of not touching the stuff.

I am somewhat less amazed at how quickly I then gained weight, stopped focusing on my writing, and became more anti-social.

Now I suppose I have to face the music by going back to Weight Watchers and assessing the damage.

This one's gonna leave a mark.

*Sigh*

p.s. Picture is totally unrelated except for the fact that I took it on the same day I stopped smoking again.

Day 601: Sometimes, a Banana is Not Just a Banana.

2007-07-07T11:31:00.000-07:00

I'm already screaming! Musa Blue Java Banana Tree - 2007

I soon as I heard there was a banana that tasted like vanilla ice cream, I was in.

And so, more than two years ago, I planted a somewhat-hard-to-find-locally Blue Java Banana Tree (also known as the Ice Cream Banana).

At first, it shot up, deliriously happy in its new surroundings. I began to get excited.

Then a hard frost nearly killed it.

The tree bounced back ...

And then an even worse frost (about six months ago) brought my Blue Java even closer to the brink of death. Every leaf died. For two months, it was little more than a jagged, yellow-green pole sticking up out of the ground.

However, thanks to impressive survival skills (along with a good deal of water), my brave little tree has finally managed to bear fruit.

Well, it's started the process, anyway. It may be a few weeks before I'm actually scooping ice creamy banana deliciousness from the fat of the land, but in the meantime, it's sure fun to think about.

Day 593: The View From Here.

2007-06-30T11:27:00.000-07:00

Signs of Life in Athena, Oregon - 2007

After years of careful consideration, I can safely say that being stoned at 7:30 in the morning is the closest you can get to lying on a beach somewhere. Life’s sharp edges are smoothed, thoughts feel free to roam, there’s humor in the absurd, and the body feels adrift in a contented wash.

Unfortunately, the Wake-and-Bake Island Getaway also leaves you feeling sleepy, hungry, aimless, loopy, and slightly anti-social for the rest of the day.

If my mother were here, she’d cheerfully quote one of her favorite lines from Animal House: “Fat, drunk and stupid is no way to go through life, son.”

(I’m her daughter – and it should probably read “Fat, stoned and lazy” - but you get the idea.)

Why am I thinking about all this today?

I guess I don’t have a choice.

Every so often, you find yourself glimpsing your life from a distance, an emotional vantage point that reduces the whole complicated mess to a few simple facts. The key is to immediately look away, a sure-fire tactic (but not really).

It’s like stealing a split-second glance as you pass a car accident. Even though you're already turning away, your brain has managed to snap some horrifying image that will stay with you for days.

My glimpses have been more frequent lately, and the images seared into my memory aren't pretty.

Here are the facts:

1. On November 24, 2005 (Thanksgiving Day), I decided to stop smoking pot after getting stoned several times a day – every single day – for more than 10 years. The plan (a.k.a. “The Experiment”) was to stop for one year.

2. During that same time, I also vowed to drop 75 pounds.

3. I didn’t smoke pot once. And while I fell shy of the weight goal (even after adding 130 days), I did manage to lose 40 pounds (from 223 to 183).

4. I also wrote a book (young adult fiction) and signed with a solid literary agency in New York. (The book hasn’t sold yet.)

5. Then, on Day 384, the Christmas season hit, and dieting took a holiday.

6. On Day 414, I met someone I’m crazy about. We’ve been seeing each other steadily every since.

7. On March 24, The Experiment ended. I began smoking pot again five days later.

8. Over the last six months, I’ve gained back 15 pounds and haven’t written much of anything.

9. Over the last three months, I’ve slid back into a daily smoking routine.

Those are the facts. Perhaps you can see why it's getting harder to turn away and keep driving.

one year ago today ...

Day 559: Think Rabbit's Foot (Errr, Feet).

2007-05-27T22:38:00.000-07:00

Dead Baby Llamas on the Wall - 2007

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Day 556: Appreciation.

2007-05-24T21:55:00.000-07:00

Napoleon in Peru - 2007

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Day 554: Healing.

2007-05-22T18:37:00.000-07:00

Mom's Leg ... 5-2007

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Day 539: Almost Ready.

2007-05-07T22:33:00.000-07:00

Skeptical Peruvian Llama - 2007

Day 522 : A Not So Happy Homecoming.

2007-04-20T11:45:00.000-07:00

A young Galapagos sea lion relaxes on the big bag that held our life jackets.

My mother loves animals, and has a special interest in birds. And so, as I explored the Galapagos Islands with the Marshall clan, I couldn't help thinking of how much she would have enjoyed all the strange birds and weird wildlife. Iguanas that look like disturbingly prehistoric, blue-footed boobies, with their intense eyes and comical feet, sea lions that seemed to get more adorable every time you saw them, giant turtles, frigate birds that puff up their red pouches to attract a mate ...

Many of the pictures I took were with her in mind. Unfortunately, I haven't been able to send her any.

I came home Tuesday and was blindsided by the news that she and my stepfather were involved in a head-on collision Sunday night. Mom broke her leg in three places, had surgery Wednesday morning, and is now the proud owner of a metal leg rod that will be driving airline security crazy for years to come. She won't be able to walk for 10 weeks. There was something else about a few staples in her head, but that's just a little bit too horrible for me to contemplate. My stepfather (Bob) was bruised and battered, but otherwise unhurt.

It could have been so, so much worse. I am more thankful for seat belts and airbags than I have ever been in my entire life.

It's all kind of weird, because my Mom is pretty damn tough. I've written about her plenty in this blog (Day 5, Day 15 , Day 35), but one thing I've never mentioned is that she's rarely sick and never gets hurt (well, there was that rotary cuff thing a few years ago - a keyboard/mouse injury - but it didn't really slow her down much).The thought of her laid up in a hospital bed is definitely alien.

I of course wanted to fly out to Santa Fe on Wednesday, but was convinced by both Mom and Bob that it would be better to wait until Mom arrives home this coming week. That's when my help will be more appreciated - after all, there are six big dogs and two birds back at the homestead who are going to have a hard time understanding why their pack leader won't get out of bed.

It's hard to sit here feeling helpless, but I know there's not a lot I can do except call Mom and be cheerful (without being too cheerful, which would drive her insane).

I have to say, though, that even injured and doped up, my Mom is a piece of work. I spoke to her soon after her surgery on Wednesday, and when I asked her how she was doing, she said, "I'm alright. After all, I've already prepared for being an invalid."

"Huh?" I had no idea what she meant.

"Well, I read those two books on Victorian-era invalids, remember?"

I couldn't help but laugh. In fact, I did remember her talking about them a few years back.

I guess it was in that moment that I felt my mind ease just a tiny little bit. I can't wait to see her on Thursday ... and maybe even show her some pictures.

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Day 507: Galapa gone.

2007-04-05T22:31:00.000-07:00

I'm off tomorrow for an 11-day vacation with the Marshall Clan. This one's going to be a true adventure - I can just feel it in my bones.

I'm stupid excited to see the kids and Sam and Bill and the Galapagos Islands and Machu Picchu ... and I'm particularly over the moon at the idea of seeing a Blue Footed Booby. Not only do their feet come in a color nature never wears, they have air sacs on the tops of their heads to protect their brains when they dive bomb for prey and hit the water at 40 mph.

This is a good time for a trip. Except for the food thing, life actually feels fairly balanced (oh yeah - my diet is in the toilet. I'm looking forward to a re-dedication upon my return). And even though I haven't been getting to it (another re-dedication on the horizon) I have a good idea for a new book. (Speaking of which, the book is still out to publishers and "being read." I 'm definitely not amused, but I'm not nearly as insane over the wait as you might imagine.) And finally, things are going well with Tea. Very well. I like her.

Alright, then - off to finish packing. See you on Day ... uhm ... oh crap, I don't know.

I knew this counting was going to get difficult if I stopped writing every day. Another re-dedication, maybe?

DAy 505: License to Spill.

2007-04-03T23:12:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I shaved five pounds off my weight ...

"Honey, I think maybe you read number 19 wrong."

The woman behind the counter handed my test back, expressionless, and I took another look. Question 19 asked what a motorcycle rider should do when he or she is being followed too closely at night. Choice One was to drop way back and use your high beams. Choice Two was to maintain position and use your low beams, and Choice Three was to drop back slightly and use the headlights of the car in front to help guide your way.

At least I think those were the choices. It's all started to get a bit blurry over the last 48 hours. All I know for sure is I was breaking a sweat as I stared down at #19. I was one missed answer away from failing.

When I'd first sat down to take the test 15 minutes earlier, I'd been feeling pretty cocky. I whizzed through the 12 questions in no time, surprised that the DMV would allow me to miss four of 12 and still pass. I walked up and handed the test in, confident.

As the woman checked my answers, I quickly realized that every time she put pen to paper it was bad news. I watched her slash the pen once, twice, three times ...

I gulped. One more to go. She made it to the end ... and then slashed the last one. Still, I breathed a sigh of relief. I'd passed!

Then she flipped the test over, shook her head and laughed at me.

"Sweetie, you still have 13 questions to go," she said, holding up a very blank Side Two.

I just about died. Thirteen questions and no room for error? Yeah. Right. We bantered for a few minutes about the unfairness of it all (and my retardation at not turning the page), and then I slowly trudged back to finish the test. I returned to the counter ten minutes later with a heavy sigh.

All of which brings me back to #19. I'd somehow managed to get 12 out of 13 right on the back page, and now the woman was trying to give me a break. Finally, I looked up and winced.

"Drop way back and use your high beams?" (Stupid, I know, but the motorcycle handbook is always going on about how you should use your high beams any time you can, since it's so hard for car drivers to see motorcyclists).

My new friend shook her head.

"Maybe it would help you to hear the question out loud," she said, her voice betraying nothing. "Sometimes, people get confused by the words on the page."

She read the question out loud, I pretended to consider my answer, and then I offered up the only answer that was left: drop back and use the headlights of the car in front of you.

The woman started laughing and stamped my test as "Passed."

I feel a little bit guilty about getting my Motorcycle Learner's Permit in such shady fashion, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't also pretty psyched.

Now I just need to find a way for that same woman to administer my driving test.

Day 501: Back to the Beach.

2007-03-30T08:54:00.000-07:00

View From a Deck: I remember taking this picture when I was maybe ten years old.

I woke up yesterday morning to the smell of my grandmother's house at the beach.

Since my grandmother's house was turned into condos more than 20 years ago - soon after cancer robbed her of countless years on earth - I knew within seconds that I had to be dreaming. But that unique, unmistakable smell ... the fresh ocean breeze, antique rattan, sand in the rugs no matter how well they were vacuumed ... it was as real as if I were sitting in her living room watching the sun come up over the horizon.

My grandfather was a captain in the Navy, and a few years before I was born, he was stationed in Norfolk for the rest of his tenure. He and my grandmother bought a beautiful old house on Oceanfront Drive in Virginia Beach, and even now, I could draw a blueprint of that place that wouldn't miss a nook or overlook a cranny.

When I was a kid, the house felt impossibly huge, and I'd spend hours exploring. The sea-level basement alone was filled with treasure - storage closets were home to (among other things) books, my mother's old stuffed animals, Halloween costumes, toys, discarded hats and clothes, and gaudy knick knacks my grandmother wanted out of sight. The basement also housed a rec room with a bar and a pool table, a workshop with a zillion tools, and the housekeeper's quarters (I'm not sure the housekeeper ever actually lived there, but it was one of my favorite hideaways. This was well before my crazy uncle Boon took over the basement and made it his bizarro lair).

There was a massive picture window in the living room - one that faced the sand dunes out front and the ocean just beyond - and beneath the cushioned bench seat that ran the the length of the window (and then some) were deep wooden cabinets. Untold goodies were stashed in there, too - including my uncle's deadly Bongo Board.

Several years ago, I found a vintage Bongo Board on eBay exactly like the one that was at the beach.

My grandmother (I called her "Roosh" from an early age because I couldn't pronounce "Ruth" and she couldn't bear being called "Grandma") was not an easy woman. In addition to going every Christmas, I used to spend half my summer there, and we always battled (most memorably) over my penchant for leaving wet towels on the bed and my piss-poor attitude when I couldn't spend 24/7 with my summer friends.

She also wrestled with depression, some of it over the fact that her first husband (my mother's father) had been killed in World War II just months before my mother was born. She also had a tough time because the man I always knew as my grandfather (her second husband, my Uncle Boon's father) could be a bit of a pain in the ass. But mostly, my grandmother suffered because she was a woman born before her time. My grandmother was a feminist, an English professor, and a poet, but that all happened in her 40s and 50s. Roosh came of age during a time when women were steered toward marriage and child-rearing rather than lives as professors and poets. It wasn't until much later that she began to pursue her own dreams, and she never felt she'd truly achieved them.

Cancer made sure she never would. She was given a very short time to live when she was diagnosed in 1981, but fought hard for the next several years. She died in 1985, when I was living in England, and Mom didn't tell me until after the funeral (my grandmother hadn't wanted me to come home). It all felt surreal, and to this day, I don't think of my grandmother as dead. It just feels like I haven't seen her in a really long time.

Roosh hosts a party back in the '70s. The window pictured looked at the house next door.

It's nagged me for years that of the thousands of pictures I've taken to document my life, there are none of the beach house. I never once stood down by the beach and took a shot of the front, or walked through the halls and rooms I loved to create an interior travelogue. Mom doesn't seem to have any, either, and my Uncle Boon has done god knows what with my grandmother's photo albums.

I almost went back to the house 15 years ago, when Sophie and I were driving across country. At the last minute, though, I couldn't bear to see the place turned into condos.

As I've written before, I wish desperately that I could travel through time. If I did, you can bet I'd go back to the beach - back to those early mornings when the sun poured down the hall to my bedroom, to days spent lounging out on my raft (well, the days before Jaws, anyway), to afternoons lost exploring the house, the sand dunes, and the neighborhood ...

And even to those angry reminders to please stop leaving my wet towels on the bed.

From Quartet: Four Virginia Poets, published 1985

Day 498: Pros and Cons.

2007-03-27T21:38:00.001-07:00

It feels weird not to have to write the blog every day.

Granted, it's a bit liberating ...

But overall, I miss it.

I'm also not sure why I'm insisting on continuing the whole numbered days thing (i.e., "Day 498") - it's not like there's a set goal date that I'm working toward anymore. All it really means is more math for me when I do write (and, therefore, more chances to get said math completely wrong).

Who knows ... maybe I want the opportunity for a goal to exist down the road. Maybe I'm a slave to tradition. Maybe I just like numbers more than I think.

Whatever. I'm rolling with it.

Anyway, this isn't a real post (you can tell by the fact that there's no art). It's just a brief missive to say "Hey."

And just in case you were wondering, no ...

I haven't smoked yet.

Day 495: Fin.

2007-03-24T23:39:00.000-07:00

Four hundred and ninety five days ... would it be too much of a cliche to say it's gone by quickly?

I said most of what I need to say in last night's Penultimate Post (In fact, now that I mention it, I suppose I should have saved last night's post for tonight, but oh well).

Tomorrow will be the start of a new chapter in "Cutting Through the Fat," a decision that has sat well since I made it yesterday.

Thank you again for all your support. Onward and upward!

Day 494: The Penultimate Post.

2007-03-24T00:59:00.000-07:00

The Chief Theater in Perris, California - 2007
(No, the picture has nothing to do with the post ... I just like it)

I've been thinking for days now (many, many days) about what I should do with the blog now that my 495 days are coming to an end. Seriously - I lie awake at night cycling through a myriad of thoughts.

Wow - it sucks I only reached half of my goal weight.

Okay, well, at least I didn't smoke - not even once - in 495 days.

So ... will I ever smoke pot again? And if so, can it be limited to a recreational activity?

If I ever go back to smoking all the time I'll be horrified.

How will the blog readers know when I make it into the 70s ... and then the 60s and the 50s and finally, the 40s? (which I will).

There are still four publishers with the manuscript. Only two of six have passed. I want to be able to tell the good news when it sells! (Now that's some positive - if ego-ridden - thinking at work.)

The blog keeps me honest, even in failure. I'll miss it if I dismantle it.

How many days will it ultimately take to reach 145 pounds?

If I kill the blog, where will I rant?

Man, it sucks that I failed on the weight front.

It really fucking sucks.

It sucks, like ... a lot.

I think what I want to do is keep the blog ... but give it a face-life and relaunch with a fresh, more diverse approach.

I'm going to go through and hide all the entries that would freak me out if anyone found them, but leave the rest. I'll change the front page wording and debut an all-new "Cutting Through the Fat."

I will not, however, feel compelled to write every goddamn day. Not only does it kill me sometimes, I don't always have enough to say. (Along those lines, I would like to take this opportunity to apologize for all of the boring, repetitive and otherwise lame posts you've had to suffer through over the last year and four months.)

My plan is to keep attending Weight Watchers meetings, but only once a month - and then I'll post the results. For the rest of the entries, I'll write about me and my life (I mean, come on - I'm still my favorite subject), but I'll also write about random issues from the outside world.

I'll also continue to post photographs, which have often been a personal high point when it comes to the blog. I've loved figuring out the art almost as much (sometimes, maybe more than?) writing the entries.

I hope those of you who've been reading since the beginning (and it never fails to surprise me how many of you there are) will keep checking in.

Because when all is said and done - failures on the weight front aside - this blog has been one of the greatest things I've ever attempted.

Thank you.

More images from Perris, the town that time forgot:

Day 492: Day of Rest.

2007-03-22T00:49:00.000-07:00

Sign of the (Old) Times - 2007

Day 491: Little Plastic People.

2007-03-21T00:59:00.000-07:00

I'm especially fond of the hairstyle.

I was never crazy about Barbie dolls. Even when I was a kid, I thought they were stupid. They all looked the same, the girls who played with them were mostly prissy, and on a deeper level, they represented a feminine ideal I somehow knew I could never live up to.

Maybe that's why, when I walked outside yesterday morning and found Sydney gaily tossing Barbie up in the air (she had no doubt come sailing over the neighbor's wall by accident), I merely smiled.

I'll take a beat-up stuffed animal any day.

Day 489: Lending a Helping Hand.

2007-03-18T23:30:00.000-07:00

Anonymous wrote:
My boyfriend is trying hard to lose weight, but (as you know) it ain't easy. Anything that a loving partner can do/not do to make it easier?

This seemed like a question worth answering.

Being involved with someone who's trying to lose weight is about walking a very fine line. You're meant to instinctively know when you should remind the dieter about the task at hand, be a partner in a momentary indulgence, or just remain quiet without judgment.

The first step is communication, which I'm already failing at with Tea. I'm trying so hard to keep my weight issues out of the equation that I'm not giving her the chance to help in the first place. All that leads to is me overeating and feeling badly about it. The core emotion at work here is vanity - I don't want to admit that I'm someone who needs to focus on weight. I want to be the person who "owns it" and has no issues with it.

That said, here are my tips for being a supportive significant other (and please, commenters, point out all the tips I'm not remembering right now):

1. Don't bring tempting foods into the house.

2. Even if the diet food being prepared is bland, act enthusiastic.

3. Don't be silently (or vocally) judgmental when the dieter falls off the wagon.

4. Suggest physical activity, but don't push it.

5. Be complimentary when the dieter makes progress (even if it's minuscule).

6. Pretend to break up with the dieter so he/she will be miserable and lose weight. (Do I need to add that I'm kidding?)

7. Let the dieter talk about how he/she feels about the weight one minute and then pretend the conversation didn't happen the next.

8. When going out to eat, suggest places that have good low-fat/low-cal options (and don't order dessert!)

9. Go easy on the alcohol.

10. Bone up on the art of mind-reading in general.

Day 488: A Scary New Theory.

2007-03-18T12:59:00.000-07:00

No that's not me ... not yet, anyway. (Just kidding, Mom).

I have a new idea.

What if, in an all-new attempt at super-subtle self-sabotage, I'm staying off my diet as a way to test Tea's attraction to me? I mean, if I were to gain weight and start feeling really crappy about myself, I could drive her away and blame her for it at the same time, right?

To read that (let alone write it) is so terribly pathetic that I can't quite believe it ...

But it just might be true.

Tea and I had an excellent time in the desert. She's easy to be around, and we have fun. On the way home, we stopped at a used book store, a few thrift stores and a massive motorcycle store, and then had a late lunch.

On the motorcycling front, I gained an all-new level of confidence on the bike, shifting smoothly (for the most part) and attacking corners as I graduated from the Pee Wee Track to the Vet Track.

It feels good to try and conquer a fear - I've been freaked out by my motorcycle accident for 22 years, but it loses power over me every time I ride. A little bit of fear is a good thing ... a lot of fear is just plain annoying.

I'd like to apply that same logic to my love life. There's no reason why I shouldn't be able to date Tea and make my weight loss a priority.

This kid couldn't have been more than five years old - I couldn't help taping him:

Days 486 & 487: Off to the Desert.

2007-03-16T00:04:00.000-07:00

I'm headed out for a quick getaway to the motocross track ... hopefully, I can get to the point where I shift gears without spluttering to a near stop.

If I'm lucky, I'll even manage to avoid wiping out (I haven't crashed yet, but I'd imagine that eating it on packed dirt has its advantages).

A full report from the front on Saturday ...

Day 482: Factory Girl.

2007-03-12T00:36:00.000-07:00

Two of these three boxes have already left the house.

It's that time of year again, when the kids I work with con me into buying Girl Scout cookies. I'm in for six boxes this year, all of which I will give away.

I know I shouldn't buy any to begin with - they're way too tempting - but I guess I'm just a sucker. It's definitely not rooted in my nostalgic love for the Girl Scout organization - in fact, the Girl Scouts and I did not exactly see eye-to-eye back in the day.

Truth be told, I never even made it to Girl Scouts. My story begins and ends with the Brownies.

We were living in Denver, Colorado, at the time, and I joined the Brownies for one very special reason. It wasn't the camaraderie, the badges, the meetings, or even the highly fashionable brown uniform.

It was the Frito Lay factory.

I'd somehow found out that an upcoming Brownies field trip was to Denver's Frito Lay factory, and I was totally in. I joined that week.

I don't remember much about my short tenure as a Brownie, but I believe my tendency to talk when I wasn't supposed to was poorly received. And I can't say as I remember the Frito Lay tour, either ... I have no way of fact-checking this one, but there's a distinct possibility that I didn't last long enough to actually go.

What I remember more than anything is the light brown outfit, my desire to go to the factory, and an inexplicable awareness that I would never, ever make it to Girl Scouts.

I don't blame the Scouts, though - it's not their fault I was more interested in free chip samples than getting a badge in bird watching (or that I couldn't shut the hell up during meetings).

I don't blame the kids I tutor for pushing their cookies on me, either. I mean, it's not their fault I can't eat just one.

Day 481: Shatto Bowling.

2007-03-10T23:59:00.000-08:00

I haven't been bowling with anyone other than George in a long time, and ever since the lanes we always bowled at went all modern, I haven't been at all.

So, when Tea and I decided to go bowling tonight, I was hoping she'd lead me to some old-school lanes with charmingly seedy decor, cheap beer, and (most importantly) hand-scoring.

Well, two out of three ain't bad.

The decor was seedy and the drinks were cheap at Shatto Lanes, where the motto (posted all over the place) is "Bowl For Fun and Health!" (I feel compelled to mention that for a place staking half its claim on health, they sure do offer the most exhaustive bar menu I've ever seen at a bowling alley ...)

All in all, it was a great place - and I'll go back again - but come on .. why has hand-scoring gone the way of the dinosaur? I know I've ranted on this before, but it's just not the same game if you can't color in your own strikes and spares.

Anyway, I was hoping that a steady flow of beer would keep Tea's game at loose ends (while serving to strengthen mine), and for a while there, everything was going according to plan. I lost the first game 117-103, but came back strong with two decisive wins (121-99 and 123-92). I was sitting pretty going into the fourth game - visions of a 3-1 rout dancing in my head - when Tea decided the only way to save face was to get the high score of the night. "Sure," I shrugged, and I think I came pretty close to yawning. "You go ahead and do that."

Well, you can pretty much tell where this one is going. Not only did Tea manage to pull out a 139, I crashed and burned with an 87. So, even though we tied-2-2, she got both the high score and the most total points (447-434). How frustrating is that? How annoying? How totally wrong?

I do like that girl.

Day 480: Day of Rest.

2007-03-09T22:56:00.000-08:00

Downtown Wall - 2007

Day 478: The Worst Way to Die.

2007-03-07T22:00:00.000-08:00

For me, it's a no-brainer: fire would be the worst way to go.

Since many of the 6th and 7th grade kids I tutor have a state-mandated writing test this week - in the form of a timed narrative essay - I've been sharpening their chops with some in-class assignments.

First, I put together a page with five essay options:

1) Write about something that disgusts you.
2) Describe what you think would be the worst way to die ... and why.
3) Write about an item you once lost that you still wish you could find.
4) Write something about yourself that is embarrassing.
5) What is the biggest lie you've ever told? Why did you tell it?

I thought the first two would probably be the most popular, and threw the fourth one in just for fun (I wanted to see how fast they'd run from it, and I was right. Only one kid chose it, writing about the time he wore his older brother's jeans to school and they fell down to reveal his bunny rabbit boxers). They had 30 seconds to make their choice and 10 minutes to write a descriptive, detailed answer that drew on as many of the five senses as were applicable.

I was surprised at how overwhelmingly the kids were drawn to the death option (more than 80%).

"I think being burned to death would be the worst way to die," wrote 11-year-old Jack. "I would not want to feel the pain because it probably feels like your soul being sucked into the sky. Being burned would also be the slowest way to die, and I say that if you're going to die, GET IT OVER WITH!!!"

Amen, Jack.

12-year-old Jonas chose old age as the worst way to expire. "Years would pass by faster and death would always be trying to grasp your life. I think old age would be the worst because every time it was my birthday I would think of death."

Clearly, Jonas was listening to my thoughts on my last birthday.

The response that threw me for the biggest loop, however, came from a 13-year-old named Alice. "What if you died in front of your friends and none of them tried to help you? If you died in front of your friends and none of them really cared, I think that would be the worst way to die."

I can honestly say I never would have thought to answer the question that way. Every once in a while (okay, pretty regularly) I learn something in these sessions.

So ... what do you think would be the worst way to die?

Day 476: There Will Always Be Another ...

2007-03-05T22:18:00.000-08:00

There will always be another bowl of lobster bisque. There will always be another snickerdoodle, another creme brulee, another eggs florentine, and another Dorito.

This is why I don't need to eat these things now.

When I reach my goal weight, all of these foods - and the many, many others I wish I could eat - will still be in existence. I'll be able to sample them in moderation.

But for now (never start sentences with "But"), it's okay to pass them up.

They're not going anywhere.

They'll all still be there.

(Note: Keep repeating the above sentiments until they finally sink in.)

Day 473: Day of Rest.

2007-03-02T23:04:00.000-08:00

Head in the Clouds - 2007

Day 466: Feeling Gravity's Pull.

2007-02-23T22:03:00.000-08:00

Wistfully watching a parachuter float down in Lake Elsinore last weekend.

Ten Things I Haven't Done Yet:

1. Attended all four Grand Slam tennis tournaments.

2. Toured Wine Country in Northern California and Washington State.

3. Gone one month without television.

4. Driven an Airstream cross-country (trip funded by finding stuff to sell on eBay along the way).

5. Learned to play the piano.

6. Traveled the Greek Islands.

7. Gone skydiving.

8. Raised a horse from a colt.

9. Taken a class from a master chef.

10. Gotten the tattoo I want.

Day 455: I Rode a Motorcycle Today.

2007-02-12T23:59:00.000-08:00

My bike has lots of ... parts.

It turns out there's a lot more to riding a motorcycle than just sitting on it and pushing "Go." There's a clutch and two kinds of brakes and gears you work with your feet.

I practiced in the yard at first (watch out world) while Tea taught me how to shift. After I got the hang of it, I went up and down the block a couple of times (only in first gear, and never more than 10 or 15 miles per hour).

It wasn't exactly the biggest deal on the planet, I guess ... unless, of course, you haven't been on a motorcycle in 22 years. And if the last time you were on one, you crashed.

I was scared shitless, but it was also pretty fun.

I wish there were pictures.

Day 454: Day of Rest.

2007-02-11T21:33:00.000-08:00

Catnap - 2007

Day 453: Insecurity is Never Sexy.

2007-02-10T22:25:00.000-08:00

It was a simple enough question: "What size are you?"

I couldn't answer. I just sat there, frozen. With four words, Tea had opened the door to my single greatest insecurity, and she had no idea. As the seconds ticked by - and I remained silent - the moment just continued to get stranger.

But I'm getting ahead of myself.

The background is this: I received a new pair of jeans in the mail this morning (moss green, new with tags, for $12 shipped - buying clothes on eBay is just about the smartest idea ever). I was wearing them when Tea stopped by this afternoon, and she remarked that they looked good on me. That's when the size question popped out.

I immediately knew why she was asking. Tea likes to frequent thrift stores and she also likes to buy little presents. She was asking so that if she happened to stumble across a pair of pants in my size, she could pick them up.

When it became clear that I wasn't going to answer, Tea looked at me.

"You're not going to tell me?"

"I can't."

"Why?"

And there it was. All I had to do was stop the Drama Train and say it; after all, it's not like she doesn't know what I look like. The attraction between us is solid, and she's always saying sweet, complimentary things about my body.

"I just don't want to say," I finally muttered. "I'll tell you in two sizes."

Tea's expression changed as she shook her head.

"That's so insulting. I can't believe you think I would care."

I still couldn't answer. I was watching myself turn an innocent question into Drama, and felt powerless to stop it. I'd been doing a good job of keeping my weight/body insecurities out of my relationship with Tea, and suddenly, there they were, out on full display.

Finally, a good 10 minutes later, I looked at her and quietly said, "16."

Tea shrugged. "That's what I would have guessed."

I know, I blew this thing way out of proportion. Sorry, but you trying telling some hot little Size 6 chick that you've five tags up on her in the wardrobe department. It's no fun.

It's even less fun to realize that if I'd just said "16" to begin with - like it was no big deal - I would have looked confident instead of cliched.

When will I learn?

Days 449 & 450: Gula.

2007-02-07T10:55:00.000-08:00

From The Seven Deadly Sins and the Four Last Things - Hieronymus Bosch, 1485

I was asked not long ago to choose between the seven deadly sins - which one do I most often abuse? Which sin is my ultimate downfall?

Like a deep, dark truth you know about yourself but rarely voice out loud, the answer immediately filled my brain's information screen. I (of course) didn't want to cop to it, so I insisted on going though the other six ... just to make sure I wasn't being hasty. It took a few minutes to come up with all seven (I always forget about wrath), but finally, I ticked through the list.

1) Wrath (originally, the Latin "ira"): I lose my temper sometimes - and I've been known to be a bully - but generally speaking, anger's not my bag.

2) Lust ("luxuria"): I've never been able to figure out why this one's a sin.

3) Sloth ("acedia"): If I had to choose a second-worst sin, this would be it.

4) Envy ("invidia"): I have a jealous streak - and I've been known to occasionally envy the success of others - but I wouldn't say it's anywhere near the top of my Sin List.

5) Pride ("superbia")" Like most of us, I make plenty of stupid decisions based on pride. Luckily, it rarely takes me long to backtrack and make things right.

6) Greed ("avarita"): Sure, I can be greedy, especially if you define greed as the need for more and more. But if you go by the more traditional definition (desiring money, power, and/or material possessions), it's not where my ultimate weakness lies.

No, my Numero Uno Sin is, of course ....

Gluttony ("gula").

"Modern views identify Gluttony with an overindulgence of food and drink, though in the past, any form of thoughtless excess could fall within the definition of this sin. Marked by unreasonable or unnecessary excess of consumption, Gluttony could also include certain forms of destructive behavior, especially for sport, or for its own sake." - Wikipedia

Yep. Pretty much sums things up. After all, if you look back at Day One of this blog, I say that I started it on Thanksgiving Day because it felt like a classic case of wanton consumption.

Nothing is ever enough for me, and nothing ever has been. I guess when there are missing pieces inside, you have two choices: You can learn to mind the gaps, or you can spend your life chasing anything you think might fill them in.

I've tried to do both, and as is often the case when one pursues multiple paths, neither one ever takes you where you truly need to go.

If I sit at the edge of my life today and take it all in, I can see where my neediness tends to override pretty much everything else that might be happening. I've got a literary agent and my manuscript is currently sitting with five publishers (waiting to be read), but that's not enough. I want it to sell. And then that won't be enough - I'll want it to be a huge success. And then I'll want one of those silver Newberry Award medals on the cover. And then I'll want whatever it is I'll want next. Nothing will be enough.

Mind the gap.

I'm crazy about Tea, but no matter how clearly she demonstrates that she feels the same way, I'm constantly on the lookout for disappointment.

Fill the gap.

And then there's food. I don't need to go into any detail about that one.

Mind it ... Fill it ... Whatever works (or doesn't).

I have a terrific day job (as far as day jobs go). I work limited hours doing something I like and get paid very well for it. That doesn't stop me from complaining, whining and trying to get out of it on a regular basis.

Nothing is ever enough.

It scares me. It scares me that the primary reason I despise neediness in others is that I'm often that person myself. It scares me that 43 years into the only life I'll ever have (Buddhist hopes aside), I'm still cycling through the same basic shit, still looking for ways to compensate for what's missing.

It may surprise you that I'm not unhappy as I write this. There is no dark cloud over my head. I'm merely frustrated, overtired, unnerved by the various states of limbo, and perhaps a little bit disappointed in myself.

My goal today is to embrace that which is good in my life - to appreciate what I can without worrying about what comes next.

The full Bosch work from which the top panel was taken.

Day 445: It's All Coming Back to Me.

2007-02-02T23:59:00.000-08:00

Why I Moved to California - A Reminder (2007)

What's 's truly scary is that this is not a black and white photograph.

Day 444: Rinky Dink.

2007-02-01T23:59:00.000-08:00

Bill discusses the finer points of rink management with Tina and Josephine.

One of the many things I love about Bill is his dedication to a project. Once he commits, he's in for the long haul.

It is for this reason that a winter puddle in the back yard has become the Marshall Family Ice Rink. No one has actually skated on the rink to date, but quite a bit of thought, discussion and preparation has gone into such an eventuality.

No matter how big a deal Bill has brewing - no matter how early his flight to New York City might be - he's out at the rink before sunup, Gucci loafers be damned, watering and smoothing his beloved ice.

There are also many mornings, according to Samantha, on which he'll call home from his travels and enlist one of the kids to go out and do the necessary watering. The kids are excited about the rink and happy to oblige - so far, Josephine and Tina have missed the school bus no less than three times because they were acting as human Zambonis.

I have been told that the rink is almost ready for use. Bill has the skates lined up, ready to go. It's supposed to go down to zero degrees Friday night, so the plan is to pour an inch of water after dark and let it freeze into a smooth surface layer.

The fact that the rink measures 10' x 20' is of no consequence to anyone involved.

It is good to be here.

Day 439: The Motorcycle Diary.

2007-01-27T22:18:00.000-08:00

It was the week before college graduation, and my friends and I had been drinking all afternoon. We were just starting to talk about dinner when a guy named John walked into the bar. He was still wearing his motorcycle helmet.

I didn't know him, but my friends did. Somehow, dinner thoughts turned to a local favorite: Brooks BBQ (it still ranks as the best I've ever had). Since no one wanted to leave the bar, John offered to go pick it up. For reasons I can't remember, he needed an assistant, and since I loved motorcycles (my first boyfriend and I used to ride his dirt bike all over the fields in upstate NY), I volunteered.

John was the only one who hadn't been drinking.

It was a 10 or 15 minute ride on the expressway, and on the way there, John's spare helmet was merely resting on my head. The straps were left dangling.

Brooks BBQ - Oneonta, NY

After we picked up the food, we were about to take off when John happened to notice the straps hanging down on either side of my head. He scowled at me, said something about how dangerous that was, and tied them extra tightly for emphasis.

We were halfway back to the bar - doing 60-65 mph on the expressway - when I felt the bike begin to swerve from side to side. I got mad because I thought he was showing off. I didn't think it was funny at all.

Turns out the back tire had just blown. Luckily, John was a good enough rider that he kept the bike from somersaulting. Instead, he tried to ride it out (thus the swaying). In the end, the bike fell on top of us and we slid for I don't know how long. I would guess maybe 20 or 25 yards? Who the hell knows - it could have been 50.

When the bike finally stopped, I got up and started walking. Luckily, there weren't a lot of cars on the road. It seemed like less than a minute before some woman stopped and picked me up and took me to the hospital.

I just left. I don't remember a single thing about the accident or what it looked like. I found out later that John had been pretty seriously injured.

It was a good thing John tied my helmet so tightly, because one entire side was shaved off by the time we stopped. The strap had made deep cuts into my chin. My jeans and sweatshirt were torn clean through, and my left cheek, arm and leg were missing quite a bit of skin. I'll never forget the wire brush they had to use at the hospital to get the rocks and grit out of my face. Painful.

That was the last time I was on a motorcycle: May of 1985 (Damn ... 22 years? Yikes). I did drive a moped once (I was vacationing on an island and had no choice), but then I got scared and crashed it into a brick wall. I was also a passenger on a moped once (in Hawaii last April, with Bambi driving), and I was quietly terrified.

Being around Tea these last few weeks has made me want to get back on a motorcycle (well, a dirt bike, anyway). I have no desire to be on the road, but the idea of paths and trails sounds fun. The problem is, her bikes seem too big.

Well, Tea has solved that problem by acquiring a 1978 Yamaha YZ80. It's not a gift or anything, but it's being kept at my house and she's going to teach me to ride it.

It's yellow. I like it. I'm going to scrub and polish it until it's shiny.

If it turns out I'm too chicken to ride it, well, at least I'll be able to enjoy looking at it.

Day 438: Day of Rest.

2007-01-26T23:07:00.000-08:00

Town in Country - 2006

Day 436: Down and Dirty.

2007-01-24T23:59:00.000-08:00

A biker soars through the air after taking a jump on the advanced track.

I had never been to a dirt bike track before yesterday - to be honest, I'd never even thought about the fact that they existed.

It was therefore something of a surprise to find that on any given weekday, there are a 100 or so dirt bike enthusiasts ripping up the tracks in Lake Elsinore (a desert community 90 minutes southeast of Los Angeles, and yes, the lake is very man-made). I'm told that number swells to a few hundred on weekends .

It was fun watching Tea run the track (one of the intermediate tracks, mind you), since riding is something she's so wholeheartedly passionate about. She set me up by the truck with a comfortable chair and a small desk thingie so I could work, but even though I managed to edit a few chapters of something new I've been writing, most of my time was spent watching Tea make practice laps.

Tea starts up one of the two vintage bikes she hauled out to the track.

After she finished riding (only one crash!), we decided to find a place to stay the night. We got a room at a cheap-but-cheerful motel and rested for a while, and then it was time to hit the mean streets of Lake Elsinore.

There was clearly no choice but to play some Blackjack at the old-school Casino across the street.

It was an exciting five minutes.

We were suddenly broke, and that's when a good-natured guy named Bill started chatting us up. Tea introduced herself as Tess and I followed her lead by becoming Kate, and Tess and Kate graciously let Bill buy them drinks for the rest of the night. Throw a few other oddball casino patrons into the mix (a party girl visiting from London was particularly amusing in a scary kind of way) and a good time was had by all.

The casino looks like an etxremely cool piece of Americana at night ...

... But reveals its tired side in the light of day.

I had a great time on my little getaway. You learn a lot about someone when you travel with them, and I learned that Tea is easy to be around and doesn't get on my nerves (she's also pretty relaxed when certain people who are supposed to be reading the map miss the exit and/or go the wrong way). An added bonus? I was never bored. A shocking development? She not only beat me in Scrabble, she kicked my ass.

The whole trip almost made me want to ride a motorcycle again, but after what happened to me on a bike more than 20 years ago, I'm not sure that will ever happen (it's a good story, but I'll save it for another day).

That track sure did look fun, though ...

Day 428: Good News.

2007-01-16T22:01:00.000-08:00

Life got a whole lot better today when news came that the agency I've been talking to in New York has decided to represent The Falling Joys.

I mean, I think they're going to. The email sure made it sound that way. I'll know more after I speak with them tomorrow.

It's hard not to jump ahead in my mind - to imagine selling the book and actually seeing it get published - but I'm trying my best. Luckily, I have a seriously superstitious side (I had to mail the rewrite from the same post office I mailed the first draft, had to use the same color Sharpie on the box, needed the first person who read/edited the manuscript to be the last, etc). This means I'm terrified of jinxing the next step by assuming an outcome. If anything, my tendency is to underplay the potential.

(Okay, so I walked around the house earlier turning the words "book-book-book-book" into a truly retarded chicken sound ["book-book-book-bawwwk!"]. It was a momentary lapse of karmic judgment - not to mention a clear lapse of anything resembling cool. I'm over it now.)

So. I might get to have a book.

This is an idea that appeals to me.

Day 425: Dating and Dieting Don't Go Together.

2007-01-13T22:20:00.000-08:00

It's hard to focus on losing weight when you're starting to like someone. When they call you up and say they feel like pizza and ask if you'd like to join them, it's hard to say no just because you know pizza is off-limits.

So you instead say to yourself, "I'll only have one small piece. And I won't eat the crust."

You say it because what you really want isn't the pizza (although it does sound pretty damn good) ... you want to see the person you like.

Then you get to the restaurant and there's salad and good beer and when the pizza comes it smells amazing and you eat your one piece and you know you should stop but then there's the part where you have to try a piece with eggplant because you've admitted that you haven't tasted eggplant in like, 15 years and you know that if you don't step up and try it you'll look like a stick-in-the-mud with no sense of adventure.

Suddenly, there's a second piece of pizza on your plate. One with eggplant.

Unfortunately, it was good. I was shocked. I ate almost the entire piece.

Like I said up top - dieting and dating don't mix.

I'm sure some of you are thinking that what I should have done was told Tea that I couldn't eat pizza, or wasn't in the mood for it, or suggested somewhere else to go.

No.

This is the first time in ... I don't know, maybe forever that I've started seeing someone without making my weight an issue. It hasn't even been mentioned in conversation - not once - and I haven't felt particularly insecure about it. Tea does know I'm in the throes of some no-pot-lose-weight-blog-experiment thing, but that's about all she knows.

Now, with all that said, I also realize that I need support when it comes to the diet, and if I'm going to keep seeing Tea (the red flags, by the way, are feeling increasingly insignificant), I'll have to find ways to get my dieting needs across without making them a constant topic of conversation.

Even though I'm not used to emotional balance when it comes to my weight, it feels very freeing to not be worrying about it.

Day 416: Self-Sabotage Monkeys.

2007-01-04T22:56:00.000-08:00

The Self-Sabotage Monkeys were out in force today, hitting me between the eyes on two different fronts: career and romance.

I hate it when they do that.

First, the career. I sent the revised Falling Joys draft off to the agent this afternoon, and the second I walked out of the post office, the monkeys began their obnoxious chatter. What if it's not good enough? What if there are mistakes? What if you didn't go far enough? What if you went too far? They're not going to like it. Stop dreaming.

When I told them to shut up and mind their own business - after all, it's a very good manuscript, and if this agent doesn't take it, another one will - all they did was laugh.

I hate the way monkeys laugh.

But if I managed to quiet the little shits on the manuscript front, I had a much harder time on the personal front.

I recently met a very cool girl with a strange name and an even stranger nickname - let's just call her Tea for now - and we had an excellent first date. We were supposed to go out to some bar, but Tea has a foosball table in her apartment (a big place on a hill not far from me that would cost a fortune if she hadn't rented it years ago), so we played foosball and drank champagne and she DJ'd a great mix of old vinyl (The Stooges, Buzzcocks, The Stones, etc). She kicked my ass in foosball (I dug that) and a good time was had.

At the end of the night it became clear that there was definite mutual chemistry, and I wasn't seeing any red flags. Tea is old enough to take seriously (39), has a good job (film/tv editor), is smart, makes me laugh, has interesting hobbies (racing vintage dirt bikes, making short films, collecting records), seems emotionally balanced, and (not for nothing) is incredibly easy on the eyes. She's a definite California native (words like "rad" and "dude" are on the table), but I actually find that kind of cute.

Anyway, the date ended on a very good note, and I had nothing but positive thoughts. The good vibe continued today, when she called and invited me to lunch (oh yeah - I should mention that the only drawback here is that she works the graveyard shift at a network - as in 9 p.m. until 5 a.m. - and then sleeps until noon. It's not ideal).

The monkeys began their evil chatter as soon as she picked me up. You don't look as good as you did at night, when the warm glows and champagne softened everything. Now it's the harsh light of day. She's thinking twice. You know she is. She's figured out you're overweight. Your hair looks shitty. She's 5'3" and weighs like, 120 pounds - get real. She wishes she hadn't kissed you. She just wants to be friends. Duh.

Nevermind that we had a very nice lunch, and that a few flirtatious lines were dropped. Nevermind that we've talked on the phone twice since then and had good conversations. In Karen's monkey brain, if someone's not overtly telling you they're into you, they're probably not.

For the most part, I stood my ground today. I know the manuscript is good, and I certainly have a shot at getting representation. I like this girl Tea, and there might actually be some potential there (if I can possibly manage not to act like a total freak).

But I have to admit, I really hate those god damn monkeys.

Day 410: Pear for the Course.

2006-12-29T23:59:00.000-08:00

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.

Day 401: Day of Rest.

2006-12-20T21:46:00.000-08:00

The Lighting of the Tree - 2006

Day 399: The Amazing Face.

2006-12-18T21:43:00.000-08:00

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.

Day 386: Day of Rest.

2006-12-15T22:02:00.000-08:00

A Final Look Out George's Window - 2006

...

Day 385: Door Monkey.

2006-12-14T23:36:00.000-08:00

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.

Day 384: Turning 40 Was Never So Good.

2006-12-13T22:17:00.000-08:00

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.

Day 380: Hammer Time.

2006-12-09T23:39:00.000-08:00

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 ...

Day 379: Day of Rest.

2006-12-08T21:09:00.000-08:00

The Bottom of the Bowl - 2006

Day 378: The Greatest Present Ever.

2006-12-07T22:19:00.000-08:00

A Christmas package from my Uncle Boon!

Oops - I thought the presents inside would be wrapped. My bad. Hmm ... is it a helmet? A helmet covered with delightful stickers?

Why, it's bowl covered in delightful stickers! Plus there are dinner mints, jellied candies, and cool toys wired to the edges! Luckily, one item is wrapped - and in shiny glitter foil, no less. I'll save it for Christmas morning.

I'm not kidding when I say this may well be the greatest bowl I have ever owned.

The card pretty much rocks, too - Boon's design modifications are fantastic.

That dinosaur is so not getting away.

The car is pretty firmly in place, too.

The card got me a little teary. I wish my uncle were happier.

Day 373: Day of Rest.

2006-12-02T23:26:00.000-08:00

Log Jam - 2006

Day 372: Change Sucks.

2006-12-01T23:12:00.000-08:00

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).

Day 369: The Write Stuff.

2006-11-28T21:50:00.000-08:00

"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.

Day 368: Family Circle.

2006-11-27T22:21:00.000-08:00

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."

Day 366: Day of Rest.

2006-11-25T20:52:00.000-08:00

A Most Unwelcome Houseguest - 2006

Day 361: Powers That Be.

2006-11-20T23:03:00.000-08:00

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.

Day 359: Day of Rest.

2006-11-18T23:22:00.000-08:00

Do As They Say, Not As They Do - 2006

Day 351: Day of Rest.

2006-11-10T23:57:00.000-08:00

Pipe Dream - 2006

Day 341: The Halloween War.

2006-10-31T20:03:00.000-08:00

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), 10-06

Images From the 'Hood:

Day 339: Farewell to a King.

2006-10-29T20:24:00.000-08:00

Hawk 1993-2006

If I have beliefs about immortality, it is that certain dogs I have known will go to heaven, and very, very few persons. - James Thurber

We who choose to surround ourselves with lives even more temporary than our own live within a fragile circle, easily and often breached. Unable to accept its awful gaps, we still would live no other way. We cherish memory as the only certain immortality, never fully understanding the necessary plan. - Irving Townsend.

God sat down for a moment when the dog was finished in order to watch it ... and to know that it was good, that nothing was lacking, that it could not have been made better. - Rainer Maria Rilke

Day 337: Day of Rest.

2006-10-27T21:53:00.000-07:00

Carefree - 2006

Day 330: Day of Rest.

2006-10-20T21:08:00.000-07:00

Em Bat tled - 2006

Day 328: See Change.

2006-10-18T23:20:00.000-07:00

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.

Day 327: Another Date.

2006-10-17T23:59:00.000-07:00

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 ...

Day 319: How Cats Are Helping My Diet.

2006-10-09T22:32:00.000-07:00

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.

Day 318: Day of Rest.

2006-10-08T21:45:00.000-07:00

Frozen Grapes Rule - 2006

Day 310: Day of Unrest.

2006-09-30T23:59:00.000-07:00

Hard Headed - 2006

Day 308: Day of Rest.

2006-09-28T22:58:00.000-07:00

The Honor System - 2006

Day 307: Reefer Madness.

2006-09-27T22:40:00.000-07:00

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.

Day 306: Weeding Out Desire.

2006-09-26T19:28:00.000-07:00

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 ...

Day 304: Shopgirl.

2006-09-24T19:09:00.000-07:00

When I looked through my mail yesterday and saw a flyer welcoming me to a new L.A. clothing store called "H&M," I felt all warm and fuzzy inside.

Back in 1985 it was "H&M Hennes" (except on my nametag), but those of us who worked at London's Oxford Circus branch always referred to it as "Hennes." (I was the only American employee but never remembered that to them, I had an accent. I'd call another department, they'd say "Hi Karen," and I'd inevitably answer with, "How'd you know it was me?")

I decided to move to London after graduating from college, mostly because I had no idea what I wanted to do for a living. I thought being a waitress or clerk in London while I figured things out beat being one in Upstate New York. I entered a worker exchange program and landed in London on June 4, 1985, with no job and nowhere to live.

I kept a journal from the very beginning, and this afternoon, I read through it. All I can say is, there's a reason people keep journals. I'd forgotten so many details about my life there, but the journal brought them all back. It also brought back how quickly I slipped into "British Mode" - I can't help wincing at how pretentious I sound. (Did I really write, after only three weeks in London, that I'd had a "quite dreadful day at work" but didn't want to "get on about it" in my journal? Yes. I'm sorry to say I did.)

Oh well. I'm going to take myself with a grain of salt and let my journals help tell my story anyway.

I learned quickly that when it came to working for a living, I was a huge baby. (This has not changed.) I also realized I wanted jobs in life that would make me happy.

I made friends at work (and felt the need to both draw them and then rate my doodles) ...

And when we went out after work, I learned interesting things about myself that I wouldn't remember if I hadn't kept a journal (this entry in particular just kills me).

I spent much of my time in London pining for Garp, who eventually came to visit.

We had a wonderful time at first ...

But it ended badly.

Yeah ... right. We later resumed a romantic relationship of sorts, but deep down, I guess I always knew it wouldn't work out.

Eventually, it was time to say goodbye to Hennes so I could spend six weeks traveling through Europe.

Of all the entries in my London journal, though, two really stand out. First, I'm always amazed at A) how easy it is for me to get lonely, B) how I've never been happy with my appearance, and C) how I've never truly tackled B despite all that angst.

Second, I never realized it was in London that I figured out what I wanted to do with my life. I may not have known the details (and I never went to Fleet Street), but for the first time, I knew.

I'm glad H&M has finally come to the States. I guess I'll have to go over to the Pasadena store and take a look around. Maybe I'll even fold a misplaced ~~sweater~~ jumper or tidy up the ~~panties~~ knickers ... you know, just for old time's sake.

Day 302: The Summer of Soda Pop.

2006-09-22T23:59:00.000-07:00

The rec center and central area in the complex where I lived in the summer of '77.

When I'm waiting in limbo - as I am right now with regards to the future of The Falling Joys - I have a tendency to sit on my thumbs and obsess. The concept of letting go and starting a new project isn't exactly a kneejerk response.

However, with a little convincing, that's exactly what I've started to do.

As I did with The Falling Joys, I've decided to revisit a script of mine and turn it into a book. And, like The Falling Joys, it's young adult fiction ... I think. By that I mean it's a whole lot grittier.

The story is somewhat autobiographical, inspired by the summer of 1977. I was 13 years old, living in a small town in Upstate New York. My parents were still in academia at the time (Mom was working on her second PhD and my then-stepfather was getting his first), and the university they taught and studied at was only 20 minutes away.

Unfortunately, there's not a lot for kids to do in small towns, so they wind up getting into trouble out of sheer boredom. If you've seen the movie Over the Edge (and if you haven't, you should), you know what I'm talking about. Smoking pot, drinking, sex ... they were all commonplace by the 7th grade.

There are two experiences that define that summer for me. One was my infatuation with Carrie, a 19-year old girl who worked at the drugstore across the county highway from my housing complex. I used to spend hours upon hours sitting on the soda pop chest that sat next to the register area. I was awkward and insecure, and I thought Carrie was the shit - beautiful and wise and nurturing and utterly feminine. She in turn thought I was a smart, funny, innocent little kid. To be honest, I can't really remember what we I talked about, but I know I hung on every word.

The other experience that summer was much darker. I'd gotten in over my head with pot, alcohol and boys, looking for validation and acceptance in all the wrong places. The bad path I was on culminated in an ugly incident in which a few older boys caught me fooling around with a boy my own age in an empty apartment. We weren't really doing much, but the older boys threatened to tell everyone at school I'd been doing far more if I didn't agree to do them a few favors. They didn't make me "do it" (as kids would say), but what did happen wasn't pleasant.

I never told Carrie what was really going on in my other life. I was still a child when I was hanging out on the soda pop cooler; I pretended to be - wanted to be - the sweet, innocent kid she naturally assumed I was. I guess you could say it was my first experience with compartmentalization. (It should also be noted that I was a terrific little actress. There's no way in hell anyone - even my parents - could have possibly known what was going on.)

When I wrote The Summer of Soda Pop ten years ago, it was a cathartic experience. I put a few demons to rest, and it didn't hurt that in the script, the girl winds up making good choices in the end and gets to unleash her anger on the boys who'd damaged her. There's also a fictional resolution in which the girl and the Carrie character realize the inherent danger that comes from seeing people as we want them to be and not as they really are. The script remains the best and most personal thing I've ever written.

I've only written a few chapters of the book, and it surprises me how intensely it takes me back to that time. Sure, some of it is painful, but more than you'd expect - particularly my relationship with Carrie - is actually quite sweet.

It feels good to be writing again.

Day 301: Day of Rest.

2006-09-21T21:11:00.000-07:00

The Long Road Home - 2006

Day 297: Sunday Reflections.

2006-09-17T22:00:00.000-07:00

I Live in a Turd World Neighborhood - 9/16/2006

Three Things I Did Right Today:

1. Read a good book for two hours (Never Let Me Go, by Kazuo Ishiguro).

2. Worked out on my own (as instructed by the Lovely Sally Nash).

3. Ate a salad for dinner (with marinated flank steak left over from Randy's phenomenal dinner last night).

Three Things I Did Wrong Today:

1. Watched too much stupid television (Will I ever grow out of Real World/Road Rules challenges?)

2. Interrupted my workout to take a phone call (if it's someone you might go on a date with you're allowed, right?)

3. Ate a croissant for breakfast (it was ridiculously good and almost worth it).

Turd World Neighborhood II - 9/16/06

********

The Spider Denny Tried to Eat - 9/16/06

***

A Good View of Salvation - 9/17/2006

***

Carcasses Line the Hawk's Fence of Shame - 9/14/06

***

Day 295: Day of Rest.

2006-09-15T23:11:00.000-07:00

Watching it All Wash Away - 2006

Day 288: Day of Rest.

2006-09-08T20:12:00.000-07:00

Cute Bear, Weird Doll - Yard Sale, 2006

Day 283: The Hike From Hell, Part II.

2006-09-03T23:42:00.000-07:00

Bill tries to figure out our next step at what became The Point of Absolute Return.

It started off as a short hike. An easy hike. One that would take an hour or so.

That's not exactly how it turned out.

It probably comes as no surprise that I didn't want to go. Another hike with the Marshall clan? After the way the last one turned out? But hey - if a family from New York City (that would be Rob, Annie and their 11-year-old daughter Elise) and the Marshall kids (Tina, 7, Josephine, 9, and Napoleon, 12) are game, I kind of have no choice. Besides, despite all my whining, the Hawaii hike was pretty much the greatest thing ever.

In the beginning, our biggest worry was that our shoes were going to get wet. Usually (I'm told), the High Tour hike goes up the middle of a mostly dry creekbed, but thanks to recent rains, the creek had swollen to something of a small river. We decided to give it a shot anyway, since there was both a beautiful view at the top and an easy hike down the other side. My biggest personal concern was for my camera and cell phone, both of which were in a small (and very non-waterproof) case around my shoulder.

Within about 30 seconds, our feet were wet. Complaining remained at a minimum, though - we were on an adventure! The first time we had to cross the creek, we took it in stride. Okay, so the rocks were a bit slippery and the water was rushing by at a pretty decent pace. We were on an adventure! Then came the part where we had to edge our way along a ledge, cross the creek in water up to our waist (I held my camera bag in my teeth), and use a rope to pull ourselves up a gnarly wall of rock. Bill was there to pick the little kids up and haul them over the difficult spots. He's like Superman. He'd keep us all safe.

Besides ... we were on an adventure!

Napoleon and Josephine clamber up the rocks.

Elise braves a river crossing as Napoleon and Josephine forge ahead.

I can't pinpoint the exact moment in which the general mood started to go downhill, but it was somewhere between the time Rob's cell phone became submerged, our feet froze into little blocks of ice, and Annie almost slid into the water. Oh - and did I mention that we'd brought Walter (the dog), that Walter has a gimpy leg, and that Samantha had to carry him the entire time? Or that Josephine's shoe fell off and was lost downriver? There were a few tears (no, not mine) as everyone began to realize that conditions were getting more dangerous the higher we got. Turning back, however, didn't seem like a good idea either - none of us relished the idea of facing some of the hairier moments we'd already been through all over again. Among the adults, an unspoken feeling of concern began to creep into the picture. This was only confirmed (for me, ayway) by the fact that Samantha, other than reassuring the kids, pretty much stopped talking altogether. It's not that Samantha is a big talker (she's actually fairly judicious with her words), but when she goes completely silent, something is very wrong indeed.

Then we reached what I like to call "The Point of Absolute Return," a fairly sheer wall of rock that rose out of a raging corridor of water. There was a rope (more like a clothesline) tied to a tree near the top, but when Bill made a dangerous climb up to grab it and test it for strength, it broke. Now what would we do? The kids wanted to call 911 (my phone was, remarkably, still dry). Even Napoleon, an adrenaline junkie who fears nothing, began to request 911. I have to admit, I was thinking the same thing. I couldn't quite figure out how they'd save us (Where would the helicopter land? Would they drop rope ladders from a hovering helicopter? Wait ... was I too heavy for a rope ladder?), but I was ready to find out.

That's when a moment I will never forget occured. Tina was scared, crying and shivering, and a justifiable meltdown was in sight. Bill came over to her, knelt down, and looked into her eyes. "Don't worry," he said. "I'll get you out of this. I promise." They stared at each other for a moment, she nodded, and then her tears stopped. It was really quite something to see.

The funny thing was, I suddenly felt better, too.

We decided there was no choice but to go back the way we came, and it was not an easy trek. But every single person on that hike stepped up, and we took it moment by moment. Bill led the way, ferrying the little girls when necessary and talking us through the dicier challenges. All I can say is there's no one on this earth I'd rather be with in a situation like that, and Rob made for an excellent wingman.

Annie navigates her way down a tricky stretch.

When the last person had made it safely through the last dangerous part, a feeling of triumphant relief set in. By the time we finally reached the car (a mere three hours after starting), we were talking as if we were army buddies who'd just survived a treacherous battle. We yakked about it the entire way home, reliving the worst moments as we reveled in our safety.

What really killed me, though, were Josephine's words once we were all back at the lake house, warming up in the hot tub.

"That was fun," she said, displaying the resilience kids have that never fails to floor me.

Fun? In a way - a slim way - it sort of was, but still, that's just not the right word for it.

It was, however, most definitely an adventure.

Day 281: Day of Rest.

2006-09-01T23:56:00.000-07:00

Tomb with a View - 2006

Day 271: The Deep End.

2006-08-22T23:23:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-08-19T21:07:00.000-07:00

Secret Orange Panel - 2006

Day 263: Dating Has Always Been Complicated.

2006-08-14T22:05:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-08-13T19:15:00.000-07:00

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.

2006-08-11T23:56:00.000-07:00

The Hotel Cafe - 8.11.06

www.myspace.com/buddy

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

2006-08-09T23:00:00.000-07:00

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.

Day 248: Emily Taught Me How to Cook.

2006-07-30T23:41:00.000-07:00

For many years, I lived at the tip of a cul-de-sac in the Hollywood foothills, and Emily was my next-door neighbor. I resided in a two-bedroom apartment in a 50s-style building (think "Melrose Place" but smaller, and without the pool); Emily and her husband James lived in a regal little house built higher up and into the hill. They were dashing and elegant and forever throwing dinner parties, and I thought of them as the king and queen of the sac.

I didn't get to know them until the 1994 earthquake, when everyone in the sac huddled outside for several hours, nervous to go back inside. But once we connected, that was it. It was the first time I'd been close friends with a married couple, and the three of us got along beautifully. Emily was a chef who catered to movie stars and hollywood moguls, and between her sincere love of cooking and her stunning presentation, her meals were something to behold. For three years that I will always treasure, Emily, James and I spent a great deal of time together. I ate dinner at their house several nights a week, we talked endlessly about everything, we shopped, we watched movies, we tried new restaurants (she delighted in being mistaken for Emma Thompson, whom she strongly resembled, and given a prime table), and I became a staple at their large and frequent dinner parties.

In the process, I learned how to cook.

Emily taught me all kinds of things - how to choose food at the market, the order in which to prep and cook when throwing a dinner party, how to chop and present foods in new and interesting ways, how to turn everyday stuff in the kitchen into gourmet meals, and, perhaps most importantly, how to manipulate heat. Emily would change the oven or flame temperature constantly as she cooked, a master at making the outside crisp and the inside tender and succulent.

If only Emily had been as happy inside as her lifestyle implied. Behind the charming hostess front there swirled a mass of insecurities, which would have made her just like the rest of us except for the fact that she was emotionally fragile. She had a wonderful, generous heart, she was funny and quick-witted and she had an interesting mind, but she wasn't strong.

Emily's life took a turn for the worse when she took a job on a movie set, working as the private chef for a legendary actor who was both star and director. She was one of two on-set chefs, and the other was a whack-job who (among other things) dealt with the job's intense pressure and long hours by slamming endless amounts of cocaine up her nose. Emily, whose inner frailty rose to the surface under the job's stress, began to join her.

Over the many months it took to complete the film, I watched my friend crumble. She became loopy and disconnected, repeating herself constantly and asking questions that were either childlike or had nothing to do with the conversation. I was watching a train wreck in progress, but every time I tried to broach the subject, she would insist that everything was fine.

I became so concerned that finally, I took James aside and asked if he had noticed the changes in his wife's behavior. He was visibly relieved to talk about it and spilled his anguish. It was a painful conversation. A few nights later, when he and Emily were fighting, he said something like, "It's not just me who sees what's happening to you - why don't you ask Karen about it?" Emily came storming down to my apartment the next day, ripped me a new one for betraying her, and ended our friendship.

I was devastated, but my greater emotion was worry. Over the next year, I watched from a distance as Emily cycled through rehab (more than once), as her father died, as she began drinking constantly (this was confirmed when she drove her car into the cul-de-sac lamp post), and as James finally left her for another woman.

At one point, Emily reached out to me and wanted to resume our friendship, but I refused. I said it was because she wouldn't deal with her drinking, but I'm embarrassed to admit that the truth was far more selfish: It hurt too much to see what she'd become, and I didn't want to be around her. I wanted the old Emily back. I guess I figured there was time, and that eventually, she'd work it out and we'd reconnect.

I was wrong. Time ran out when Emily drank herself to death in 2004. She was 41 years old.

I was blindsided. I didn't think it was possible to go from casual drinker to death from liver poisoning in just five years. I felt both overwhelming grief and terrible guilt - I'd abandoned someone I loved when she needed me most. I cried at the memorial in quiet, wrenching waves, and when her sister read Emily's all-time favorite poem (Isabel, by Ogden Nash), the irony of a strong, fearless little girl slaying all was so pervasive I thought I was going to lose it. For many months thereafter, I thought about Emily on a daily basis.

After Emily's memorial, her sisters held an estate sale. I went to help, and was urged to take something to remember her by. I chose the old, cracked shelf that had hung over her stove, along with the white porcelain salt and pepper shakers that always sat on the top left (they'd belonged to her grandmother). The shelf now hangs in my kitchen.

I thought about Emily a lot last night when I threw my dinner party. I missed her, I wished desperately that she was still alive, and I tried not to beat myself up for failing her. I wish she had known how much I loved her.

Isabel
Isabel met an enormous bear,
Isabel, Isabel, didn't care;
The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous,
The bear's big mouth was cruel and cavernous.
The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you,
How do, Isabel, now I'll eat you!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry.
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She washed her hands and she straightened her hair up,
Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.
Once in a night as black as pitch
Isabel met a wicked old witch.
The witch's face was cross and wrinkled,
The witch's gums with teeth were sprinkled.
Ho, ho, Isabel! the old witch crowed,
I'll turn you into an ugly toad!
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry,
She showed no rage and she showed no rancor,
But she turned the witch into milk and drank her.
Isabel met a hideous giant,
Isabel continued self reliant.
The giant was hairy, the giant was horrid,
He had one eye in the middle of his forhead.
Good morning, Isabel, the giant said,
I'll grind your bones to make my bread.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She nibled the zwieback that she always fed off,
And when it was gone, she cut the giant's head off.
Isabel met a troublesome doctor,
He punched and he poked till he really shocked her.
The doctor's talk was of coughs and chills
And the doctor's satchel bulged with pills.
The doctor said unto Isabel,
Swallow this, it will make you well.
Isabel, Isabel, didn't worry,
Isabel didn't scream or scurry.
She took those pills from the pill concocter,
And Isabel calmly cured the doctor.

- Ogden Nash

Day 246: Day of Rest.

2006-07-28T22:40:00.000-07:00

Blue, Grey and Cloudy - 2006

Day 242: A Cold Splash of Reality.

2006-07-24T22:02:00.000-07:00

There are 123 days left in this experiment. That's roughly 17 weeks. Even if I were to lose 2 pounds in every single remaining week (not likely), I'd miss my goal by several pounds.

This realization (which came to me earlier today) was not at all heartening. In fact, it made me feel kind of queasy ... and I'm not feeling much better six hours later.

I'm well aware that I've totally slacked 0n the diet end of this experiment. Yes, I've lost 32 pounds (36 if you go by the Whiny Disclaimer on the right), but there have been way too many lame weeks in there to count (well, okay, I could go back
and count them, but I don't want to).

So, the question before me now is, "What do I do about this?"

Here are my options as I see them:

1. Liposuction.

2. Smoke a lot of crack.

3. Find a cause I believe in and go on a hunger strike.

4. Buy an antique torture rack and stretch myself until I'm 5'9".

5. Wire my jaw shut.

6. Pop Dexatrim three times a day.

7. Travel to Mexico, drink lots of water, return with a parasite.

8. Rob a bank and go on the run (literally, with no stopping).

9. Cut off my head (and maybe one arm - would that equal 25 pounds?)

I will admit to being rather intrigued by option #4 - and option #7 might actually work - but I suppose that in the final analysis, I can't wholeheartedly embrace any of them.

No, I guess I'm stuck with the following (and far more mundane, I might add) options:

1. Keep going, try harder, exercise more, and do whatever I have to do to make my deadline (can a person survive on nothing but leeks for two weeks?).

2. Extend my deadline until the entire 75 pounds are off. That would mean no pot until my weight dropped below 145.

3. Come Nov. 25th, be satisfied no matter what the results.

My head is swimming. I guess I need to think about this. In the meantime, well ...

I still like the whole "stretch me on a rack" idea.

Day 239: Day of Rest.

2006-07-21T23:59:00.000-07:00

Scofflaw - 2006

Day 231: Ninety Minutes I'll Never Get Back.

2006-07-13T22:20:00.000-07:00

Well, you can throw another lame date on the woodpile.

To be honest, my expectations for this one were low from the get-go. I probably shouldn't have even gone, but I told myself (as I tend to do in these situations) that I needed to give it a chance. Make sure I wasn't being judgmental. Keep an open mind.

When am I going to learn? Trust the force, Karen ... trust the force.

The reasons why the date bombed aren't even that important (her sloppy, ill-fitting T-shirt and decidedly unwashed hair was the least of it). After about 90 minutes, I couldn't stand any more. I managed a graceful exit, and that was that.

This latest yawner does have me thinking, however, about the pros and cons of internet dating.

Clearly, the best way to meet someone is through friends, or through a place you have in common (work, class, your apartment building, your church/temple/mosque/cult ...)

But if those places aren't yielding very many options (and trust me, if you're a girl dating girls, the pickings get a whole lot slimmer), you have two primary options: clubs and the internet.

I realize this may come as something of a shock, but I'm so not a club girl. Not only are they too loud for good conversation, basing initial attraction on appearance - especially in a setting like that - has its own set of problems.

I suppose, in the interest of fairness, I should add that I'm also not a fan of clubs because I'm not the type who ever gets noticed in a place like that. No, I need a language-driven, one-on-one stage in order for my spells to work.

With internet dating, the gamble goes the opposite way. You get overly invested in someone based on everything but physical chemistry, and more often than not, that's what's missing when you finally decide to meet.

Admittedly, when it comes to ferreting out cool people, I've had pretty decent luck. I've got a good gut (it helps to listen to it) and I screen well. I've definitely met my share of duds, but no one dangerous, evil or otherwise frightening.

Still, after dates like this one, I definitely feel down on the whole idea.

Maybe I should give the clubs another shot after all.

Day 228: When Slow and Steady Grinds to a Halt.

2006-07-10T23:34:00.000-07:00

There's this great website called www.thinkexist.com that has a gazillion quotes organized and cross-referenced every which way, and every day, I receive their Quote of the Day in my mailbox. They're almost always interesting. (I also really like the interactive 'design a t-shirt with your favorite quote' link - there are tons of colors and shirt styles and you can make any shirt you want for as little as $14.99 plus shipping. I haven't ordered one yet, but eventually, I know I will.)

Today's quote was from Confucius, and it read: "It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop."

To be sure, I've gone very slowly with this weight loss. A veritable crawl, if we're being honest. I'm 35 pounds down from my absolute heaviest, and that's something to be proud of, but I'm well aware of how much better I could be doing if I had more discipline.

Still, I can live with slow and steady ... I guess.

What I can't live with is my more recent tendency to stop really trying altogether. For the last few weeks, I've taken Succeed and Slacken to an all-time high.

The sad truth is that I just haven't cared about losing weight. I've been having fun and feeling good, and the combination has left me indifferent toward my larger goals. I haven't been doing the weights program at all, and because I'm tutoring in the early mornings, I haven't even been walking. I'm not gaining weight, but I'm certainly not losing, either.

So ... what to do? How can I kick myself in the ass in a productive way?

I'm not sure what the answer is, but I have to stop this slide into apathy, and I have to stop it soon.