Day 715: Funniest Episode Ever.

Day 682: Wikifaith.

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?

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?

Pig Snouts on the Highway - 9/07













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Day 645: Serious Negotiations.

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.

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).

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.

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.

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).

Dead Baby Llamas on the Wall - 2007

















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Day 556: Appreciation.

Napoleon in Peru - 2007
















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Day 554: Healing.

Mom's Leg ... 5-2007
















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Day 539: Almost Ready.

Skeptical Peruvian Llama - 2007

Day 522 : A Not So Happy Homecoming.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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: