Click images for desktop size: "Homeward Bound" by Scott Jackson It was nearly 20 years ago that I optioned a script called I.D. REQ.The script was about, what I considered, the horrific tactics of the FBI Strike Force as they waged their war against organized crime.
Their tactics involved torture, smear campaigns, manipulation of the press etc. Their point wasn't so much to illicit confessions as it was a way of getting suspects to implicate or name other suspects.
The final result being few arrests but a nice long list of names. this mode of intelligence gathering resulted in some well publicized cases: A priest's home getting battering ram raided at dawn; a former school principal put "on the circuit" for 8 days until she gave up her confederates. (The circuit is a method of transferring a prisoner from jail to jail until the paperwork is so befuddled he can't be traced - thus they can be held without charge or right to counsel.)
Of course, like in all my film scripts, there was a dog.
I'm not bringing up an old project out of boredom.
I went to europe for over a decade. When I left this sort of police practice was still considered deplorable.
In Europe I was outraged as the British eroded their citizens basic civil rights, including the right to silence and the right to be free from fear of torture. Their despicable campaign for "Smart National Identity Cards" has constantly been thwarted.
When I left America my Social Security card was emblazoned "Not To Be Used For Purpose Of Identity". I had to get a new one. That familiar slogan is missing.
I see that the government and the craven no longer find deplorable torture, right to counsel.
Brutal cops who shoot down 5 year olds armed with water pistols, or shoot 13 year old unarmed thieves 32 times now want to twist the law to claim street gangs are terrorists.
There used to be, maybe there still is, an annual street festival in Silver Lake. They closed off Sunset Blvd. and the blocks were filled with Hispanics, Asians and Gays - the main members of the community. It was great.
One year I happened to be walking behind two cops. Both totally WASP. They were shouting at each other about how much better it would be if they just opened fire and started mowing down the crowd.
Only they didn't say crowd, they used every pejorative term imaginable. My companion was a lawyer.
This was LAPD. This is the type of man who should be sighting and dealing with his fantasy of terrorists? It appears that they are not noble men but craven men who can only deal with the violence before them with their own more brutal brand of violence. A brutality that will affect us all.
I used to be considered extremely right wing. I believe in freedom. I think that justice is an illusion that can only be deceptive and never fair.
Now, to me, the new right seems to be made up of the old comic book style Communists: Seeking to control the way we think, trying to bomb us into following their religion with tacit government approval. Scoffing at others religions, burning books and rewriting history to suit the present are, what I was taught, the tools of a cowardly totalitarian government that was to be feared and destroyed.
Ronald Reagan, whom I disliked, believed that. In his fear he started us down that path. We become what we most fear and hate, has been proven throughout history.

Click images for desktop size: "Angels In The Sky" by Illona I was thrown into this tract of thought, not by TV. I don't watch TV. I have a dog. But by my plight and the plight of a friend.
To take a job my friend was asked to release all criminal, credit and medical records. And of course, to take a drug test.
To what end? To protect what? A company? A corporation now has the right to pre-judge whether a man i=might be a criminal, might steal?
Men who's sole moral repute is based on what they have convinced the world to buy from them? The convicted swindlers, the scoff laws are to sit in judgement?
What of those days when a man might commit a crime and appear in front of an employer and speak of atonement and repentance and be given a second chance? Clearly, they are gone. The age of the bullet and the discriminatory laws is upon us.
I'll survive. I always have. I fear how many of you won't. T.S. Elliot: Not with a bang but with a whimper. Preston Sturges: These workers are your family to be trusted and cherished and cared for. They're not machines and when you forget that they're human, when you cannot grieve with them, rejoice for them you are no longer a member of society. You certainly are not fit to be an employer.

Posted by David at 6:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

John Milius used to write movies. He wrote Apocalypse Now, Jeremiah Johnson, Red Dawn and the most traitorous surf movie ever - Big Wednesday.
Milius was a surfer though, which means that, at least to other surfers even his dumbest stuff made some kind of sense.
Milius had a thing he did. Every day he would take out 3 sheets of legal sized yellow paper. He wouldn't move until he had filled them with words.
Chandler would sit aside 2 hours a day. During that time he didn't have to write, but he wouldn't allow himself to do anything else except write. He couldn't pet his cat, look out the window, listen to music, he could only sit or write.
He said that sometimes he would write just to relieve the boredom. Often this work was garbage, sometimes it would become poetry.
I'm not as smart as either of those guys. When I wanted to write I would spend my time remembering the stuff I liked. I remembered the effects.
Like a jerk I would try and retell the story in my own words and recreate the effects so that I could feel the emotions better.
It might have been a waste of time but it forced me to do something and allowed me to appreciate how hard this stuff was.
It enables me to appreciate Terry Pratchett, an author who's work I really dislike except in everyone of his books he will have one scene that spins so many threads together and creates a tremendous effect.
I try and figure out if the crap I plodded through was required to get to this tremendous effect or not.
I have no idea what I'm talking about or why.
The physical pain has been bad the past few days. It was really bad today.
Not so bad that I'd miss work (I'm an hourly wage guy) and not so bad that a puppy playing tricks on me doesn't make me laugh. But not a good pain at all.

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Posted by David at 8:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: Peter Jackson's Version:King KongSomeone asked me why I felt the need to justify or explain myself when I explained why I got Shelby, my puppy.
As usual, this confused me. I thought murder got justified and wars, they get justified and explained away.
Big things that effect the world or the big justification: the lies we tell ourselves.
The excuses we pave our way to sleep the big long sleep of the guilty and the damned.
I'm as guilty as anyone. Enough Catholic guilt to keep a drunken bishop busy for a week at least.
But I don't justify myself. When you can justify things, it just leads to some pretty big cruelty.
A guy who gets comfortable justifying himself can excuse the petty lies in himself, he can excuse just about anything and say it was for this or for that. Hell, look we're justifying a war and I'll be damned if I'm put in the category of some smug jerk who can kill thousands and claim he was doing it for my good.
Or the sort of guy who can mug 90 year old women on social security day, or the kind of creep who sells crack to kids because if he didn't do it someone else would.
All these guys are of a cloth to me and that cloth is their burial shroud.
Me and my puppy don't need to be any part of that.
People see you in ways different then you see yourself. When you find someone who sees you the same way you see yourself and loves it, that's when peaceful understanding begins.
It doesn't happen much. For some people I don't think it happens at all.
Sometimes when you meet someone and you're able to be articulate enough and in the right light with the right sounds in the background you can give them a glimpse of a tiny part of your soul.
That glimpse is so dazzling that we think we are in love. We are in love, not just infatuation.
Problem is that love's just not enough for most people.
So, I don't justify my love of dogs. They see my soul and I see theirs.
We get along ok.
I like to have a dog in my life, and I like to be part of their life.
I know what the Belgian Shepherd is like and they know what I'm like.
We get along better than ok.

Posted by David at 9:01 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: "The Real Chicago" by Dan A lot of people have been asking me why with the shape I'm in, with the shape the world is in, why I got a dog, and a purebred, and a puppy.
These people don't know me that well.
Some have been asking me why a Belgian Sheep Dog (in Europe and originally a Belgian Shepherd or Groenendale). This people know me a little bit better.
It's the kind of question that deserves an answer.
Not because the answer is illuminating or anything but I always thought that when we understood the drives of one more person it made out own lives a little easier to understand. It makes our place in the world not so lonely.
I've already told you that my first dog was a rabbit.
Once I took that rabbit to see the vet. His stool was soft and his rear end was a mess.
People probably thought we looked cute: The six year old and the thirty pound bunny. The rabbit was longer than I was tall. So he followed me into the vets and then I had to carry him. I did that by wrapping my arms around his chest, under his front legs. He helped propel us with his still on the floor hind feet. He was remarkable placid.
So I held him and my two dollar life savings (I knew vets were expensive) and my eyes wandered to a poster.
This colorful little poster had pictures of every breed of dog in the AKC.
I was mesmerized but entranced by the Belgian Shepherd. To my small eyes it was a magnificent beast who would save me from all harm. He looked like a jet black wolf, to me.
When I was nine I had to spend a boring detention in the library. I found an American Kennel CLub directory and looked up the Belgians. It said: The most intelligent of the breeds. Aloof and reserved but not shy.
My savior imaginary friend was more than I ever dreamed.
My dog at the time was Alex and I used to pretend that he was smarter than any dumb old pure bred. In a lot of ways he was.
It was nearly 20 years before I saw my first Belgian in the flesh.
I was astonished, and even as a cynical air head adult, I saw nothing but majesty.
My wife was alive then. We'd just lost our dog to pancreatic cancer, even the surgery couldn't save her.
I saw the Belgian and I arranged to buy a puppy. The puppy lived about 2000 miles away from me but we worked it out.

Click images for desktop size: "Jellyfish" by WalrusI loved all the dogs in my life, but the 3 Belgians were a symphony of fun, pleasure, frustration aggravation and love. What is love without grief: A hollow meaningless shell.
I took the puppy to the vet today. She thinks of Belgians as being one of the more difficult breeds to handle. I talked with her some about the dogs and some of my experiences with them, including some personal ones, like how Sharky died and the other pup got shot.
Her response was pluperfect: "You owe the breed quite a lot, don't you?"
Yeah. I do.

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Posted by David at 9:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: "Midnight"The puppy woke me at 5:30. She had to go outside.
That's impressive from a 10 week old pup. In four days she has taken over my heart and laid the groundwork to be a magnificent dog.
It's been oppressively hot all day. It's that bad heat that makes even healthy guys feel like they have asthma. Its hard to move, too hard to even get angry, or sad or much of anything except hot.
They say the crime rate goes down in a heat wave. I bet the rate of love does too. Probably even the rate of negotiable love . . .
A puppy drives things down too, like stress, worry, pointless blatherings.  . .
It's like having a child but not with the serious ramifications. Some of the ramifications are still there but to a lesser degree.
Mostly it's not so much bringing up an individual and gearing them to be a star burning in the heavens, able to stand and conquer on their own, to raise them to be kind, just proud and to walk with a swagger, while reenforcing the need to be humble and gentle and patient in all things. You have to teach a child how to recognize evil and to not allow evil to continue.
See, a dog already knows all that stuff. And all a dog wants to do is to love you and to eat . . . and special treats.

Posted by David at 9:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

It was a damn fine weekend.
The puppy kept me up all night Saturday. They have to. That's their job.
The breeders then picked us up and we went to the dog park, a different one than the one by me. This one was smaller, less yuppified. Means it had some toys there that dogs actually liked.
My puppy was excited to see her mom again but was dismayed when her Mom growled and then snapped at her.
After that she spent all of her time by me.
After sitting in the shade and just chatting and seeing the dogs frolic we went into town for some lunch. There's nothing more elegant than lunch with 4 dogs in the college section of a city.
It was one of the best meals I ever had where I have no recollection of what I actually ate.
The breeder is an oncology nurse so I had no chance of cheating so the food was probably dull anyway but nothing else about the meal was.
You had to be there. It can't be described in anyway to convey the exuberance, the fun the true pleasure.
We went back to my place and took the goodbye pictures and said our farewells. It was sad.
I enjoyed listening to the two breeders neverending dialogue about dogs. I enjoy listening to people talk about their lives anyway, but when their lives revolve around my fave people (dogs) it becomes doubly enchanting and memorable, if indistinct. Somethings are too good to lock into reality in my memory. Better to remember those things with that Emily Bronte` golden haze.
Today she went to work with me. She played a little, slept a lot. It was so hot that she couldn't walk on the concrete. It burned her feet and she yapped and ran to me.
We went to the pet store, I'd carry her to shadow or grass and then work on leash training. She thought it was a good joke to run ahead and sit and watch me pass then run ahead and repeat the procedure.
She thought it was pretty funny. So did I.

Posted by David at 9:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

What if you were just blissfully happy in your life?
What if you looked forward, backwards and to each side and all you saw was everything you ever thought of desiring?
Then, one beautiful morning, you're jerked out of bed and subjected to the travails of hell. You're lost, confused. No one will tell you where you are going.
People make sounds at you but the sounds don't have meaning. They are not the sounds you wanted to hear.
It's a lot like growing up - even if growing up isn't what you wanted.
When you finally arrive at your destination, after what seems like 12 lifetimes you are suddenly dumped into the hands of a boss, a caretaker, a teacher and the world that was can never be again.
You don't have enough memory to even be nostalgic.
All you have is the essence of now, and sadness that can't be rhymed with hope.
That's what a puppy's life must be like, it seems to me. Just wanting to play and have fun and to love but then having to grow up and be something that you never wanted to be, never even dreamed existed.
I spent the day in anticipation.
Like a virgin bride on her honeymoon night.
I was interested that time flew by so quickly. After the weeks of waiting and the weeks of wanting it seemed like just suddenly my puppy was here.
There was no big drama. She came out of the van, took a look at me and tried to bite me . . . somewhere through all this she decided I was ok. At least the only one in a hostile world who might feed her.
I think she's pretty wonderful and, aside from not letting me sleep yet, no major problems at all.
She's more skittish then her breed normally is. She gets little panic attacks and then it seems she remembers that it's all going to be okay.
She didn't like it when her mother and the other dogs drove away but she seemed to accept it perfectly well. We're getting together tomorrow to go to the dog park and to just walk around.
The breeder drove 600 miles to deliver the demon child, she has to take her favorite dog to a specialist in my area. He has a ruptured disk in his spine. He is also one of the calmest, most majestic goofiest dogs it's ever been my pleasure to meet. No way would you think he's in excruciating pain until he takes a slight misstep.
This is rambling and lost becasue I'm tired and happy and not so alone anymore.
Like on the Oscar's night, there's so many people to thank for helping to make this happen and I'm too bloated with adrenaline to remember to thank them all. So it's best to say that everyone who was part of this was special and there's no way my little demon could have gotten here o be with me, where she belongs, without them.
Check out her blog I Am The Greatest Dog In The World to get her version of events.
She 10 weeks old, nearly, and she's beautiful.

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Posted by David at 12:07 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

I just saw a jet black butterfly.
I thought, "my puppy will be jet black too."
When I was in Texas a woman in my building was beaten up pretty badly; broken arm, bruises, blood: the works. It was me that called the paramedics. The paramedics called the cops.
I showed the ambulance guys where the woman was and then I went outside to think and wipe the rage out of my skull.
When I opened the door there were 6 cops hiding behind their cars and all pointing their guns at me.
I said, "It's OK. The EMT's are with her. She's inside."
All six cops stood up and holstered the pistols.
Let me repeat that: They holstered their pistols.
They had no idea who I was.
I don't know what that has to do with black butterflies and black puppies but I think somewhere it must because those 3 things are the only things in my head.
I want my puppy to just be here. I've been waiting so long for her I don't want to wait anymore.

Posted by David at 11:05 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

First time I heard of Chandler I was 24. Funny enough it was a guy who introduced me like this:

"David, I just read this and damn if I didn't think he was talking about you. I only xeroxed the page but you should read the whole thing."
It went: "Down these mean streets a man must go who is himself not mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid."

I went and out and got the whole story. It was an article by Chandler called "The Simple Art of Murder". Most of it was pretty meaningless to me. For two thirds of the thing Chandler tears apart the stupidity of the "mystery" novel. I never read or heard of most of them so it was a waste of rhetoric.
Although I did like, and agree, with his assessment of Agatha Christie and Hercule Poirot particularly when he said that these mysteries so so contrived and foolish that "only a half wit could guess it," meaning the clever deductions.
He then ranted on and made a great case for how Hammett was a better writer than he was, laying out how Hammett gave murder back to the kind of people who commit it for reasons, not just to provide a corpse, and with the means at hand, not with handwrought dueling pistols, curare and tropical fish I was willing to concede the point to Chandler until I got to the section that ran:
"The realist in murder writes of a world in which gangsters can rule nations and almost rule cities, in which hotels and apartment houses and celebrated restaurants are owned by men who made their money out of brothels . . . It is not a fragrant world but it is the world you live in. It is not funny that a man should be killed, but it is sometimes funny that he should be killed for so little."
I ended up reading all of his books. That's not that much. In his life he only wrote seven novels.
Read chronologically they start out at better than excellent and progress to masterpiece, culminating in "The Long Goodbye."
For me, a guy who was wrapped up in beat poets, William Faulkner and William Burroughs, Chandlers little pieces were extreme both in their cruelty and flippant violence, but always there was beauty and human dignity. He made me re-think what I thought of as literature.
I read of Chandler's life. As a young guy it perplexed me.
He ardently pursued and married a woman some 20 years older than himself. When they both aged he was not faithful but stayed mindfully devoted. Their life was not happy, but they did not separate or leave each other.
When "Birdie" died Chandler wrote an impassioned letter to a friend saying in some ways he was glad she had passed away as in illness it was like seeing a beautiful bird trapped in too small a cage.
His life after that was filled with younger women, whom he usually made a fool of himself over. Smart enough to see them for what they were he nonetheless committed to them, foolishly and ardently.
Like Preston Sturges, Raymond Chandler came into Hollywood more worldly and mature than his contemporaries. He did magnificent work in movies, usually uncredited and for too little money but Hollywood gave him access to the physical type of woman he was obsessed with.
Even then there was a bitterness that always stayed with him. It was in his work and always in his life.
It was spelled out clear enough in "The Blue Dahlia", the only story he ever had to rush out without really thinking, just gushing words onto paper.
Alan Ladd gets out of the army with his two buddies. He can't wait to see his wife, but then he finds out his wife has been living the high life on his money.
While Ladd has been out bleeding on the battle fields she's been screwing every guy in town. She even makes a hard play for Ladd's buddies.
She gives Ladd the air.
Then she gets killed.
And Ladd is the suspect. Even knowing her for what she is he doesn't stop loving her. He's got to solve the killing and protect his friends.
He's not doing it just to save himself, he's doing it to avenge the woman, a wrong woman, but a woman he loved.
I think Chandler was something like that. Maybe it was a romantic view of himself but it fits the facts of Chandler's life, at least the facts we're allowed to know.
Chandler was important. A lot of people might tell you he wasn't but those same people will tell you that Harry Potter's important. Maybe Potter is but I don't think so. You have to live in my world to be important to me.
Chandler lived in our world.
In the end it doesn't much matter what people say they think. Chandler was important, he shaped the way mankind looks at itself, through movies, through books and through advertising and life itself.
Like all men who achieve greatness without having a lot of people
killed or having more guys doing his killing his greatness just happens to be a fact. A fact doesn't give a damn if you believe in it, it just keeps right on existing.

Posted by David at 9:02 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Click images for desktop size: "Sitting Bull"Good Ol' Dog is at work with me today. She's looking and feeling better. That's important.
On the way to work saw a guy in a great well cut electric lime green suit with ox blood red oxfords, matching lime green fedora hat that had a red feather rising from it. He carried a malalca cane.
Very cool stuff.
As pimped out as he was he was sitting on a bench waiting for the bus. I wanted to tell him that he should be pacing about , looking at his watch and muttering about firing his chauffeur, then you climb on the bus in disgust and ask the driver to change a hundred.
That's the way it should have been done, I think anyway.
Just spent most of the day looking after Good Ol' Dog. She's doing better, not quite perfect yet but soon will be I imagine.
I remembered a story. A story about a man telling a story, so I remember that story and the story within that story.
An old warrior was talking to his student. he told him of their nation and of it's past.
Of how once, long ago, there had been a warrior of such skill that he would hire out as a mercenary. He did this even though he was a peaceful man. His earnings were turned over to the village where he was raised. The money he earned fed the villagers and kept them from starvation and death.
Once this warrior was hired by a country far away. He was to champion for it's King in a tournament.
The warrior won easily, for even amongst champions he was something special. Even though he had no passion for killing he was adept at it, some say it was his lack of passion that made him so dangerous.
After the King had claimed the prize his champion had won the warrior presented himself before him with the bill for his services.
The King said that he had already dispatched the treasure and when the warrior returned home he would find the fabulous wealth waiting for him, more than the price on his bill.
The warrior returned home. When he got to the village there was no wealth, no money. There were only the starving members of his village, the people he had sworn to protect.
Without resting the night the warrior made the 2 month trip in only 6 weeks and returned to the King's chamber and demanded payment.
The King said that his Prime Minister had attempted to embezzle the warriors funds. He dragged the Prime Minister to the center of the chamber and had him beheaded in front of the warrior.

Click images for desktop size: "Untitled" by Frank FrazettaThe King said the treasure had already been dispatched. The warrior was impressed by all of this. He was only a fighter and basically a simple and good man.
He returned to his village and, again, discovered that there was no treasure. His own mother had died of starvation. The surviving villagers were wracked with hunger and feebly tossed stones at the warrior, cursing him for failing to live up to his promises.
With a black heart the warrior returned to the King. With a deathly silence he slew the kings body guards and then with out mercy or compromise he slew the King.
No one stopped him when he went to the treasury and took the wages that had been promised him. That was all he took and not anything more though he was surrounded by wealth.
The Old story teller looked at his student and asked him, "What have you learned from this?"
The student quickly replied, "Don't trust anyone, not even a King."
The story teller boxed the student in the ear, exclaiming, "Fool! Trust anyone you want. Just make sure you always get paid."
About 43 hours until my puppy arrives. Then the two of us will find a home in each other.
Her dog bed is too big. She'll like it.
I'll be broke when she comes. Neither of us will care.

Posted by David at 9:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: "Carnal Petals" by Masahiko Fujii The day was spent taking care of Good Ol' Dog.
It is always good to take care of someone else.
Sixty eight hours until the puppy arrives.
Saturday is Raymond Chandler's Birthday too.

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Posted by David at 8:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: "Untitled" by Paul ZwolakThe day started promisingly enough. I saw a giant Blue Jay, heard a woodpecker rata-tatting on the roof and then saw a hummingbird.
Good Ol' Dog is at work with me.
The sore on her face that was so small 2 days ago has been oozing that pinkish clear pus you used to enjoy seeing when you were a kid. It's not fun seeing it on a dog.
Her eye above the sore was not opening properly and she was deadly lethargic.
Called the vet and am just now waiting to take her in. Seems like too long a time.
People suffer and they can do something about it. You can drink, punch a wall, moan and vent to an uncaring stranger.
But a animal can only make do, can only gamely struggle on.
The suffer in loud silence, like me.
Home now. Good Ol' Dog was pretty ill. She has a bad infection. They had to knock her out to shave her face. I don't know if it was the shaving or if the skin under her fur was that fiery.
She's still knocked out, laying on her chaise that we moved into the living room. I'm keeping the murderous cats away from her.
She's not moving but I can see her chest move.
She's on painkillers and antibiotics. She has to wear her "cone" collar.
The vet said she's be up and kicking tonight and should be markedly improved tomorrow. Right now she's just lying there like a somnambulist.
I keep thinking it's only 90 hours till the puppy gets here.
It makes damn little sense to be responsible for a dog at this time in my life.
But it's the only thing that makes sense to me. A fancy pure bred to boot. . . I think she'll be beautiful and graceful and athletic. I like looking at her.
She'll be bossy and sometimes defiant, she'll explore and get into trouble. She'll be alive and her being alive will make me feel alive.
Good Ol' Dog's illness points out to me the trauma and the emotion that a dog brings to a man's life. Not having a dog is, to me, as sensible as not having arms when they can easily attach them for you at the arm shop.
So whatever we go through, the puppy and I will go through it together.
I'll take care of her and she'll take care of me.
No matter what happens we'll enjoy ourselves and tell each other jokes.
I'll feel human and she'll feel canine.

Click images for desktop size: "Caged" It's something only a wife or a child or a dog can bring into your life. When you have all three . . . Once I did. I know.
I hate my job.
That's it, nothing more to discuss.
What I find oddest is that, when I talk to my boss (I'm like, totally unsupervised. I realize that I could almost not even go in for days and no one would notice) I get disoriented because like I'm always talking to my boss but she is sometimes talking to her subordinate and sometimes talking to a potential boy friend.
She okayed me leaving early today to take care of Good Ol' Dog so, for now, she's okay.
Ninety hours . . .

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Posted by David at 7:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: "Misty River" by Shifted Reality Somedays you have to spend time getting ready for the good things to come.
It's when the wounds have their time to heal, a time when there's no strategy or tactics, not even a will to survive.
Just tasks that need doing, chores to move ahead.
Good Ol' Dog came to work with me. Poor thing got some sort of bite on her face and in a night turned it into a major thing. We had to get her a pink cone collar, an Elizabethan collar, a No Scratch Safety Collar, whatever you want to call it, all dogs know is it's no fun. I have bad associations with them.

When my puppy got shot years ago she had to wear one. She figured out how to use it to tear at the stitches in her belly. After she worked through the first set they had to had her tummy together with wire.
This is nothing like that, I have to keep reminding myself. this is a scratch on the face. Still, taking Good Ol' Dog to the vet tomorrow to make sure.
Still, I called her funnel head and laughed when she kept bumping me in the leg with the cone. I had to act reserved but I thought it was funny when someone would walk into my tiny think tank and she'd run up to them and jam the plastic right into their groin.
Jock humor.
Made all the arrangements, with help from my housemate, for a hotel for the breeder. They have a nine hour drive in front of them. They're bringing 5 dogs with them! I can barely wait.
Then I finally settled on a crate . . . I don't like crating dogs but it's still the only way to start house training. I'm happy with what I got, even if I did go broke getting it. I also had to get some "Nature's Miracle". If you've owned a pet, you know what that's for . . .
Then the rain started falling. It was fabulous but without the sound and the fury of the thunderstorms, bright sky and torrents of rain that lasted only for ten minutes.
Then the heat resumed and the air smelled cleaner.

Click images for desktop size: "Versace Designs"I liked the runnels of water cascading off the roof tops.
Then it was just waiting, counting the hours.
I've spent too much time counting hours. I think we all have.
Counting the hours till Christmas. Counting the hours until someone dies.
At least this time I'm counting down time waiting for life. A puppy dog.
My housemate witnessed a bad wreck yesterday. She wasn't involved in anyway but it shook her.
After being glad she wasn't involved my first thought was, "Gosh, I hope the puppies don't have a car wreck getting here!" People drive really badly here compared to the West Coast, or maybe it's just another West Coast-East Coast thing.
Then I remembered the first bad accident I ever saw. I was 16 coming back from Malibu up Sunset when a guy hit Deadman's Curve and rolled his Charger. What was cool was it landed on it's roof and just revolved like that.
I jumped of my beater Pontiac and helped pull him out through the window. He was okay. We pushed the Charger back on it's wheels and he drove away. He said it was total rush.

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Posted by David at 10:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: "Calatras Forest" by Shifted Reality Woke up feeling rough and then managed to make it worse.
We went out, my housemates and I, to have some food and run a couple of minor errands. We went to a restaurant where I knew I couldn't eat anything. I had coffee and toast
I liked it. I liked it enough that I thought I try a biscuit - the waitress had brought a basket of them to the table. I took one bite and said aloud, "I'd better not eat this, it'll make me sick."
Then while listening to the conversation I realized I'd eaten the whole biscuit. No butter or anything, just a plain biscuit.
Powerful biscuit. Laid me low. Put me down for the count.
I wasn't so tough now.

So after feeling like death I got the email about the puppies. One has already found it's new home in Chicago. Next week the perfect one will be coming to me.
I'm still jealous that these Chicago people are getting that extra week of good puppy lovin'!
But it will be good.
The breeder is bringing about 3 other dogs with her, to help my little child of trauma make an easier transition. I'm in full elk rut thinking about having those fur balls careening about.
I still felt sick but happy through it.
Tried to calm the torture down by reading the book on animal behaviorism. Nothing new in it but it helped to remind me of a couple of things and made me rethink my position on a couple of others.
Looked on-line at supplies and tried to make rational decisions while wracked with pain and glee. Who cares. It all makes sense when the puppy comes.
Then there was a moment of excitement.
The skies opened and rain bucketed down.
It was bright and sunshiny. It was a deluge washing clay and dirt into the storm drains.
Lightening was striking the ground and jetting across the sky. The thunder made the ground shake.
I liked it plenty and it took my mind off of everything else.
Then it ended and the world came back.

Click images for desktop size: "Rousse" Tomorrow I have to get a crate for housebreaking purposes. I hope I can move. Dr J called me and she got angry at me for going to the restaurant and absent mindedly eating something I'd identified as really bad for me.
Good Ol' Dog has some sort of sore on her face. She's been scratching it and worrying it so now it's a BIG sore on her face. It ruins her looks!
Tomorrow she's coming to work with me. (YAY!) We'll pick up one of the cone collars and then she has to stay with me.
I'm not going to pay her though.

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Posted by David at 10:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: "Skyline 1A" A wreck of a day. No highlights, no lowlights.
I survived. I guess that means something.
I survived because I know that in less than 160 hours a little black puppy dog with a diamond shaped splash of white on her chest will be here.
We'll start to get to know each other.
My ball throwing experiment had a delayed reaction: This morning I had to brush my teeth with my left hand.
Did my stretch at work today.
Nothing happened. I mean nothing happened.
I watched a spider spin a web. I was impressed at how fast he went.
And then nothing more happened.
I thought about just bugging out.
Wondered when I got so old that I believed in being responsible . . . decided it wasn't fear. It was being responsible.
I forced myself to spend a half hour throwing the ball. Tried to pitch instead of just burning it. I can still move it around pretty well. At 30 feet I couldn't tell if there was any motion on the ball.
I decided I'm getting soft.
Too much food, too much ease, too much air conditioning. Too many people wanting to go poor poor David.
I can only work on part of it. time to get tough with myself.
I went to look at an apartment, a duplex, that looked pretty good. Still not everything perfect but closer and closer.
Went to the library and traded them their books back. I got some modern fiction and some stuff on animal behaviorism. My puppy flunked her temperament test.
She doesn't like strangers very much.
She's going to be a big dog so I have to get her past this. It won't be hard and I know most of the tricks but I owe it to her to stay on top of things. She has a right to expect me to make her perfect and happy.
Then I took a fast walk around the lake with Good Ol' Dog. I wondered briefly about how she'd feel about the puppy.
Then all I've done is feel terrible.
I wish my body felt more responsible to me.
I usually don't want to talk about the pictures here but the one below here, for  "Eyes With Out A Face".
I saw this film when I was 7 or so. I remember the evening vividly. Sometimes when my parents wanted me out of the house I'd get dumped at the movie theater.

Click images for desktop size: US Poster 1994 re-release
Most of the time I wasn't very interested in what was on screen but this night it was "The Manster" Half Man and Half Monster, plus "Horror Chamber Of Dr Faustus".
"The Manster" was dull and stupid. I've never seen it since but any film a 7 year old thinks is stupid . . . but "Doctor Terror". Rah!
I next came across the film in Paris, at the Cinematheque, only now it had it's original name, "Les Yeux Sans Visage", or translated the name on the poster.
Geroges Franju never made it big in America or, really, any place outside of France. His "Les Sangre Du betes" has it's noteriety and Raymond Durgnats book on him is more about Durgnat then Franju, so Franju's films remain an obscure passion. They shouldn't be.
Edith Scob, the heroine/victim/monster: I was in love with her until I was 13. I loved her in the bisque mask and the way she moved like a dream. What kind of parent drops off a kid to see surrealism?

Posted by David at 11:03 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: "Bright Future" by Studio 555 Woke up this morning and some of the pall had been lifted. It's hard for me to be in a bad mood unless it's got a good reason to hang around.
I lightened some of it by remembering my rules Of Life:
Avoid any situation they write operas about.
The Three Stooges are not role models.
Any plan you have that involves things purchased from ACME and wouldn't be out of place in a Roadrunner cartoon should be discarded.
I've got a couple of others but they change all the time. These stay constant and, the hell of it is, I have to remind myself of them.
Went to work and realized I'd lost my newspaper. Fifty cents for 6 pages of news and 40 pages of adverts for things I'd never want. All I wanted was the apartments for rent section.
Before I turned that minor mishap into something serious a guy in his late 80's came in. He moved pretty good. For twenty minutes he talked about women; all the problems they caused him. He said he was rich, looking at him and the way he was dressed and the car he drove, I believed him.
He was wearing a vintage Rolex on a bracelet that would make a handy set of brass knuckles, except you wouldn't do that too that much gold. An old but well cut white silk shirt with mother of pearl buttons, cut big enough to not look effeminate. His nails were well manicured and clean. He wore at least a carat in diamond on his ring finger. It was probably real because it caught the light and a man wouldn't wear a phony that size.
He went on about his fiancee' and all her nuttsiness. He spoke in a clear well modulated voice, quiet like he was used to people having to listen to him.
He ended the monologue saying, "Woman. Who needs 'em! I guess I do. Crazy as they are they're the only thing keeps me going. My age you need something more than doctors and cute nurses."
He sat quiet for a minute and looked in my eyes. He must have liked what he saw reflected in my glasses because he went on: "We never understand them and we keep going after them. I can't do nothing with them. Not for the last 12 years anyway but I keep going after them. You think they'd be glad for any attention at all. I tell you a woman is the same at 70 as she was at 20. Maybe a little smarter, maybe not. She's still the same woman, reacts the same way at 70 as she did at 20. I wouldn't want them to change a lick."
He left calling me a "young fellow". I thought, if I live that long, at least I'll have something to look forward to.
Then as the day wore on so did I. It was that bleakness that feels too much like encroaching death. I wanted to hear from someone, anyone. Then I thought that there isn't anybody who could take this mood off of me. I had better get used to it because I figure this is the rest of my life.
A dog will make a difference. For a change I'll be the one doing the courting, seeking acceptance. That's always good for a man.
So I went and spent the last of my available cash on a sack of puppy food. Nutro Max for large breed puppies. I got a couple cans of the same to mix with it at first, to try and con the puppy into liking me.
All that food was heavy. It felt good toting the weight a half mile. It felt honest and real and too much in this world isn't even that.

Click images for desktop size: "Liu" by Denis HuttonI got a call from Dr J, this time she was calling as my friend, not as my doc.
She invited me to go away with her for the weekend, just a short trip because she knows I'll be tied down with puppy madness starting next week.
I told her no. I told her I liked her. I was fond of her and that I wanted to be a part of her life and I wanted her to be a part of mine for as long as I could see.
I told her she was a good person, real good. She is in the only way you can measure anything. With her schedule she doesn't hole up. In her free time she works in a clinic making sure poor people can stay alive as long as rich people; making sure that poor kids get the chance to grow up.
Nothing more real and not much else as good as that.
She's not old enough or mean enough to understand why I do what I do. Why I am what I am, she sees me in her way, which is just as real as the way I see me.
She asked if she could come over and see the puppy next weekend. All I could do is sigh and I said harsher than I felt:
"We're not going out Wednesday afternoon?"
And she said, "I thought you said . . . "
I interrupted, "Don't interpret what I say. I'm not that complicated. I want you to teach my puppy to run five miles a day. Cause sure as hell I can't do that anymore. I want you to take my arm when we walk together. I want to stare into your eyes and feel like smiling. I want you to keep inviting me to lunch and never buying me any food. I want us to have a great big beautiful friendship. Right now that's all I want. I don't know if I'll ever want more. But I won't go away with you for the weekend. If you can live with that I want you around, I might even need you. If you can't I understand. I like you. I'm fond of you. I like you enough to end it wishing only the best for you."
She said, "I don't want to end anything with you, not even a phone call."
We were both quiet for a while but it felt okay. I like someone who can stay quiet.
She said, "Can I call you tomorrow?"
"You can call me anytime anywhere. You can call me about something and about nothing."
She did tell me she'd found a batting cage. Five bucks for 75 pitches from a JUGS machine. Sounds strong.
I went and threw the ball, changed my routine to baby steps. I reduced the distance to 50 feet and just tried to throw lasers. Worked ok. Only threw two over the fence . . . an 8 foot fence . . . but some arm discomfort, no real arm pain. But what do I know about pain.

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Posted by David at 7:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

You know, most of the time I think I understand something and then suddenly I realize I don't.
Spent most of the day at work writing the little piece below this for the Long Goodbye.
I like Chandler a lot, his work I mean. I don't think I'd have liked him all that much in person but there are things about him I would have liked. It's pleasant to think about.
I once had a chance to buy some of his letters. They were written on fancy art deco style stationary, cream colored with his monagram stretched to the length of the page. Tasteful. He wrote in a soft purple ink. The letters weren't fascinating but they were interesting.
Then Dr J called and gave me some news that spun me. It wasn't anything new but it's harder to take coming from someone you like.
It's just health stuff and scheduling for some more tests. The biggest issue seems to be, "why aren't I in more pain?" And "how come you can still walk around?"
I don't know the answers. I don't think about them much. I just keep going.
It spun me and put me in a seriously negative mood that I still haven't pulled myself out of. It one of those chitinous moods that I've been trying to avoid. I can cheer myself up a bit by reminding myself that it's only 8 more days till the puppy arrives.
I went and spent more money then necessary to get her lots of food bowls. It was momentary relief but it was relief.
Times like this I should flip the switch and just let the world go on without me for a while. Things are what they are and sometimes no amount of will can change them.
You can't even change people and damn few are smart enough and comfortable enough to let their minds be changed. I know it and need to be in this sort of mood to have it bother me.
I keep saying it to everyone, well to someone, that today is one of those days that I wish I was a drinker. I feel like it would be good to escape some place even for just a little while.
Aw, but I don't drink and I know there's not enough drink or drugs in the world to change reality. Those things barely work enough to change our perception of reality. The things you can see just keep right on existing. I'm not an ostrich. And I don't want to sleep for a hundred years and then die.
Things weren't helped much when my housemate came to pick me up from work and he'd put a serious gash in his hand. From the bleeding and spurting it looked like he nicked an artery or something. Got the blood stopped and the wound stitched and the prospect of him not being seriously hurt lightened me.
That I got to take Good Ol' Dog out for a stroll only seemed to heighten my good mood.
One of the little runner girls I yell at to "run better" stopped by with her dog, "Mr Socks" and that put a lever under the stone walls.
It still doesn't feel good.
I'll survive.
I don't know why. I just always seem to.

Posted by David at 11:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Most of you know the life story of Raymond Chandler: Educated in Dulwich England, becomes a big muckety muck in the oil business in Southern California, gets broke when the depression hits and turns to writing pulp fiction.
Funny thing though, when he wrote those first stories he laid them out on a typewriter, justified margins, the whole bit. Even counted the words on the page to make sure it matched the count on the little magazines.
Soon he was a success and worked, not happily, in movies. The great legend is about Alan Ladd. Ladd was due to go into the Army so they got Chandler to throw together a script in 2 weeks.
Chandler got a cabin at the Chateau Maremont and a case of whiskey. He got roaring drunk and turned out "The Blue Dahlia". You should see it if you haven't already. It won't waste your time.
This piece is about "The Long Goodbye". It's what should have been and was intended to be his last book. He had it published first in England, a year sooner than the US release. No reason for it except he wanted to be English, like Terry Lennox in the book.
Most people have tried to bury "The Long Goodbye" as genre. It's a mystery novel, hard boiled pulp and not worth serious consideration sort of thing. They take skill and they're enjoyable entertainment but who takes something enjoyable and can see that's it's not craft, it's art.
My argument is that this is the greatest American novel yet written.
In fact, I call it The Great American Novel.
It's set in Hollywood and Los Angeles. Back then LA was considered the city of the future. Then sometime in the 70's Tokyo was the city of the future. You can't help noticing that no place is the future now.
Then and now Hollywood and LA is the place where America and half the world's dreams are concocted, assimilated and spit out.
The Long Goodbye is aware of the fact that it's set in the place where the world stores it's dreams, broken dreams and whole ones.
The characters are different then any before or since. Some of them wear the same clothes, some of them wear the same names, but here they're not just archetypes. They fill those roles nice and cozy but the fillip is that they insist on becoming human and real.
The plot is just something to hang clothes on. A wire sculpture that holds it's own intricate beauty. There's enough guns and stuff to keep the pages turning, but what Robert Altman (in his dreadful film version) and many others missed is that this isn't a murder story.
(Altman is considered a genius by a lot of people. So you can make the argument that his movie version was such a dud because "The Long Goodbye" is a masterpiece and like all masterworks it's idiom and media are part of it's genius. But Jim Bouton, a baseball player who wrote a funny book, "Ball Four", as Terry Lennox, on of the most enigmatic characters in literature? And Elliott Gould as Philip Marlowe?)
There are killings but it's a story about people under pressure.
What has them under pressure are two of the most important things in life - Love and Friendship.
That's what the books about, that's what it examines. Love and Friendship in a city of dreams and fantasy. Friendship and love in a place where it's hard to tell reality because of the bright sunlight and shimmering waves of heat.
If you know enough about those two subjects, Love and Friendship, you must be one of those guys who can promise enlightenment and then get some followers who'll give you all their hard earned or all their undeserved dough. If you really got the answer I guess you deserve the cash.
If you need to know about loving people you need to read this book.
It's in the library and always in every bookstore. You don't have to buy it. No one's getting rich off of this except the publishers.
Read it or don't read it. It's the kind of book that's going to keep right on existing no matter what we do.

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Posted by David at 8:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: "Warriors Of The Staked Plains" Artist Unknown The cats decided they loved me and kept me awake most of the night.
It made me a bit grumpy at work but I only had to see one old fellow who came in just to chat with me about the weather . . .
Only a half day on Wednesday. I considered just cutting out but paycheck considerations won out.
After work I went to look at apartments and duplexes.
One looked outstanding but they want too much money all in a lump. It might be do-able, but it would be a strain.
Too much of a strain really. It's not perfect but it has a big yard that's fenced making it perfect for a puppy.
Dr J meet me at the final duplex and we drifted over to this music store I like. I'm not much for jam sessions. I'm a song oriented guy. So we played a couple tunes.
And then Dr J did one of the first negatives. She requested a David Bowie tune . . .
The only one I knew the chords to was "Rock & Roll Suicide" except I play it more like a blues number. After two run throughs we got something that sounded sweet. Electric piano is not my fave instrument but it worked pretty well on this one.
We attracted a small crowd. Pink Girl was there with a girl friend. She was giggly while she and Dr J spoke.
I played "Baby Blue", not the Dylan or Gene Vincent version (Jack White does a great cover of the Vincent one live) but the Badfinger one. It's sounds awesome as an electric guitar solo. I've been playing it for years, and even without the snake fingers working great it still sounds good.
After I played it Pink Girl and Dr J came up grinning. Dr J asked, "Is that part of your seduction technique?" Pink Girl giggled a lot about this and then they both did. Which made me smile. I didn't get it but you know how it is when two people are laughing.
Hank, the piano player recorded the session. One great thing about playing with guys who own a music store is you get to play all of the guitars. I got to play a vintage Martin dreadnought and a Gibson Gold top.
They also have their little session room totally wired to ADAT with AKG's and Shures. Mediocre mixing deck but musicians have never been much for high end audio and recording gear.
He recorded most of the session and promised to give me CD's of the tracks so I can mix them down if there's anything worth mixing. They did sound good playing back raw though.
Of course the question came up about how many people we drew into the store and the fact that they sold some guitars and keyboards off the show.
ANother thing about musicians: "Hey, you know, if we like got serious we could really have a great band here!" Which I understand but want no part of.
I just like playing.
One thing about going for two hours is Dr J had to go back to the hospital so she got out of buying me lunch . . .

Posted by David at 11:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Click images for desktop size: "Dreamspace" I'm watching/listening to the All Star Game.
I used to love the All Star game, all those teams of the best and the greatest playing a game just for fun. It had a poetry to me.
It's still a great game but this weird fillip of trying to make the game "meaningful", tries to take away the intense sand-lot element that I loved.
The way baseball is the All Star game and the World Series are about the only games EVERYBODY watches, everyone . . . and the chance to see the best just out there with no other purpose than to have fun or to "enhance their legend" always struck me as what the game was really about.
The best against the best in a pick up game.
Did you see Bruelhe? Did you see Tejada?
Good Ol' Dog came to work with me today. She was a terrible employee. All she wanted to do was play and she wanted to drive the golf cart and got mulish about it.
People are starting to come to work just to speak to me. I like that.
It started with a guy coming in and talking to me about the Boy Scout Jamboree in Virginia. They built a coal mine out of shipping containers from his truck line. I liked the sound of it. He invited me to fly up with his wife and him but it wouldn't be until after the 25th and I'll have a puppy then.
Good Ol's Dog and I went and threw the ball some. She doesn't like baseballs. She still chases them but is consistently shocked that they aren't tennis balls and squishable.
I still can't get the speed up. At 90 feet I can consistently hit the fence pole but I've got no zip on the ball. When I hit it right I can get it to fly straight back to me. But I'm all over the place in the vertical plane.
For lunch Good Ol' Dog and I went to Pet Supermarket and Good Ol' Dog stole a pigs ear! Crunched it! I had to buy it but they gave her a nice treat. While we were walking back, and I guess it was hot, 95 doesn't bother me much.
A girl, kind of pretty in a silver Toyota passed us and then stopped and waited for us to catch up. I was listening to Toxic Shock's version of "Lean On Me" in the iPod and thought it was kind of great watching her talk to me, even though I couldn't hear a word she said. Her smiling serious eyes and bangs that bounced while she spoke were very lovely when set to music.
I finally took off the headphones and listened to her. I figured she was going to ask me directions. She seemed to know my name but I haven't a clue as to who she might be. The conversation was innocuous. I'm used to talking to people I have no recollection of who seem to know all about me.
Dr J called and we chatted for about 30 minutes about the All Star game. She's working tonight and I thought going to a hospital and watching the game while she flitted in and out sounded kind of horrible. So did she but it was a sweet offer.
I painted some poles just to have something to do. good Ol' Dog kept all the lizards and chipmunks away so I could work undisturbed . . .
While I painted I thought about a dragonfly that could be seen from the moon.

Posted by David at 10:09 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Click images for desktop size: "Untitled" by George Bratt Today was a day where it seemed like not much happened. I was wrong.
I did nothing at work today. Except get praised.
I threw the baseball for 90 minutes. I didn't count throws. I wanted to see if I could get the arm warm and sort of pain free.
It got warm but the pain only worsened.
I'm going to have to ask Dr J about getting an MRI. I'm pretty sure this pain is not a good thing and is not a result of slow healing.
I was sick today but nothing stopped my good mood. Not even apartment hunting.
It was just a day that I lived through until I finally got to speak with the puppy breeder. Then it all became a day to remember.
The litter of pups had their final vet checkout, their final confirmation check and their temperament test.
Yow! Spelling it out and you gotta say these are some busy 6 week old things.
It all went fine. The puppies are, surprisingly, free of worms. Their health is all good. This means I get the puppy I want, the puppy I've wanted all along.
People think I'm a tough guy, tough enough to be gentle they say. I don't really know what they mean by that but when you hear it most of your life you just take it that the world has a perception problem. I'm not tough. I know guys who are and I'm not one of them.
When I finally heard the news about the pup I stopped feeling like the space between the stars. I felt human. I felt like the human race wasn't so bad after all.
On the confirmation check the puppy got it all in terms of beauty. I already knew she was beautiful, what else could she be.
In temperament the breeder was surprised. My little girl doesn't like strangers. The test she ran is pretty accurate but super stressful. They flap umbrellas at the puppy, surprise them with feather dusters and give them toys and then take them away.
I understand why they do it. My little girl didn't like it. Would you?
She didn't get stroppy or viscious, she just wanted to be left alone.
The animal behavourist says she'll be a problem. She won't be a family dog. She'll want her best friend and when she's comfortable with me she'll tolerate my friends, she might even make a few friends of her own.
I don't see how that makes her any different than me.She'll be "a one man dog." She'll need someone who can be patient with her and kind and understanding.Hell, we all need that, at least sometimes.
I figure when she meets me she'll hate me. She'll wonder why I'm taking the place of her mom and her litter mates.
She'll wonder why I want her to learn things.
And, if I know my dogs, and I do, eventually we'll be in love with each other and decide to take care of each other.

Posted by David at 10:46 PM | Permalink | Comments (5)

Click images for desktop size: "Feathers" by Kirk Reinert The new server is up.
http://warchild13.com/
Things are still a bit of a mess so I'll try and post everything to both of them for a while.
The new server gives me 2.5 gig of storage and 50 gig of bandwidth.
As I am nearing the break off point on bandwidth on the original site this is pretty welcome.
What all this extra storage and bandwidth means is MORE PICTURES! Maybe some music and avi's too.
In two weeks there'll be a puppy here and then there will be a definite need for all of this internet stuff. My puppy will, no doubt, be the most beautiful puppy in the history of the world. At least to me. That means lots of boring pictures of a puppy being stupid that I will find totally charming and wonderful.
I'm setting up a separate Movable Type installation for the puppy. I figure she'll want to communicate and yak about things. Puppies are like that.
In between doing my laundry and fussing around with the new site and doing all that technical stuff that I barely understand I've been thinking a lot about LA.
LA is my home. I love it but I can't live there anymore. Too many tears. I used to love it when the streets were wet in the winter, when the black tar reflected neon and star light with the same tolerance.
I loved the way it changed even when I didn't love the changes. I liked the art and the nearness of the sun. I loved the mountians hidden by the smog, and the fact that places I rode my bike have become icons.
There's not an inch of LA, from the Pallisades to Altadena that I don't know, that I don't have a story about, that I don't have a memory of.
Now it just means that I start to cry.
I'm not so weak yet that crying bothers me. It only bothers me because it happens almost all the time. Then, I have to stop and compose myself so I can cry again.
I love the city.
Somebody wrote, probably Chandler, he loved LA too and saw it for what it was. Too bad he never surfed or skied, it would have changed some of the things he saw. Not much but some. At least he never would have doubted what he knew.
"A long time ago Hollywood was just a bunch of frame houses on the interurban line. Los Angeles was just a big dry sunny place with ugly homes and no style, but goodhearted and peaceful. People used to sleep on porches. Little groups who thought they were intellectual used to call it the Athens of America. It wasn't that, but it wasn't a neon lighted slum either."
"Now we got the big money, the sharp shooters, the percentage workers, the fast dollar boys. We've got the riff raff of a big hard boiled city with no more personality than a paper cup."
"Real cities have something else, some individual bony structure under the muck. Los Angeles has Hollywood - and hates it. It ought to consider itself lucky. Without Hollywood it would be just a mail order city. Everything in the catalog you can get better, someplace else."
I agree with all of that.
I still love the place. In the smog and the commerce of flesh and the prostitution of brains it's impossible not to be alive there. But it gives you too much life sometimes. When it takes that life away there's just the nothing behind you. the nothings that's the only thing left when you're just too damn stubborn to die.
I spent a half hour trying to get a contour sheet onto my bed.

Posted by David at 8:25 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: "Dead Of Night" by Frank Frazetta Yeah, I'm a lonely guy.I miss people.I miss the people who died on me.I still take death personally, like it was a snapping monster; out there just to mess with me. I know that it's not really that way but it doesn't change the way I treat it.There are a lot of people who pretend to be something they're not, in that little game to try and get you interested in them. Because they never stood up and counted on themselves or let anybody else depend on them I guess. So they have to pretend to me something they'd really rather not be so you'll give them a smile and a cuddle, I guess.I miss the people that they pretended to be. Which means I miss people who never existed at all. Mucous membranes and a pretty face aren't what make a person, at least not to me.
I miss those people who suddenly stop being the person you cared about. They got a new life, something more interesting, something that eats up their time.
I think I don't really miss those people, because anybody who'd walk away from a friend isn't worth missing.
I just miss the good times we had.
I miss the kids who grew up to be adults. They became the adults that we swore we'd never let ourselves become.
I miss the smiles that go with ignorant dreams, hopes that refused to be crushed by mere things like weight and reality. Back then the big problems could be handled with a right cross and an elbow to the kidney.
I think of the people who've changed and I wonder why I couldn't change along with them.
You gotta wonder what stupid sense of self importance said to me, “This is the right way to be. It's the way I'm going to be. You can kick me, drug me and scour my soul, but this is what I am. They're my rules and I play by them.”
Why couldn't I just be a drunk or, better, a saint.
All I am is me.
Me and Popeye the Sailor. “I yam what I yam and that's all that I yam.”
Don't matter what you think of me, or what paper doll cut outs people paste around me. I know who and what I am and it's only going to change when I stop breathing, stop being alive.
I tried to go to sleep and the illness slammed into me like a truck on the freeway.

Click images for desktop size: "Chierichetto" I really thought it was maybe going to be it.I couldn't decide if I should lock myself in the bathroom or go out and find a nice tree to lie under. Wouldn't want to inconvenience anybody.
It passes. The sane part of my mind knows I've been through worse and the colors and pains aren't death, not even close.
Bodies have reflexes, self preservation devices, lizard brains that make you decide that this pain is serious.
I know that once you start thinking any pain is serious you start thinking they all are and then you're living in a shell of a life surrounded with fears and pills.
So I ignore the pain as best I can and worry instead about the pain of others.
I've had dogs who worried about how I felt. They did a great job of it. They'd bring me a ball and tell me how good I'd feel if I threw it for them.
I'll be dammed if they weren't right.

Posted by David at 4:20 AM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Click images for desktop size: "Coyote" I almost feel like an ancient old man dodering about remembering the roads that lead to him today.It would be easier if I were that old, I think.
Old enough to ignore the present and drift only through those golden moments of the past, smoothing over trauma with the balm of seashells.
Of course you have to remember the past to look to the future, especially when you have a new puppy due in two weeks!
Instead I had to work today. It was okay. I goofed off to the max.
I threw the baseball not even working at it, just throwing it up in the air and trying to catch it behind my back.
Then I had to grow up and go look for a new place to live.
I found a couple of places I liked. They were kind of ratty and decrepit, like me! They were huge duplexes with ill kept yards that would delight any puppy. They were so unkempt that I certain no one would notice puppy pits.
The places were described as having hardwood floors (meaning no carpets or rugs). I'm going to talk to them on Monday because the price was cheap. Cheap enough to dream about and to want.
My mind is so snapped and tired I have little to say really.
I've been thinking about London to LA, bombs and tubes and green room.

I wanna go back to when the world was free
When all my friends were just like me
Southern California 1973

Baby won't you take a ride with me
to the sand and the waves and the surf and the sea
The sun is out the waves are breaking big
Baby won't you take a ride with me
Then we'll run underneath the summer sun
Ride the summer waves
Every summer day

It's a never ending summer

I'm running through the night like a demon in the air
Screaming in the night and I just don't care
Cause baby when I stop I know just where I am

And I want to tell the world
And I want to scream and shout
Don't say no until you've found it out
You know I wouldn't be here unless it was true

I want you to believe
I want you to understand
That it's a never ending summer

I know it's a pathetic man who resorts to poetry. But it's all I've got left. I'm beat, bashed and fragged.
All I got left are dreams and the only thing I feel is desire.
Monday is a next vet visit for my puppy. I'm excited jsut thinking about her. I hope she likes me.

Posted by David at 9:49 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: "Versace Designs"The first dog I ever had was a rabbit. I was five and Pete Fisher and I were down at the VA hospital in Westwood doing not much of anything. We say a guy get up and fling a bag over the fence, then he drove away.Out of the bag came two rabbits.
The VA only had a six foot fence. Pete and I agreed that the rabbits were worth several million dollars and what is a six foot fence to 5 year old in pursuit of luxurious rabbits.
Pete took the white one and I took the red one. I named him after the only two rabbits I was aware of, Thumper B Bunny, the B stood for Bugs. I have no idea why he needed a full name, maybe because he was so big.
He was a New Zealand Red Giant and grabbing him under the front arms I was able to carry him and only slightly drag his feet. He tolerated it well.
I was shocked that my parents weren't totally stoked with my miraculous find. Thumps, as he prefered to be called, was not allowed in the house but had to remain in the backyard. He was pretty happy there and never ran away.
Pete, being more worldly than me, named his rabbit Harvey, after the Jimmy Stewart movie. We went to the grocery store and begged the lettuce trimmings. Pete and I were stunned to be given a huge box of green stuff. We were convinced that, for us, the sun had finally risen and we would hereafter only have to dream of a need and on waking it would be fullfilled.
Thumps was a fascinating rabbit/dog. When my mom hung the laundry out he would follow her and poke his head in the basket and then inspect each garment. When cats would come into the yard he would thump at them loudly and chase them away.
What made him wonderful was that everyday he would follow me to school. I could see him from the classroom window and I would watch him lay in the shade of a palm tree or eat the clumps of scrub grass that escaped kids feet.
When I left school he would meet me, standing up on his back legs and look me in the face. Then we would walk home together. We were the school celebrities.
I even brought him rabbit pellets even though they were 25 cents a pound. Which was the price of two comic books. He was my friend so he was worth it.
My father got drunk and to discipline me for something trivial he shot Thumper with a 45. I was 7. He made me watch.
And that was the biggest blow struck in the war between my father and I.
I don't know what that has to do with the way I turned out, other than to fan the fuel of quiet rage I had.
My next dog was Alex, he followed me home and also wouldn't leave. I hid him in a lot where Tom and I had built a clubhouse from scrap wood. I was afraid for him to go home with me but he was my dog.

Click images for desktop size: "Cochise" Artist UnknownTom and I feed him this food that was 10 cents a can. He loved us for it. I got him his shots with the money my grandmother gave me for my birthday. He learned to surf with us and accompanied Tom and I on our bikes and on some of our most harrowing adventures.I think what Alex wanted most in life was to some how save Tom or my lives and get a medal for being a hero.
He lived until I went to college.
All dogs die. And all dogs leave a part of themselves in us, maybe the best part of themselves and the best part of us.
When Alex died I went to the pound and got Alfred. Alfred lived in the dorm and the frat house with the football team. He was a tiny dog, 20 pounds but being around so much beef and testosterone he thought he was tough. The team hid him in the dorm and smuggled him on to the bench for all of our games for five years. He learned to sleep in a kit bag on airplanes.
And then there was Charlotte, who my wife and I got from the pound. A family had abandoned here because her nails made too much noise on their hardwood floors. She was a beautiful mutt. The day we got her we ran into Sandra Locke at some food joint and she gave Charlotte her name because her hair was the same color as Charlotte Rampling's.
Charlotte was regularly serenaded by Tom Waits at Dukes Coffee Shop. He would sing at her, "Charlotte, you little harlot!" and then hug her and give her a bite of his sandwich.
Getting a puppy and having an uneventful day just makes me remember those things and people in my life who gave me pleasure and who made me strong enough to love some one else.

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Posted by David at 10:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: "Marlene Dietrich" When I was 8 years old I my buddy Tom and I would peddle out to Malibu and watch the surfers.
We'd wait for one of them to wipe out and lose their board and then we'd grab the board and catch some white water till the big guy would swim in.
More than anything we wanted our own surf boards.
We were both big kids so we lied about our ages, told them we were 12, and got paper routes, delivering the old Herald Examiner (out of business now kids).
The first time I loaded the papers on my bike I couldn't keep the bike upright. The papers were too heavy. So we swiped shopping carts from the Pioneer Market and loaded the papers in that. All summer and winter we went on our separate routes pushing those carts. Every few days the shopping cart cowboys would round up our stray carts so we had to steal new ones.
We collected money from our customers and probably experienced some things we didn't begin to understand, but in a year we had both saved exactly $125.00. We went down to Malibu and each bought an off the rack Dean's board.
The next morning we quit our paper routes, went out at dawn on our bikes, our new sticks proudly under an arm and pedaled to Malibu. It was a six foot day and the lines were almost making it from first to third point.
We both paddled out, turned, caught the same wave, wiped out and nearly drowned . . .
We did that for like 3 hours. We never quit until the Cat himself, (Mickey Dora) took pity on us and paddled over and said, "Hey gremmies. You need any help with those sticks or you got it wired?"
It was our first surf lesson.
Now getting that first board was difficult. Real hard. So I know what difficult is and I know how it turns out. It turns out great.
Sometimes I think some of the things I learned had to be difficult or there wouldn't have been any sense in learning them at all.
My puppies coming. My house mate doesn't want the puppy in the house. She doesn't understand dogs and thinks they are as stupid and destructive as cats. It's her right.
So it's going to be difficult for a while because I have to pay for the puppy and find a new place to live all in one swoop.
Yeah, it will be difficult but I know that a man and a good dog can see through much worse than this.
Work was dull, dull, dull. I liked it that way.
I got to flirt with a couple of cute college coeds. We all had fun. I like flirting when it's just fun and we all know that's all it is.

Click images for desktop size: "Ninja Babe" by Denis Goulet Other than that I read Jose Canseco's Juiced. I feel sorry for him that he's so strapped for cash. It wasn't the dullest sports book I've ever read but it was pretty banal.
I threw a baseball 280 times and then the rain came. I never got good speed on it and my arm is still killing me.
On the internet end of things. I've gotten a domain, warchild13.com I couldn't have warchild as that domain is taken by a charity I muy simpatico with.
As I've already used up nearly 2 gigs of my bandwidth here, I guess I need to do this. It was only 60 bucks for a year, and if I'd known about having to move I wouldn't have done it.
I also purchased a 20 buck digital camera. It's is great! If I'd had real guts I'd have gotten the 13 dollar Fisher Price camera which was white and blue plastic! Just the thing to document the new puppy!
The difficulties ahead are small compared to having a puppy.

Posted by David at 4:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Click images for desktop size: "Fragile" It was a deadly dull day.
The only bright thought I had all day was to remember a scene from Preston Sturges' "Palm Beach Story".
It's the scene where Rudy Vallee, playing the richest man in the world, has been buying tons of jewelry and clothing for Claudette Colbert.
Vallee says, "I've never purchased so many things for a woman before, and in such vast quantities."
The shop clerk replies in an affected French accent, "Ah, then sir has been depriving himself of one of life's greatest pleasures."
What that has to do with the price of rutabagas is beyond me but I like thinking about it.
I thought some about the twists of life and got a glimmer of understanding about fate. I nearly understood why people belief in karma and fate while I remain a stoic existentialist . . . and a surfer in my attitudes.
It's those moments where we take the left turn instead of the right, move ahead instead of standing still and trust someone where there is no reason to trust them that shapes us and puts us into the now we inhabit.
I thought about the fact that I like the internet. I like many of the people I meet on the internet. I like to meet them for real.
Suddenly this rapid fire communication device means we can all be actors in our own Lubitsch movie.
It doesn't seem to always work out like that. It too often is a place for people to hide. It breeds it's own type of agoraphobics. People who are out in life but thinking they'd rather be home sitting in front of a different cathode ray tube.
That breeds a lot of fear which breeds anger and abuse.
I don't know what I think of it, if I think anything at all. Just something I noticed.
I notice as well that the server is setting the time on my posts at 5 hours earlier then the reality! I don't know why it's doing that.
Another reason to consider getting a paid for server I guess.
I sent a friend flowers today, as it was her birthday. I didn't forget I just didn't have any money.
It was a very elaborate deal and I felt like I had accomplished something major when I finally completed the transaction. I thought about how angry she'd be that I'd drawn attention to her at work and how pleased she'd be that I sent her flowers. I like sending flowers. I don not deny myself "one of life's greatest pleasures."
Click images for desktop size Then I found out she missed work because she caught a cold . . .
I looked at digital cameras on my lunch hour, with an idea towards getting one to document the soon to be coming puppy.
They were too expensive for me for sure. Although I did see one for $40 . . . I might get that one and have fun complaining about how bad the pictures are. It was 2mpx which means nothing to me other than it must be half as good as the 150 buck 4mpx one. With a cheap camera I can blame all my photo errors on the machine. That pleases me!
I sent off the check today for the deposit towards the puppy. When I mailed it I wondered if the puppy would like me.
Tomorrow I'm meeting Dr J for lunch. I work only until 1 tomorrow. She'll pick me up and we'll go.
I worry about how tired she is. I liked that she sent me text messages instead of calling me. It felt saner.

Posted by David at 3:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (1)

Click images for desktop size: "Canyon" A quiet day to end a decent weekend.
I went to the minor league game where the home team took a shellacing. It was fun. Eight homers all together, which, even for a Triple A club is pretty embarassing.
I plan to go to more games. But next year I'll probably go to more college baseball.
They put on a good show though. Lots of fan interaction and stupid contests. I liked that. You couldn't be bored.
The hardest working guy on the field was the mascot. I was sitting behind a bunch of 6 and 7 year olds who were enthralled with everything. Just by waving and pointing the mascot came up and shook the kids hands and rubbed their heads.
They were in heaven.
Squarepants Spongehead Bob, or whatever he's called was "there". He definitely looked gay to me . . .
The game went really fast and was over in just about two and a half hours. There was a fireworks show after the game but all the people were wearing me down and as there was still an hour until dark the time was going to be filled with Police Bands and silly stuff, so I left.
Got home in time to take Good Ol' Dog to the Dog Park, where dogs run free but you gotta pay.
She had fun there. The park was nearly empty and that felt good. The only two people there were an attractive but very strange sparks flying everywhere crazy woman. She fascinated and terrified me.
Normally when I go to the dog park it is so filled with yuppies who are dirt stupid about how to run and how to deal with dogs. I am pained by their prescence. Normally I just jam in the ear buds and play with the puppies.
I was relaxed tonight and one of the yuppie girls spoke to me. I think she was surprised that I speak softly.
We spoke about dogs and baseball, that was cool. She knew more about baseball then I figured but even less about dogs than I imagined.
while talking to her I forgot to pay attention to my throwing motion and really ripped my arm apart again . . . stupid of me. Throwing a baseball 300 times a day trying to get my arm back into shape and I really mashed it throwing a tennis ball for 3 happy puppies.
I did tell the woman more about my new puppy coming then I intended. I'm excited about it.

Click images for desktop size: "Vampi" by Frank FrazettaAs to baseball:
My old team won their first ever league championship. Being a champion is boring and stupid . . .if you've never won one.
I think championships are important for a lot of reasons most people wouldn't ever understand because most people have never aspired to be thebest.
It's when you set your mind to a task and work dillegently every day towards fullfilling that task. No respite and no goofing off and no "I just don't feel like it today", when you do that you discover the person that you truly are.
When you don't alibi yourself, when you take nothing but your truest effort from yourself it moves you into a different place.
You learn to walk with a swagger, a swagger you've earned and have a right to.
You learn that you are worth something after all.
That's why when I really like someone I'll say to them, "Howzit champ?"

I guess I'm confusing people: I found a hard ball league to play in but the teams haven't formed up yet for them to place me. I intend to play.
Happy Fourth.

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Posted by David at 4:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Click images for desktop size: "Maximum Security" Today I went to the blue grass festival . . . It wasn't what I was hoping for or what I expected. First there was no one interesting to talk to. It was a family type thing, I mean a real family like thing. Like if you spoke to someone their mother would interject. Odd, at least to me.
Also odd, to me, was the number of women in their early or mid-twenties who had 2 or 3 children and no significant other. maybe this wasn't so odd as the two women who hit hardest on me - one told me she went to the HIGH SCHOOL near my home and the other said she'd be 18 next month . . . YOW!
The brightest spot though was that at no time did I see a clog dancer.
As to the music, they had 5 stages. I was expecting a cornucopia of banjo flailing and flat top guitar bashing. Instead I got World Music and New Age stuff.
I like the rhythms of some World music but, in general, I find it too bland to hold my interest. New Age music I think of as bodiless muzak, or something cool to hear at the dentist's office.
First guy I saw kept apologizing for how terrible he was. After the third apology I had to agree with him. He was country western to the max.
Next was a band called DOLE. They were weak but did an interesting cover of the Ramones "Sheena Is A Punk Rocker". They did like a wishy washy Pogues tune, complete with fiddle and tin whistle.
They were followed by a terrible guitarist, singer who was totally self obsessed. He sucked. I suddenly wished they served beer because if anybody ever needed to be rocked on the noggin with a beer bottle it was this dude.
I drifted around for a while until I found a band called "Grass Street". These were old dudes but at least they had a dobro and a banjo. They were pretty good and when they did a cool "Foggy Mountain Breakdown" I felt justified in coming.
Then i met a 7 week old lab mix puppy. He was great, very serious and very silly. I let him lead me to a gospel group, "The Sons Of Bethel". They were okay, worked hard and they had one of the best bass men I'd ever heard. He could not only hit the ultra low notes he could melodize around them. Very cool stuff.
then I saw a totally decked out surf chick, but when I started talking surf to her she was clueless. When did surf chick become a fashion thing? It only works if you surf.
Drifted some more and had a little 7 year old girl show me the clay sculpture she made. She explained to me that it was a very good sculpture but would have been better if they'd given her better clay to work with.
Saw a local boy who was an awesome finger style guitar player. He had a rock solid rhythm and fast heavy styling; good voice and okay songs EXCEPT he talked forever between tunes. Not just talk but the long pointless meanderings of a stoned lonely guitarist. He was a great musician but a total suck ass entertainer.
Finally I paid attention to a blues band because the harp player had like a totally vintage set up - all 50's electronics and mikes, a full on Sonny McGhee rig. Sadly the vintage stuff sounded really poor compared to the way we'd mike the stuff today. Also odd was that the guitarist, another old dude, had a vintage Telecaster - an awesome instrument but totally not for the blues. He played it through a vintage tweed amp! It made for an odd sound.

Click images for desktop size: "Al Capone:Yes sir Mr Capone" At the festival I got 3 calls from my friend, Dr J. She sounded exhausted and had a couple of horror stories about patients she needed to off load. The steady streams of phone calls is a bit off putting but I'm making allowances for her mental state. She's been working about 50 hours straight on about four hours sleep and most of that grabbed at the cafeteria table.
I got home and went out to celebrate my housemates birthday. Went to nice but solidly packed "Chinese Bistro", the self imposed description made me laugh. I've decided to describe everyplace as a "bistro" from now on.

Posted by David at 5:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (2)

Click images for desktop size: "Sakura" The ground is steaming from the rain.
For no reason at all I felt better today. I still finished work and collapsed for a few hours.
I hate sleep. Sleep and goodbyes are the little deaths that take away what I want to keep.
My friend Steven and I went and got Supermarket Sushi for lunch . . . It actually wasn't too bad for Supermarket Sushi . . . except they give you like a tiny package of soy sauce that you can't mix the wasabi in right and you only get a tiny piece of pickled ginger . . .
Dr J called me on about everyone of her breaks. She sounds so tired. I don't think I'm any real help because all I can do is listen. I think she wants someone to hold her hand a little and smile into her eyes.
Tomorrow I'm going to this Riverside blue grass festival. I like noise.
I'm hoping to hear some great guitarists. I used to watch guitarists closely to try and swipe their chordings or right hand techniques. Now I just want to listen.
I'm not like a contemporary blue grass fan. I hope to avoid a lot of banjo flailing. I like mandolin, dobro and autoharp in bands but I'm nervous that they'll have a lot of solo artists.
I despise clog dancing and they have a clog dance stage . . . I understand that if you get within 50 yards of a clog dance stage there is a law that says you have to watch . . . I think this means they paint a big red circle on the ground with a sign: WARNING-CLOG DANCING AHEAD. I'm pretty sure they're obligated to do that. it would be very dangerous to just suddenly be rounding a tree or to descend a cliff and be confronted with CLOG DANCING!
In England they have Morris Dancing. It is very hard to decide whether Clog Dancing is worse . . . there is no question that neither is better.
My boss called me a few times at work today. She wants me to ask her out. I don't think that is a good or a bad idea. Other than she clearly want's something different than what I'm interested in.
The rest of my day has been spent like the preceding days: Dreaming of my little black puppy and counting the time till she arrives.
I have to watch the scenarios that play through my head. They are wonderful but I know that when she arrives she will be more wonderful than that.
Dogs and people are like that. They have more beauty than it is possible for us to merely dream of.

Click images for desktop size: "Lou Gerhig-The Fourth Marx Brother" I try and not think of her. I wonder what her name will be. Whether she'll be tough or frightened? Will she want to cuddle or will she think she is too tuff for that? Will she chase the yellow and black lizards?
She'll be my dog and I'll be her man. It will be good.
My free hosting here is getting flakey. Not a bad issue but it bothers me. That and the fact that I seem to be eating up bandwidth at a frightening rate. Well over 150 megabytes a day.
I've decided to go to one of the cheap hosts. Go Daddy (what a silly name) offer a year for like $60 with 15 gig of bandwidth a month. That means I could have BIGGER pictures.
I like that. After my money has been spent keeping the puppy and I alive and well, I might do this.

Posted by David at 5:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (3)

Click images for desktop size: "Wolf" I'm tired.
I feel beaten.
Somedays are like this.
The trick is to remember . . . to remember . . .
I dislike my job. Too much responsibility and not enough pay. Too many people, coworkers, venting at me; more like core dumping. It will be fine after I get the puppy. For the first few months of her life she can go to work with me everyday. That's worth the demeaning grief and insipid in fighting over nothing that has any value as far as I can see.
Oddly, my performance has me ranked as number 1 in the region and number 2 in the nation.
You'd think that would mean they'd just leave me alone . . .
I spent my lunch hour in the Pet Supermarket, petting the Dutch Rabbits and pricing leashes and collars and just daydreaming. I brought a birthday card for my housemate and a preliminary birthday gift for her cats. These are the cats that are intent on murdering me so I made sure it was not a particularly nice gift.
When I left the store there was a pretty brunette standing out in the scorching sun. She wore a cardigan sweater and a gossamer skirt over red pumps. Over her eyes she had an old fashioned pair of Varunet sunglasses.
It was over 95 but somehow she managed to look both impatient and cool. When I passed her she touched my arm so I stopped and took my headphones off.
She was clicking her cellphone like a castanet when she said, "You're the first interesting person I've seen around here."
The only thought in my head was what I blurted out, "Aren't you hot in that sweater?"
"Terribly, but this outfit just demands it, don't you think?" She spun around and it did indeed look lovely on her even on this sultry day.
I kept thinking it would look better if she was smoking a cigarette in a Chinese ivory cigarette holder.
"I never sweat or perspire or even glow so I always wear just what I think looks best!" she said.
I smiled at that. What else could you say. I noticed her fingernails were chewed ragged on her right hand while the ones on her left were pretty well manicured.
Like a boob who should know better I asked her what was bothering her.
I liked her answer, "Oh any of a million things. It would be so dull to just choose one. Do you think I'm to young for you?"

Click images for desktop size: "Spiral" by ApoI told her I didn't know but I thought she was pretty fun to talk to. We were by a Barnes and Noble. They have a StarBucks inside so I asked her if she drank coffee.
It was crowded inside. Too many people escaping the heat. The smell of caffeine and sweat was overwhelming. While I was thinking it she said, "Let's get out of here."
While we were leaving my phone rang. She looked at hers with annoyance.
It was Doctor J. She's on a 72 hour shift in emergency for the holiday weekend. She just wanted to tell me she thought about me.
My new friend was polite enough to stand away a bit so I could talk, but she kept eyeing me like an artist looking at a blank canvas.
Dr J said so long and I said, "see you Wednesday." Dr J sighed and said, "Yes."
My new friend came back.
I told her I had to get to work now. She gave me her number on the back of a business card for a moving company.
"You won't ever call me. Will you?"
I shrugged. "I'm a fascinating person. You'd regret it if you didn't call me. And I'm not a drama queen!"
She stepped up and kissed me on the cheek.
I went back to work and threw the baseball 1000 times. I was slimy with sweat but I still can't get any velocity on it without searing pain.

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Posted by David at 4:07 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)