Buckwheat's Place

2006-12-29T12:55:00.000-08:00

POST-XMAS-POST

Christmas came and went and I bought cheap Christmas cards at Wal-Mart, along with many other little things that help me save a little money, and as I shop there I make sure I don't dwell on the lousy things that corporation purportedly does to its employees. That's conscious ignorance like the rest of the shoppers. The truly bad thing is this truly agonizing layer of ennui that falls like grimy snow between the holidays. Now it's almost New Year's, many changes are coming, some are already here, and the only President I've ever met died.

I shook Pres. Gerald Ford's hand when I ran into him at a photo studio in Century City more than 25 years ago. Since then I've rubbed shoulders with other celebrities and a few politicos, but there was a magic energy with Jerry. Of all the many things that have been said about him and his life since his death, NO ONE has mentioned that this man of high integrity called for a congressional UFO investigation in the wake of the sightings in the state he watched over as senator. The state was Michigan.

I'm a bad girl. You may not see another posting here for ages, and ages. Or ever! Don't let that dissuade you from keeping in touch, however.

2006-09-28T20:43:00.000-07:00

GUILTY AS HELL
I haven't posted for WELL over a month. Less and less to say! What's going on? Am I losing it? Or is IT losting me? Never had IT to begin with.

Lack of ambition. Lack of concentration. Lack of money. Lack of critical edge. But I do have Don, a refrigerator with some guacamole, whipped vanilla yogurt and Mocha Mix staying just cool enough, and of course my dear Buckwheat. He's WAY cool. Here's what I'd like to put on this year's Christmas card:
Cropping out the hands and dirty pillows, of course.

2006-08-24T14:08:00.000-07:00

SWEET SWIMMERS

How can you resist this face -- these faces?

For Buckwheat's Place's first charitable entry, I've chosen to relay the information in a dog-eared piece of paper that's been hanging around my desk for months. Someone sent it to me. Everyone should know about the

SAVE THE MANATEE CLUB

Careless Floridian boaters -- not to mention ocean pollution -- have endangered the lives of these big, sweet-faced, innocent aquatic animals. Over 1,200 have been killed since record keeping began in 1974.

I'm not some teary-eyed radical with more compassion for animals than humans. No, wait; maybe I am! The planet's animal kingdom is helpless in the face of human incursions on the environment, and manatees are one species feeling this most acutely.

You can join Save the Manatee's Club's Adopt-A-Manatee program for only $25 annual membership. Many bonuses come with the membership, including a photo and the adoption papers of your own manatee!
You just can't say no when the lives and well-being of these rotund darlings are at stake. Contact the Club at www.savethemanatee.org or call (800) 432-JOIN (5646).
Some adorable--if zaftig--manatee is relying on you!

2006-07-23T10:18:00.000-07:00

THE WAR OF 2006

It’s a toss-up: Who in the Middle East
Deserves the title “Intransigent Beast?
Twixt Israel and heedless Hezbollah,
Upon that `rabbi or that mad mullah,
Don’t place your bets until you know which one
Can aim and then unleash the biggest gun.
Katyushas, now, can only go so far
And in the fight might only rank sub-par:
Blasts are short, their landing places random
Compared to missiles with their stages tandem.
But bad Iran now lends Silkworm support
To target ships far from the Hebrew port.
Hezbollah’s aim has sharpened, too, looks like,
Katyushas deadlier with every strike.
So America steps up to the plate
To seal, we hope, Hezbollah’s final fate
By giving Israel some bombs with lasers.
(They’ll have to do until the world has phasers!)
But will this battle solve the basic glitch?
It’s not a fight between the poor and rich,
It doesn’t pit the dumb against the smart,
It’s more a test to see who’s right at heart.
Israel stands up to fearsome neighbors
Its valid “right to be” it still belabors
While fascists touting Islam’s “peaceful” way
Should kill the infidels and seize the day.
Not only that. Hezbollah and the rest
Would like to crush the values of the West
Until all Jews and Christians disappear
And Earth is ruled by politics of fear.

In my opinion, intransigency
Might very well turn out to hold the key
To freedom’s preservation on the earth,
Each nation-state revealing its true worth.
We’re calling on our allies, even France
To recognize this war give us the chance
To place decisive blows against the Beast
Who’s really f***ing up the Middle East.
It is our world at risk, make no mistake:
It is a job we all must undertake.
Simplistic though this rhyming rant may be
Don’t counter terror with apology
Don’t support the idiots who rate
Fighting back as “disproportionate.”
Remember, kids, the job will not be done
Until the Western world has finally won.

2006-07-07T18:11:00.000-07:00

POST-PYONGYANG MISSILE MISS MESS

The many quirks of crazy Kim Jong Il
May seem to be a very bitter pill.
He tries to quell his country’s desperation
With taunts and threats aimed at our stronger nation.
He thinks he’ll scare our democratic throngs
With reckless launches of those taepodongs.
Annoying, yes, but Kim’s a plain whack job
At whom some bigger missiles we can lob.
And if we do, you can be sure that Kim
Will find his future looking pretty dim.
Actually, we’ll try diplomacy
To force this creep into some normalcy.
But who can reason with a boastful talker
Whom all agree is clearly off his rocker?
His missiles cannot seem to reach their mark;
Perhaps his bite’s not quite up to his bark.
What are the chances that this little puke
Will top his taepo with a lethal nuke?
Will North Korea gain the expertise
To bring our greater nation to its knees?
Will China and/or Russia get a grip
And then the power balance rightly tip?
Or will China and Korea carry on
Then gang up to exterminate Taiwan?
Seems Russia’d rather sell guns and sit back
Than help us read ol’ Kim the riot act.
For its part, the U.N. still has clout
If only all the communists get out!
It's just another crisis to outwait,
To count upon men's wisdom and good fate,
To pray to God Kim's missile plans will flop
So once again the good guys land on top.
And if they don't, the world will always wish
That Kim Jong Il had eaten poison fish.

(I could write more couplets but I'd better stop.)

2006-06-12T10:13:00.000-07:00

PIC OF THE DAY
This little gem was plucked off a fractal site and I found it oddly charming, even comforting. So I decided to post it here. My one and only complaint would be the colors.

2006-06-06T10:37:00.000-07:00

APHIDS AND GLOPHIDS

The little prickles are almost healed and you wouldn't wanna see them anyway. Trying to make the aesthetic most of our arid backyard, I planted a cactus several years ago and the awesome creature is taking over!
I agree that it's quite a beautiful specimen of desert life, but often I see stray pieces of tissue or Buckwheat's ball in between the -- whatever those cactus branches are called! So last week I foolishly stick my arm between the "branches" to fetch a piece of tissue, and those skinny prickly things -- called glophids -- I swear jumped on my arm. They harmlesslessly make their way into the body eventually, but before that they incite a rash the likes of which can only compare to poison oak. Fortunately there is no itching!

Gardening experience # 2: We have a fragrant rose bush on the north side of the house. It's apparently healthy, even fighting for sunshine with an encroaching tree, but come spring the aphids are dotting the poor baby. So I had spray! And I sprayed them good. We have big flying things in the bedroom at night and yesterday Don killed a black widow in the bathroom.

Wild! I love it.

2006-05-23T11:10:00.000-07:00

RECOVERY
Buckwheat is fine. The rest of us are fine. The weather has cleared up. I am posting a photo of my favorite TV investigative reporter and myself in Vegas. You, too, can see George Knapp on KLAS-TV when you're in LV, or read his trenchant comments about the characters and happenings in Sin City at http://www.lasvegasmercury.com
After having dropped in there myself and having read his May 18 column, I can confidently say that the Knappster will provide a stellar replacement for Art Bell on Bell's radio show this Sunday night. Go, George! As for Bell, last heard that he apparently absconded to the Philippines with his new honey.
B's little encounter with the truck has made us extra alert. I never knew I could feel so close to a dog! We're bonafide doggie people, Don and I.

Aforesaid Don and I made it to the recent California Dept. conference for the Military Order of the Purple Heart. It was quite an extension of his energy, but went well. For my part, it was breathtaking seeing my husband, fond of spending his days gimping around in his coffee-stained nightshirt, all decked out in a sparkling white dress shirt and nifty gray sports jacket....and a tie! A tie. Wow. No pic, but I'll take one next time, for sure. However many months or years that is from now!
COMING UP: Aphids and Glophids

2006-05-01T12:48:00.000-07:00

MAY DAY! MAY DAY! MAY DAY!

My day started out with waking up to the depressing realization that Don and I had given "special thanks" in the MOPH chapter newsletter to several people -- but somehow forgot the very individual who forced the scum to the top (that's a long story), and who fearlessly began the onerous but vital process of reinstating the chapter's integrity. So I've been beating myself up all day about that; can't help it. Really an inexplicable, probably unforgiveable oversight and I'm unsure how to rectify the sitch; apologizing seems lame but we'll start with that.

A horrible thing happened on Friday. Buckwheat took off after a rabbit as I was walking him and was hit by a truck.....I heard the traumatizing screech of brakes and he was nowhere to be seen when I got up to the road. I saw the perp
leaving-- an old truck, with a lot junk teetering in the back. The fuckers didn't stop! I could barely speak but managed to tell a neighbor what happened and she had seen Buckwheat in the field next to our house. We ran there. He was SO frightened! At the vet they checked him out and except for a limp, our boy has no serious injuries, no broken bones or smashed organs, and I am so thankful to God and so freaked at the moment that I'm not sure when or how I'll be able to walk him again. But I will.

So that's been weighing on me, too, another scene from that heart-wrenching movie most of us have at least bit parts in, "The Nearly Unforgiven." This morning sucked! I forced down some puffed wheat with Mocha Mix.

Then some people came over to clean the house. Yes, those people, as in brown-skinned Spanish-speaking, very hard--but probably illegal--workers who either a) decided they'd rather have a little American money than march on crowded L.A. streets or b) decided to make the most of their clout by earning the money and demonstrating afterwards! For our part, we considered that not needing them anymore would be the logical response had they not shown up. Funny, the date was made far in advance of the walkout plan. Anyway, I was pretty sure I knew these people. Really wonderful, cheerful folks and no matter how hard I try I cannot clean like they do. (I warned Don early on that I'm a half-assed wife type. Covers a lot of drawbacks.)

Now I'm gonna go look for the Maypole. And tomorrow is another day. A new day. Not this day!

2006-04-25T10:42:00.000-07:00

PLEASE, PLEASE!
Please don't let it rain! We don't want rain! This is Southern Califormia, land of sunshine. Too much rain is patently verboten!BUT IF IT MUST RAIN I WILL FEED THE ROSES. There, I found a satisfactory option, come what May.

2006-04-16T12:38:00.000-07:00

WHY ASK WHY??

I'd like to say my Easter is filled with reverence for resurrected Lords, Spring thrills and chills and a nice ham dinner. Yes to that last one....and Don is cooking!.... and yea to the first one, but my interpretation of Christ and all the myths surrounding him is for another blog at another time.

Anyway, we went out to breakfast this cloudy morn, and on the way back, Don asked an interesting question. It has to do with Easter, so sit back and listen, all you eggheads!

So he asks, why, if Easter actually grew out of the Jewish holiday Passover -- celebrating a fairly profound Hebrew miracle some years back -- do people eat HAM?.... When, see, pigs (from which hams come) are considered unclean animals by the Jews? So, being the logical thinker and sparkling conversationalist that I am, I regaled him with my theory, which runs as follows: First of all, I said, perhaps there was an overload of pigs one season and that's all they had to eat! And, as Easter is the unequivocally Christian mutation of a profound ancient miracle, there's no prohibition of certain meats (unless you count meat on Friday for the Catholics).

A better question would be, why do the Islamic and the Jewish faiths both exclude pork from the diets of the obedient, often fanatical, faithful? Anyone who's eaten a bacon and tomato sandwich with mayo (and/or mustard) would logically ask this.

Other than celebrating Easter by musing on religious meat preferences, I also planted some petunias, along with a strong warning into Buckwheat's pea-brain to keep his petunia-pickin' paws outta there.

2006-03-31T17:22:00.000-08:00

YO NO COMPRENDO!
While I struggle to break free of my insular little world, I am reminded that the U.S. has a major crisis on its not-so-insular hands -- in the form of immigration disputes that just may spiral into the Second War with Mexico.
Reality Check
Most Hispanics come here, legally or illegally, for work opportunities: TRUE. I myself have paid Hispanics who live here both legally and illegally to perform tasks I'd rather not have to do myself: TRUE (Damn. There goes my chance to be Secretary of State...). I voluntarily speak a few halting words of Spanish to these workers, and laughingly, silently congratulate myself on my friendly, egalitarian ways: TRUE. Privately I know I am a spoiled American hypocrite who would gladly help the new Minutemen if I saw my own comfort, security and livelihood being directly threatened by illegal immigrants: TRUE. These poor people clandestinely crossing the border have every right to be free and prosperous in the United States of America: FALSE, FALSE, FALSE! To me there is no debate: Millions of immigrants from outside the U.S. have blithely broken the law. They broke the law. Why should it be so difficult to simply enforce laws already on the books? Key word: ILLEGAL.
Heritage
The forces for amnesty might argue that America's legendary open-arms invitation to "your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free . . ." should and would be mocked to infamy if illegal aliens are forced to leave or to pay a hefty price for living in the U.S. Worse still are the double-speakers who call such rational enforcement of the rule of law hate-mongering. The hatred is clearly from the other side when you see the flag of another nation flying above our own! What's really going on? This crisis begs for Americans to preserve the integrity of the nation. That does NOT mean blanket prevention of immigration. But it does mean laying out a strong set of rules applicable to each and every individual from another country who wishes to reside here. Our heritage of unprecedented personal freedoms is precisely that because of laws conforming to the interests of all. It is not in the interests of that American heritage to allow the character of our nation to be diluted by an influx of people who cannot or won't respect the foundations of freedom. Principal to those foundations is the rule of law. You hear that phrase bandied about by canny politicians, even when they don't conform to it themselves. It's powerful and influential; it hearkens to an imperative of wisdom and honor, a pristine legacy impossible to put into words. We can't reach it in reality. But we can consistently work toward it, ideally. That is the pure character of America.
Solution?
When thousands of citizens and immigrants take to the streets, insisting that foreigners of all nations and stripes--but, honestly, folks, mostly Mexican--be allowed to stay here and break the law, there seems to be no solution. They would thumb their noses and say, "the people have spoken." Who are the people? As NBC Nightly News is asking in its important series, "Whose America" is it? Again, there should be no debate. The lawful residents of this country are the ones whose voices should subsume the wave of illegality that appears to be engulfing California, and threatening to encroach on the entire country. As the protests rose, President Bush made a quick trip to Mexico, where he reportedly spoke with the leaders of both Mexico and Canada. Like an actual snapshot, this tells a story. To the north, a socialist nation with some immigrants. To the south, a virtually lawless governing body with thousands upon thousands of would-be immigrants. In between, an apparently ineffectual leader who cannot find the workable compromise between an economy both blessed and undermined by the wave of humanity crossing our borders.

I'd love to be a fly on Vicente Fox's shoulder.

2006-03-22T13:43:00.000-08:00

PHOTO RE-UP

The site that hosts my online photo collection urged me to either clean out my album or buy more space. I wasn't about to do the latter and so I rapidly did the former, in the process inadvertently deleting the photo of Roy at his birthday party. Consider this a replacement!
And for a double shot of cute, here's his little brother Gus:

It's been a long, bland month. Spring is creeping in, but not enough to warm up the mornings, which still require turning on the heater. Loose plans to sunbathe in Palm Springs are in the works, but until they tighten up, another bland month lolls on the horizon. How to spice it up? Well, I am continuing with my Never-Ending Story: cleaning up the office and planning some backyard landscaping.

This morning I caught myself going ga-ga over a small, red-headed bird that came to partake of the seed I put outside the window. Then, while walking Buckwheat, I saw a GREEN BIRD! It wasn't a lost parakeet nor was it indigenous to the canyon. He provided me with a genuine thrill. Does this mean I need to get a life??

2006-03-12T14:18:00.000-08:00

ROY TURNS FIVE!

2006-03-06T14:55:00.000-08:00

MONDAY AFTERNOON MUSINGS...ON INTO THE REST OF THE WEEKAccording to an unimpeachable source on some TV program I watched recently, "apologizing is a sign of weakness," so therefore I won't apologize for not posting here for over a month. I think it was Dr. House who gave that sage advice. He's such a shit, but so damn brilliant.

That doesn't mean I'm not weak. I can't shake my sugar addiction, my obsessive desire to hug my dog, kiss my husband and consume my periodic homemade cocktails.(I always use fresh limes.) Those things go together, don't they? And it all amounts to fussing with my brain's unique chemical signature. Let's here it for endorphins! Let's hear it for serotonin! And praises to that chemical additive that regulates said chemicals (but don't ask me how):
SSRIs!

That said, I'm steeling myself for a weather condition designated as mas depression-provoking: rain, and more rain. Harbinger of that most restive of seasons, Spring. In turn, a harbinger of the agricultural gamble we can't resist investing in: growing tomatoes. When the rain clears I'm going to get those adorable seedlings and have a ball pretending to be a gardener!

It's well worth it. I have a stack of tomato recipes. I can make my own marinara sauce. Lycopene will course through our veins. If something pisses me off I can throw tomatoes at it.

Subject change: My grandson had his 5th birthday! Photo to come.

And it hasn't rained hard at all. Yet.

2006-01-26T11:06:00.000-08:00

ENCOUNTER

We were riding through frozen fields in a wagon at dawn.
A red wing rose in the darkness.

And suddenly a hare ran across the road.
One of us pointed to it with his hand.

That was long ago. Today neither of them is alive
Not the hare, nor the man who made the gesture.

O my love, where are they, where are they going
The flash of a hand, streak of movement, rustle of pebbles.
I ask not out of sorrow, but in wonder.

--Poem by Czeslaw Milosz, translated by the author and Lillian Vallee. From "The Body Electric," edited by Stephen Berg, David Bonanno and Arthur Vogelsang (W.W. Norton). I love this poem.

2006-01-20T10:41:00.000-08:00

I've done everything but ambush Blogger headquarters with knives, Derringers and enraged barracudas to try and get a new template -- including several attempts to sign up on another free blog site, all to no avail. I now DESPISE this template, especially because it only has a long, boring index when one might choose to log on.

Not that anyone reads here, anyway. I've decided not to care. Decided that the most profound and explicit word to describe life and its meaning therein, up to and including all the ontological nonsense that's been spewed by any and all the brain mavens, psychologically tortured (and torturing), wannabes, would-bes, neverbes, once-wases and pathetic poseurs over the course of human history (you know who you are!) is ... and always will be:

2005-12-31T11:23:00.000-08:00

HAPPY NEW YEAR!

2005-12-21T15:07:00.000-08:00

WINDING UP 2005

MERRY CHRISTMAS! Okay. Now let's blow this Popsicle year and get going into 2006 -- destined for extravagant good luck and breathtaking blessings. Worldwide!

2005-12-02T15:06:00.000-08:00

BURIED--but not deep enough.

It's been a month since I've posted. Not to be a complainer, but some mind-numbing life phases have hit and so I decided to hell with it; I'm giving myself a break. So therefore, my mind's become even numb-er (which, I guess, is better than dumber). In trying to crack through the ice of the mental frozen zone, I've continued my lifelong project of cleaning up my environment. I so doing, I'm sheerly appalled at the amount of CRAP around this house. I mean, we are sooooooo over-tschotked! Do I really need to keep my dead Mom's little glass bluebirds and that garishly ornate German pitcher? What about all those the half-used candles? My sister, beloved snapshot freak, gives me new family photos all the time. Do I have to hang all of them?

Recently our neighbor came over to help us with a small repair and he had to go into our garage. Embarrassment overcame me like a tsunami, nearly dousing me with as much agony. A tsunami through the garage would not be a bad thing. Don refuses to let go of the old paperbacks he's been collecting since grade school, and a variety of useless hardbounds, including textbooks. Anyone who knows him knows that INTRODUCTORY ACCOUNTING is not exactly bedside reading for him. As for me, I can't seem to part with anything I can throw on the bed or on the torn-up sofas we have. (Dog owners please note: keep cheap furniture!). That includes a ragged afghan that Don's dead Mom knitted. Dead mothers: They're hell on the minimalist design sense.

The attached pic only evokes my general mood, not the house (though it does resemble a corner of the garage). Gotta go do the dishes now, to assuage a little of this dumpy mood. I'll try to be back before another month passes. But just in case: Merry Christmas!

2005-11-07T16:53:00.000-08:00

I LOVE THE NIGHT LIFE!

Hey, I know it's late. But there's nothing like a happy Jack O' Lantern. He stayed happy, too. Even in the light of Nov. 1:

2005-10-16T12:21:00.000-07:00

MOUNTAIN LION -- BIG DEAL!

So we're having coffee this morning gazing out the dining room window when a startled Don urgently whispers to me, "Oh God, Vicki, look! Walk slowly over behind me and look out the window . . ." I did as instructed but didn't see anything 'cause the big kitty must have detected movement and bolted, a very common wildcat thing to do. But I'm told it was a speckled mountain lion. Don, agitated, claims it was peering into our backyard and may having been scoping things out in search of Buckwheat.

That was enough to make me a tad nervous, but for Don it was as if Osama Bin Laden and Sigfried & Roy's biggest and baddest white tiger were both coming through the window. Well, I exaggerate, but soon Don was on the phone calling the Sheriff and Animal Control and the nearby fire station. Passive voice mail, and only voice mail responded, and that pissed him off.

He said the cat weighed at least 60 lbs. I'm certain he/she is dangerous, but when I told my sweetheart that he was overreacting and that there's nothing we can do about the wild creatures in our neighborhood, he only replied disparagingly, "Typical female response." Well dammit, Don, as I've told you over and over, I do NOT want to live a paranoid life! I am always careful walking Buckwheat (we went out soon after), and will make a point to be even more aware now. But please, take it easy! I already bite my nails and have itchy skin, so chill!

After all, some people have really big cats in their yard, and seem to handle it with a measure of coolness and poise:

2005-10-09T09:48:00.000-07:00

BABY NEEDS BOTOX!
I've gradually gotten over my funk about Uncle Grant, and realize such angst over quietly besmirched, long-dead relatives simply drives one's head into places that can potentially impair day-to-day functioning.

What helps? Parties! BIG parties! Due to the gracious thoughtfulness of one of our writers, Don and I were invited to attend this year's annual Safari Brunch hosted by the Wildlife Waystation. Don chose not to attend -- my dear boy has problems with crowds -- so I went alone. Alone, but not lonely: This was no spur-of-the-moment invite to the top floor of someone's west end apartment where a tray of limp deviled eggs is passed around. The setting -- The Playboy Mansion! The goodies -- Open bar, silent auction, delicious food, a smattering of celebrities and Bunnies and one lunar astronaut! Guest of honor: An 8-foot albino Burmese python.

Fueled by appreciation of Hef's huge, gorgeous landscape and several glasses of champagne, I led myself on an haphazardly guided tour, and as I took it all in, the contrast with other things going on here on Planet Earth struck me like a crystal wineglass smashed on the designer pool deck, over and over. While the beautiful (sometimes plastic) people cavorted, tremors shook the India-Pakistan border and people were dying; many refugees from Katrina still didn't know where they were going to live . . .

How arbitrary is the circumstance that a single human experiences on any given day?

I found myself in a mega-luxe setting where already beautiful women had paid significant sums to have their facial features altered by deft infusions of a deadly poison . . . where men in couples gossiped about the imminent collapse of of this or that film executive's empire and the sudden ascent of another . . . where exquisite wild creatures were put on display for the amusement of these oh-so-El-Lay trippers (and actually were far better off here slithering on Hef's emerald lawn than in the wild, their natural habitat an unnatural home for these animals born and raised in captivity).

I've always feared that great wealth means great insulation: Not just the plain luck of being protected from the more painful and humiliating exingencies of life, but, because of the constant comfort, distraction and smootheness that wealth affords, an icy insulation from any clear recognition of others' plights. SO many others, in fact. Most of the world, actually! Thus, the niggling old temptation to inwardly make requisite snide remarks about the callousness of the rich.

I've decided to hell with that! While here and there the poseurs marred the scene like chipped Greek statuary, the bulk of the guests simply had a good time and gratefully partook of the fleeting goodies that the party offered. I am one of those. I wished to have been with my mate, but curiously, I've spent many an excursion by myself over the years, whether a trip, a party, a movie or a restaurant meal. That used to bother me when I was younger, but no more. In my aloneness I have more opportunity for contemplating the larger issues that linger beneath surface enchantments.

Besides, I only recognized one and only one botoxed face, and it was well done, smoothe and unblemished. Only her lips were a little too fleshy.

My high-low point was my 15-second conversation with Apollo veteran Buzz Aldrin. When I'd finally ID'ed and cornered him and his wife Lois, I couldn't resist asking him a direct question about UFOs. "Remember what Carl Sagan said?" Buzz replied. "`Much ado about nothing!" As a couple of photographers approached, I knew there was no time to debate that. "How was the Moon?" I blurted. "Dusty," he said.

I got to pet the pale, pretty python twice. Slick, clean. And reacting to the entire shin-dig with her blank reptilian stare, as un-self-conscious as a newborn baby.

2005-09-19T18:13:00.000-07:00

DON JOHNSON AND MY DEAD UNCLE
In the paper today I came upon some shocking TV news. No, not that Felicity Huffman won an Emmy, but that my late Uncle Grant has been "immortalized" by having his name attached to the character Don Johnson plays on a new fall show on the WB. HOW DARE THEY!
Here's Uncle Grant, Grant Cooper, Esq., prestigious L.A. lawyer, during one of his more notable trials:
Uh-huh. That's him defending Sirhan Sirhan, poised for historical fame (along with his client) on the cover of Life Magazine. How dare they, I ask? Well, easily. Neither Uncle Grant nor his still living family members can either sue or explain away the coincidence. Don Johnson is not playing an upright "Law and Order" type, see. Grant Cooper on the WB is a semi-burnout who hopes to revive his flagging career with some young blood. Or plot lines to that effect. The WB had to stick in a youngster to appeal to their pimple-faced demographic.

Some people in the UFO field (maybe that's you, and you...!) have tried to shed suspicion on me because I am related to what some have called a notorious Mob lawyer. OK, so he defended Johnny Roselli, or Lucky Luciano, one of 'em, in the 1950s Friars Club scandal. One of those ducktail-era Italian homeboys gave him a new Cadillac as his fee. My mother told me this. What she failed to tell me and what I had to find out on my own is that Uncle Grant was popped for --gosh -- was it stealing Grand Jury testimony? And now, Sirhan's present lawyer pretty much outlines Uncle Grant's egregious bungling of the assassination case. Woe be Sirhan.

Did I know any of this as a little girl? Nada! You know what I remember? Uncle Grant and his wife had a big house with a swimming pool. I joyously swam in the pool with my cousins. I thought my Uncle smart and handsome, like my Dad. When he defended Sirhan and brought a measure of perverse celebrity to our family, I reveled in my Uncle providing the alleged killer his right as an American citizen.

All along I figured Sirhan Sirhan was the lone assassin of RFK. Not necessarily now.

In my files I have a letter of commendation from the City of Los Angeles honoring Uncle Grant. And now I have a son who's a lawyer, who's adroitly and shrewdly avoided criminal law. Get real, people. There are a million stories in the big city. Uncle Grant's mob connections and controversial reputation comprise only one of them. And I still like Don Johnson. But tonight I'm watching the premiere of this season's "Vegas," a city I love and that wouldn't be, were it not for some Mob ingenuity!

2005-09-06T16:36:00.000-07:00

DO PETS HAVE KARMA?

I seriously considered what I would have done if I was trapped on a roof in Louisiana and National Guard rescuers told me I had to leave Buckwheat behind or not come with them at all to be shipped to certain safety.

I cannot see abandoning a loved one, regardless of species. Yes, I have just as much compassion for people trapped and abandoned. But people are neither as unconditionally loving nor as so totally dependent on their own or other species for sheer survival. They're very little different than children: helpless, precious, beloved, irreplaceable.

If you've looked for somewhere to specifically assist these creatures who are also Katrina's hapless victims, try HERE.

For some cogent and enlightened commentary on people, tragedy, and human integrity,
go HERE.

2005-08-07T08:59:00.000-07:00

OH, BUCKWHEAT?

What's it all about, Buckwheat?
Is it just for the money we live?
What's it all about when we start to pout, Buckwheat?
Can we get back the fools gold that we give?

Or are we meant to be fools?
But I think fools are blind, Buckwheat,
Not seeing worth in people, but in stuff--
And if stuff is life's whole meaning, Buckwheat,
Then higher aspirations are just fluff.
As sure as I withstand the crassness of the elite, Buckwheat,
I know there're pearls of great price,
That reside within you, and always are you.

I believe in love, Buckwheat.
Within real Love, we all remain, Buckwheat.
Relieved of falseness and of pain -- They're shining, Buckwheat --
Precious gems, that light up with your Love
and you'll find gold every day, Buckwheat, Buckwheat.

(apologies to Joss Stone, "Alfie" lyricist. )

2005-07-16T16:45:00.000-07:00

ON MY BLOCK

I bicycled to the edge of town, slowing when I saw a group of cars parked in the middle of the street, about two blocks up. I managed to swing clear as I approached, but abruptly found my bike swerving when a man in a beige jumpsuit lurched in front of me. My tires squealed as my hand grabbed the brake and I jerked the bike to the right, nearly toppling over as I skidded to a stop. I thrust my legs down and balanced at the center of the road. The nearest car, a Volvo, leaned, crumpled on the passenger's side where a group of people in uniforms were hunched over what appeared to be a prone body. From out of that tight group a woman bore straight toward me, grimacing. "Get out of here!" she shouted. "There's been an accident. Just go away."

She didn't have to tell me twice. I got on the bike and quickly started pedaling off, pumping down the safer roadside. I'm not one of those looky-loos who feels compelled to get up close to tragedy and death; that's sick. Hell, the person on the ground wasn't necessarily dead. And the woman who crossly shouted at me was right to chase away casual onlookers. So I bolted. But on the edge of my vision as I left, a woman slightly removed from the group was watching me. Was it the same woman who yelled the warning? I couldn't tell.

Later at home I had an unexpected and distressing deja vu when a loud, persistent knocking began at my front door. I rushed to answer it, but should have looked through the peephole first: it was the woman. A woman. Wild-eyed, disheveled gray hair, skinny shoulders trembling with rage or fear. I couldn't tell which. I opened the door a crack and she burst in, grabbing my arm and screaming, "You stay away from me! I saw you at the beach spying on me. Stop it!"

Before I could catch my breath and respond -- here I had let a maniac into my house! -- she continued her screeching rant and flung herself on my couch. "You're a goddam spy! Stay away from me!"

And here's where my dream faded. A stupid dream, but weird. A friend said I should write it down like a fictional story. I could try to make it into a full story, with a plot and an intriguing mystery and such, but I don't want to. That's the simple ttruth, the reason I do not write fiction. I don't want to.

I just don't want to! I see you spying on me! Just stop it!

2005-07-06T11:17:00.000-07:00

FLAILING THE FRENCH
Yeah, yeah, I'm a real slacker with this site. But don't blame me, blame the French. If Bill O'Reilly can be a Francophobe, who am I to argue? To be franc, however, I have nothing against the French. In fact I regularly yearn for their foods, wines and perfumes, and Don can tell you of the countless times I've wistfully wished for a trip to Paris. But, maintenant, it's just not in the cards. Quelle domage! Ou, c'est la vie.

(But which reminds me. Someone has to ask it: Will Paris and Paris be honeymooning in Paris???)

Be that as it may, our boat Past Sins French-kissed another boat this weekend, and how appropriate is that around 4th of July? By "kiss" I mean an inadvertent, wind-borne meeting of the bows resulting in tangled anchors. The angry Frenchman whose large craft we touched so intimately threw our party (us and two other couples) into a bit of a glare fest with his hissy-fit, and perhaps we were lucky not to understand the otherwise beautiful language. The kiss was broken after what seemed a prolonged phase of remonstrations and such.

In any event, I, as usual, miserably cowed and wussed-out by someone else's forthright rage, ditched the furor by ducking down into the cabin with Buckwheat and Marisha, one of our passengers, a sweet woman who bravely attempted to make me feel better with a tale of a suddenly, and tragically, motherless 19-year-old Playboy centerfold-in-the-making. That helped a little. For just then I felt like a motherless child. I am such a baby! It could have been so much worse. And now it's in the hands of insurance carriers.

Other than that, these are great summer days. Buckwheat, a wuss like his Mom, had his usual frustrating times trying to get in and out of the boat. Like I await Paris, he awaits a larger, more comfortable yacht, so he can at least sleep stretched out.

2005-06-16T11:02:00.000-07:00

CASEWORK
So, does Michael Jackson molest little boys? There are many who would say he does. Or did. There are perhaps as many or more -- fans -- who would swear such an innocent looking, childlike being could never commit such a heinous crime.

Then there's the trial. Michael Jackson -- King of Pop, Moonwalker, Childlover, Oddball, Global Celebrity -- was acquitted on all counts of the indictment against him, much to the joy of his slightly demented fans. Why? Why, when all indications would seem to clearly demonstrate he's a pedophile?

The question becomes one less of Jackson's guilt or innocence and more on the procedural phases and boundaries of our legal system; specifically those of a given case. "Indications" and "would seem to" and "demonstrate" are words that don't pass muster in the courtroom. Juries are instructed to weigh all the facts. But those facts are rigidly circumscribed to the case at hand, what's presented in court, and cannot or shouldn't be shaded with the implications of other times, other events, other alleged victims. Even a mediocre defense attorney will work his or her crooked little tail off to eliminate hearsay or evidence with no direct relationship to the case at hand. A slightly better attorney will connive to instill every iota of reasonable doubt in the minds of jurors. And that is key: Unless a smoking gun is found on the perp and is unquestionably linked directly to the crime, often reasonable doubt isn't difficult to establish. "Beyond a reasonable doubt" asks a lot, and that is as it should be.

Despite a dazzling accumulation of would-be evidence and testimony of crimes committed by Jackson, the mother of the key witness decimated much of the prosecution's case against him. This is aside from other accusations, the claims of children being given alcoholic beverages, witness testimony to Michael's bedroom habits and even pornography discovered at Neverland. Because, you see, direct evidence, evidence beyond a reasonable doubt, was lacking. And the one claimed victim jurors were asked to focus upon apparently has a slimy, greedy mother. The prosecution for some reason was ill-equipped to respond powerfully and appropriately to the defense strategy as it unfolded in the courtroom, so perhaps one big, smelly fact became swallowed up by relatively smaller ones, like a corpse disappearing under ravenous maggots -- a sweet, sometimes random circumstance that defense attorney's cling to. Even when their clients are guilty as sin.

2005-06-12T12:22:00.000-07:00

DISHWATER BLONDE
After another long delay, I'm back to post. We picked up this new issue's "overage" from the printer yesterday, and I must say, with all due emphasis, it's dyn-o-mite! Consider me objective? Well, admittedly I'm not, but I sure love how the magazine has evolved into the vibrant piece of popular literature that it has become. Thanks, Nancy & Bill! We contribute, but our new zoom is largely due to your outstanding and never-ending efforts!

Now about the title of this post. Odd thoughts occur to me every day, but Sundays are the worst. While I was washing dishes this morning, as I was staring into the murky shallows of my sink, the term "dishwater blond" popped into my head and I spent about three long minutes contemplating the term and trying to decide what it really meant. Is it meant to be pejorative? Or is it simply a term that is exactly descriptive of one of those haircolors that hangs somewhere between light brown and dull yellow? I did a search. Because that's the kind of empty, pointless, inane and typically unproductive activities I indulge in on Sundays.

Don't tell me to go to church. I've had enough of that, what with having a parent who was a minister and having once been a member of a highly unconventional but spiritually savvy church with cult overtones. Anyhoo, one dishwater blonde plays not too terribly awful rap music. Another portrays a doll, if you will:

In other news, I lost my purple ranking at on-line Scrabble. But rediscovered BOXERJAM! These are fun but very challenging games.

That's it for now, kids. Promise to have more significant matters here . . . someday.

2005-05-25T10:44:00.000-07:00

SUMMER COMETH!
After a long delay, I have a little post. I had the most wonderful hike this morning with Buckwheat, and savored the day as I can see the season bursting into summer: meaning: FUN!. AND our hills are sprouting many yucca! (And this issue is almost put to bed!)
And I made up a "Pledge of Allegiance" for them, because they are so majestic, like pristine sentinels in the sunny desert. "I pledge allegiance to our yucca, and the San Gabriel foothills on which they stand, one ecosystem, under God and Nature, interdependent, with beauty and vibrant health for all."

At the Marina, we have many gangs of Moon jellyfish hanging out, and they are precious.
They are ocean naturals. They jiggle and flow with the tide and seem to speak to you with their gentleness. Also, this breed does not sting! Perfect species to inhabit the Pacific.

Haven't created a pledge for them yet, the pale, tender little darlings.

2005-04-29T11:19:00.000-07:00

BLAH
I've been very tired this week. Although there are remedies:
but you can only consume so much of what Don calls the nectar of the gods before you start to shake and rattle like a half-empty jar of stale peanuts falling off the nearest skyscraper, and hyperventilate like a hungry, rag-draped street person finding a packet of hundred dollar bills. (Great images, eh?) Furthermore, I have no real reason to be this listless and tired, unless it's a prelude to the terrible cold Don caught and is struggling with and has inadvertently passed on to me, germ generosity. Or the aftermath of poison something- or-other. (My face looks better. Finally.)

I'm not too tired to write something for the other blog! My apologies to everyone for being so lax with that one. But as I've noted before, I'm living a more organic life these days, and personal observations, rants and rehashes seem to come more naturally. So forgive me. I will post something, hopefully something not too boring, sometime this weekend.

If you can't forgive me, forget me.

Perk up, Vicki! Fuggediboudit!

2005-04-21T18:58:00.000-07:00

BUMPS
As the years move on -- and on, and on -- I examine my skin more closely because of all of its stunningly uncool changes and growths. Nothing extreme, mind you, no Pinocchio nose lengthenings or cysts the size of grapefruits, but wearisome things like predictable furrows and wrinkles and, ewww! -- these stupid little bumps that appear like tiny anthills on my thighs and chest. Gross!

Yes, I've obsessed on it. In natural retribution, the Universe decided to give me bumps I can really get down and demented with: poison ivy (oak?) has invaded the left side of my face and neck. My left eye has swelled like an gigantic overripe grape and I have practically taken a bath in calamine lotion. Reality check: It hardly helps the itching at all.

I feel like shit.

Nevertheless, I'm still managing to take Buckwheat out for his walk every morning -- just shorter ones that steer clear of the hills. At least for now.

I can't even go to the nearby 31 Flavors for a malt to cheer me up. Has to be a drive-thru, and they don't serve malts.

2005-04-16T16:37:00.000-07:00

BONES
Buckwheat has been limping a little, and at 2-1/2 years of age, a doggy having a chronic problem like that is worrisome. Don and I will have to take him to the vet and have it checked out. It may be something called "pano," which I've researched on the web and is not completely atypical in a larger dog. B. certainly qualifies! Not sure if the trouble originates in his leg bone, or underlying tissues; I have to reread the pano information . . . whatever, we'll have to find out later.

When we went on our last hike, he led me into the lower creek which has formed near one of the wildflower-studded horse trails, and the water has completely altered that environment, which is already dense and almost cloyingly green. Those generous rains! The rugged walls of the creek are are at least two feet deeper than before, freeing up all manner of fascinating rocks and organics. As I strolled behind adventurous Buckwheat through tangled scrub brush, maneuvering through a thin stream of gentle water and some scattered rocks, something inordinately white and symmetrical drew my eye. Turns out it was a mammalian -- but not human -- tooth, part of the jaw of a nearly intact canine skull. This pic is just something I found on the web. Aside from the whiteness, it looks very much like what I found. The jaw was detached from the skull. I wrapped all of it in a rag and we took it home . . . Maybe it's having watched too much "CSI," but I feel a seductive pull on my primal sensibilities, something warming about death and the forensic remains, studying what's represented by such bones,in such a skull -- this one a musty red brown. I have set it on a backyard shelf, next to some old candleholders. Giving in to a usually submerged sense of the macabre . . . It's either a coyote or what's left of one of the many domestic pets that get snatched by coyotes 'round these here parts.

B. likes to dig, too. Today's walk was cut short when he wanted to spend a long time going after some creature he smelled -- probably a squirrel.

2005-04-10T17:03:00.000-07:00

DAYS OF PROOFING
For someone with bad eyes, I sure am a studious and often shrewdly sensitive scrutinizer of type. Just finishing up the April/May issue -- yes, it's later than it should be. So shoot me! -- and the last four days have been filled with running out pages (ink already low) and reading every single one until my eyes are crossed and (once yet again) my brains are Jello, but I can't say it kills me, cuz I do it so well! There's something so very satisfying about finding tiny errors and correcting them.

Tomorrow Don is meeting with a Purple Heart officer, a man from San Diego, I think, and then afterwards we visit the offices down in the Marina. And our boat -- long neglected, needing a bath and some more time consuming, complex fix-ups. But with the approach of the warm season, the time is right to ready her up for her first sea venture. Just around the Marina. Not sure when true, full sailing, out in the open ocean, will be the order of the summer day. It's a more strenuous and complicated sport than one would think. Has it's own language. Still learning.

Speaking of special language and protocols --wine! One of my favorite beverages and someone recently said all reds should be drunk at room temperature. Doubt that, and have to research it on the web. Meanwhile, I'm on my second glass of Chianti. At room temperature.

P.S.:

2005-04-08T18:23:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I wrote a provocative piece on the Pope and Catholics. Something hinky was going on with the server, the browser -- something, somwhere -- and it never posted. They say I can hit a place here on my page called "RECOVER POST," but lucky me, for some reason that key or whatever is not on my page. Probably all for the best, since I had some criticisms, some that may grate on staunch Catholics, but at least they were cleverly worded.

When I feel more like it, I'll be back here waxing silly or otherwise on some other subject.

2005-03-30T18:37:00.000-08:00

GUILTY!
Guilt is a damaging emotion. Nevertheless, I'm prone to such feelings, especially when I grumble about gas prices while other people are dying or otherwise suffering in some public way. Some expire surprisingly -- Johnnie Cochran; some slowly and inevitably, and probably blessedly -- Terri Schiavo. While long ago I decided to be guiltless as much as I could manage, it's a stealthy and subtle, sticklily creeping emotion that oozes into your psychoemotional system by stifling degrees -- like a morphine drip without the blissful, cottony aenesthesia to deaden all pain. My real guilt lies in my conflicted past, but it arises now and then, causing bitten fingernails and overconsumption of coffee, sweets, or wine -- some days, all three consumed in what I assume are carefully spaced interludes. Hell, I'm not 20 anymore, so then I'll face an evening of heartburn and a night of ragged sleep. Which makes the following morning fairly miserable, and leads to drinking more coffee. The toxic combination -- lack of sleep, bad nutrition, anxiety -- releases some gel-like substance in my brain and loosens the remaining logic connections. Which then makes me fantasize answers and outcomes that somewhere deep inside my consciousness comfort me with how they beautifully coincide with my own conception of cause and effect. Such as: Johnnie Cochran's brain tumor was a karmic result of having blithely and successfully defended a bad-ass killer. Now that's a nasty thought; I can see that even in my bleary-eyed, guilty frame of psyche. No one deserves a cause-and-effect, lethal pounding like that, poisonous spider marching in the head, a macabre, painful death that saps an exceptional brain . . . even if he was a lawyer.

2005-03-25T18:23:00.000-08:00

It's Good Friday and I had a pleasant day, and the weather was exquisite. At the moment I am ruining my good mood by still grumbling about . . . guess what . . .

2005-03-21T10:33:00.000-08:00

FUELISH WORDS
In my more airheaded era I used to say, offhandedly, that I'd stay on this planet just long enough to see the demise of the internal combustion engine. This was when I lived closer to the urban centers of Los Angeles, and barely ever made even brief escapes during the summers when the smog got so smotheringly disgusting I made foolish comments based on 1) faith that soon we'd all be driving all-electric or some other "clean" machines; and 2) death simply meant moving to another locale with lighter luggage. HA! I now see that I've probably signed on for a long life around here, Earth, and for some reason the smog doesn't bother me that much anymore. Just another indication of how marvelously adaptive humans can be. Also an indication of how sweet those clear, smogless days are.

Now gas prices have, pardon the hackneyed word, skyrocketed. My hikes with Buckwheat up the hills near our home have become all the more precious. The fact that I have two good legs that carry me up those hills . . . sweet! Life is good.

But dependence on fossil fuels sucks.

2005-03-08T11:48:00.001-08:00

ROCKER WATCHDOG

Call it frivolous, but I am plenty upset about how many once respected rock'n'roll bands have sold out to corporate America in the form of granting permission to use some of their most memorable music on TV commercials. This annoyance probably has something to do with my generation -- brought up as we were by our peers to covet our rock'n'roll as generational anthems unsullied by the venalities of our parents and their loyalty to the marketplace. Never mind that the music industry itself has always been entirely corrupted by Mammon to the point of baldfaced infiltration of mobsters . . . somehow that never hampered our pristine counterculture ethic.

Anyway, I've been keeping a list. I cannot find the list at the moment, so for the time being I have to rely on my memory. Therefore the list right now is very brief:

KFC: Lynyrd Skynyrd
Office Depot: Bachman Turner Overdrive

Never fear. More when I find that damn list! Er, never mind. Cuz I just found a writer who tells the tale far better than I could. So, go right here.

2005-02-20T16:11:00.000-08:00

THE SUPERFICIALS

I hate being a cliche, but this weekend I embodied one of the feminine worst: When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. For me it was window shopping, but shopping nonetheless; I spent part of both Saturday and Sunday in malls. Bought nothing, I am proud to claim! It was raining, friends were available, money not, so what else but leisurely mall strolls and handling fine fabrics practically 'til they're no longer sellable? 'Twas raining like a bitch, if you'll excuse the ugly word, and warm, product-laden stores were so ... nice.

(I did buy a few See's chocolates. Forgot about that.)

At one point Joni--my age--led me into her absolute favorite store,"Forever 21." Sure, you may think she's too old for that store, but Joni's unlike anyone in our age category. Migod, the girl can still get away with wearing miniskirts and short, ruffled shirts! (Former model and yoga instructor, by way of explanation.) Anyway, with a burst of teen fashions in vivid spring colors gaily beckoning to us, Joni and I entered the store and I immediately noticed everyone there was at least 20 years younger. But management was playing great rock'n'roll, and for about 15 minutes I remembered being 16 and having nothing more to think about than the very clothing item I was desperate to find. Back then, usually jeans and a certain pair of boots or sandals were the couture of choice. Now, still jeans. Shoes, sometimes; but more often than not I'll choose bare feet or slippers.

As the rock'n'roll played I suddenly had this flash of what I could be in another life: a rock star with closets of flashy clothes and money to burn. So I patiently stood alongside Joni as she fingered flimsy crepe see-through camisoles in aqua and magenta, making cooing sounds, and imagined how utterly ludicrous it would be if I chose to wear something like that, and it hit me: What the hell am I doing here? Then I concentrated on Joni's face. She was . . . elated. There was nothing else she could be doing that pleased her more, unless it was selecting one of those blouses in every color and buying them without a second thought. Woman, I silently shouted, get a hold of yourself! I was actually talking to myself, not my friend. Isn't being in a store like this and knowing it's an everyday pleasure, age irrelevant, what being American is all about? Well, hell yes!

So the brief guilt I felt for going to the mall two days in a row made about as much impact on my sensibility as filling my gas tank--idiotically pricey, but what's my alternative? For like it or not, a good part of me even outdoes Joni's store. I fight it, but underneath this aging body is a creature who's "Forever 16." I'm in the band, honey, and we sing, (to the tune of "My Generation." Apologies to THE WHO:)

People try to put us down
Just because we get around
Living free and loving to spend . . .
Hope this style will never end!

2005-02-13T12:56:00.000-08:00

CELEBRITYVILLE

Okay, hold your breath; don't leave just yet -- I have something quasi-exciting to report, since I was able to attend a press trip to the set of Steven Spielberg's upcoming blockbuster, "War of the Worlds". In so doing I discovered that one of my favorite highways around here (Rt. 126) was flooded out during the Big Rains and so the acres of orange groves shedding such quintessential California ambience were looking a little ratty around the edges, and both sides of the highway were packed with streams of dried mud.

But I really want to tell you that Tom Cruise is just so cute and so nice! Everyone says so! For about 20 minutes, he and Steven graced a group of reporters with their stellar presence, talking oh-so-articulately about the film, but not giving anything away. (Well, the aliens have tentacles...but from what producer Kathleen Kennedy told us, they're unlike any tentacles we've ever seen before. Ooooh!)

I was not aggressive enough to get any questions in. But all the more pro-active of the crew elicited answers to everything I wanted to know. You could tell the two men are simply great pals and are having a lot of fun -- unlike the extras we saw, who were directed to keep slogging back and forth under fake rain during the refugee sequence we watched being filmed. Cruise, Dakota Fanning and another actor poked along in their van.

In case you're wondering? These two top-flight celebs are just people. So happens they're people who fell right into exactly what they were born to do.

2005-02-06T11:48:00.000-08:00

LET ME VENT!
When Don gets peeved about something he has no compunctions about "letting all hang out" with me. I don't mind being a sounding board, but sometimes emotions run so high that I feel I'm the target. when I cower, he rushes to assure me that I am not the target. It's a personality thing, and let's just say he vents with emphasis! I, on the other hand, tend to sluff off my worst moods by whining (that's the word Don uses) or complaining or shopping or taking Buckwheat for a walk.
Today is one of those days, specifically because I didn't sleep well. I have some peeves and since I did take B. on a very nice walk on a local trail but feel hardly less peeved, I will list some major gripes. Getting off my chest:
1. Can't clean. My house always seems messy.
2. Dishes. There are always dirty dishes!
3. My veins are showing through my hands--what's that about??
4. UFOs: Goddammit, let's have the truth already!!
5. I can't eat a decent Mexican meal without getting heartburn.
6. My hair is like limp fur.
7. A woman I know died recently and I want to--but can't--know where she is.
8. Credit card debt!
8. I don't see my grandkids enough.
9. My son never calls.
10. I haven't been on an airplane since before 9/11.

There. I feel a little better. These gripes are so petty, I could wither in embarrassment. Except, perhaps for Numero Quatro. But that's a story for another time -- or another blog.

2005-01-26T10:57:00.000-08:00

REQUIEM
The deadly Metro Rail crash this morning took place in the town of my birth. Also, it's my sister's birthday, who also greeted the world for the first time in this Los Angeles town, six years earlier than me. I know there must be some kind of synchronistic meaning to this, but I don't know what it is. Or just an odd coincidence....On second thought, that's far more likely.

But again, such strange and sudden tragedies and their ironic details -- the crash was caused by a man who wished to commit suicide by parking his car on the tracks, then chickened out at the last minute -- point up the apparently twisted arbitrariness of life of this planet and the ways in which single individuals by their impulsive acts can affect large numbers of others.

We don't hear as much about the ones who silently go about healing and loving and supporting others, enhancing lives instead of cutting them short. They're around -- many were on hand to help the injured at the crash site, firemen and policemen and other emergency professionals, and some concerned bystanders. There's a bumper sticker that reads: "COMMIT SUDDEN ACTS OF KINDNESS AND SENSELESS BEAUTY." Obviously the treacherous guy responsible for today's news would post something directly opposite this sweet saying, should he wish to commemorate what he accomplished today. Without doubt, he'll be commemorated by others with no less disdain and resentment than people like Osama or Abu Musab al Zarqawi, even if his act was largely unintentional. In widest terms, terrorism knows no particular land or ideology. It can be deliberate or accidental. It's the bane of the 21st Century, and I saw it today, too closely. Way too closely.

2005-01-15T16:21:00.000-08:00

FOR THE MAILMAN
Firstly: the rain has passed, and it feels like the roiling tempest bathed our lives eons ago, and the sun feels so sweetly warm, balmy as whipped cream on peach pie, the sky a pure cerulean (spelled correctly?) blue. Rainstorm? What rainstorm?

I made a point of getting out a lot today, mostly prompted by my current crafts project: New mailbox! Or, should I say, renovated mailbox. Ever since we moved here, our mailbox has been set loosely atop a metal frame with no base for the box itelf, causing it to tip precariously every time the mailman tries to insert our daily, personal stack of recycled tree pulp. We had a note from the mailman not too long ago, complaining. So, finally taking the broad hint, I whizzed down to Home Depot and purchased some industrial strength adhesive. As a base, I used an old board from some rotting fence. Adhered it to the metal frame with "Better'n Nails," found some old gray-blue spray paint, made my own address stencil, dug up some fuschia acrylic, and VOILA! "new" mailbox.(Photo to come.) But the item is not the piece of beautifully crafted, precious art I was hoping for. But at least it kept me out of trouble today.

Well, not completely. My Santa Clauses down in the Marina gave me this cool visor with a cocktail logo. Tipping my hat to the tippler in me--if you'll pardon the pun-- I've been experimenting with mixed drinks.... I am now consuming a Brandy Sling: brandy, lemon juice, and Triple Sec on ice. Oh, tart. Tart!! Added some Pepsi. Soooooo, I've ceased moaning about my lost career as a professional mailbox painter. But my mailman is happier!

2005-01-10T18:37:00.000-08:00

VIEW TO A STORM

A picture is worth many, many words. This is the view we were forced to absorb yesterday from my home-office window. The shock of the strange! Dazed by drips! Crazed by currents! Ravaged by rivers! Slain by seas . . . Well, it isn't quite Banda Aceh, thank the Lord, but here we be, in a Southern California I've never seen before: Wet. Drenched. Soaked, slurpy, silty and saturated. Please, at least let this be the end of the drought! The roots of my roses come loose in the mush. Things float on by in my garage floor. And if all that weren't bad enough, appalling ants are crawling on my walls.

Is this the end of the world?

2005-01-07T11:57:00.000-08:00
BUCKWHEAT UPDATE
Since this is "His Place," I thought it only right on a slowish Friday to note some new developments regarding my peach of a pooch: Not much! Though the cold and rainy weather has given more opportunities for cuddle time on the couch. (And yes, I know, it's a bit of a bizarre closeness we two different species enjoy. I'm perfectly okay with the fact that Mr. Wheat allows me to indulge some thwarted maternal instincts. I do my own psycho-readouts, thank you very much, and so far have discovered nothing perverting family values or even mildly less than joyful and normal. Well, if not quite normal, at least satisfying to all family members.) Don's a tad jealous that Buckwheat doesn't cuddle with him, but I've been more or less encouraging this particularly affectionate behavior since puppyhood, and on the larger couch. Don's spot is the love seat, and would only be large enough for both of them if Don were a skinny 7-year-old or Buckwheat was a bichon frise. (I coulda said "toy poodle," but that's so passe!) But I'm glad they're not....though Don could stand to be skinnier. And, yes Don, me, too.

But that reminds me. If I have only one complaint about having this wonderful pet, it would be the fact that we can't responsibly get new living room furniture. It would be a waste! But what a small price to pay for the love of a dog. Especially this one, about whom Don kiddingly remarks,"Mom and I sure like you lots, Buckwheat. We're not quite sure why...." Well, as most pet owners know, it's a quality called UNCONDITIONAL LOVE. Dogs have completely mastered that aspect of high spiritual consciousness, so it's like living with an angel. An angel with fur. And that fur is all over the place!

2004-12-29T16:36:00.000-08:00
PERSPECTIVE
South Asia's truly awesome disaster -- so engulfing, merciless, so unexpected -- should stop everyone on Earth in amazed suspension for awhile, by the sheer magnitude and deadly force of disrupted Nature -- and yet again, how everything is connected. But in our sheltered lifetimes, we hardly expect a Pompeii-like cataclysm to hit us, tucked in our safe little worlds, dealing with those comparatively minor irritations that we can so easily turn into major frustrations: I have a knee that quite abruptly began hurting badly, constantly painful for no apparent reason other than the possibility that I'm developing osteoarthritis in my advanced middle age. Once the Tsunami became global news, I barely noticed the soreness cramping my walks with Buckwheat, except when I wandered away from the TV, for instance, and then had to take an Aleve or a 600-mg. ibuprophen. Both of which, I gather, are now deemed dangerous for the ol' center of bodily life, the heart. Somehow I suspect my heart is far more vulnerable to the news of disasters that take so many lives so quickly, than any medication. Surely evangelical Christians are seeing this as fulfilling the End Times prophecy. New Agers are preparing for the pole shift. For agnostics, the arbitrariness of life stays central to their ideology. I see it as confirmation of Nature's authority over destiny. Where does God fit in? Remember everything is connected. Amen.

2004-12-24T10:45:00.000-08:00
ECKER'S BIG 'N' TALL
Merry Christmas! With that out of the way, I want to let ya in on a Christmas tradition around here. Don and I usually splurge on one necessary or not-so-necessary item for the both of us to enjoy. This year it's the boat, of course, which Santa delivered nearly six months before Christmas. Being the overgrown children that we are, the boat wasn't quite enough once the our Christmas tree was set up. So Don began fantasizing out loud--for a bread-making machine. Already our kitchen counter is clogged with arguably superfluous items--electric can opener, four-slot toaster, coffee maker with timer, 5-speed blender, basket of decaying fruit--but I'll be damned if we didn't find a Kenmore breadmaker on sale at Sears and I whipped out the check book, grumbling, "Oh, okay, but that's it!!" Well. For his part, Don sees the thing as the kitchen equivalent of a new computer game. We've had at least one new loaf of bread each day since getting the thing. And this is no ordinary bread! Ralphs had a sale on bread flour (99 cents), which is enhanced with extra rising stuff. Plus the recipe book for most loaves calls for yeast. Bread flour + yeast + the magical mechanism of bread machine = Ecker's big'n'tall loaves of bread! (See above). Are they delicious? Incredibly. Are they chewy? Only just perfectly ... Does Buckwheat like them? Oh, yip! Are we recklessly scarfing down the carbs and putting on pounds? No comment! (Hey--give us a break! It's Christmas!)

2004-12-16T10:55:00.000-08:00
VEGAS VAGARIES
When the going gets tough, the tough go to Vegas! Well, things weren't really that tough when I decided to bail with my pal Catherine--who incidentally looks a little porky these days, but she doesn't read this blog, and anyway, who am I to talk?--for a quick two-day escape in the twinkly, tinkly neon city. I took 3 pairs of socks and a little money. Didn't use the former (temp was generally in the high 60s) and lost some of the latter, and now I am simply mystified: I went there expressly to get my jackpot, but I didn't get it! How could that be? I was certain I was going to win that jackpot! So, since my return, I've been in a state of utter perplexity. But the trip was the usual fun we have in Sin City, Don's loathing of the place notwithstanding. When I say "we" I mean anyone with me but him. Besides, there were great Christmas trees beyond the regulation neon.
Anyway, my greatest sin this time was learning keno while drinking beer then losing five dollars twice--thats $10, enough for me to buy Don a new Christmas stocking. But rather than be drenched in self-loathing and guilt, I went and won $30 at another casino, then lost some money playing Blackjack. But at least I had the courage to boldly sit down with other players, who are notoriously mean to newbies, which I totally am. Was. A newbie, that is. I'm just damn proud of having graduated from the Wheel of Fortune slot machines, which still tempt me no end.
We stayed at the Monte Carlo, a lovely hotel-casino which had no sunshine gracing the pool area until midafternoon. That was a trip--a chilly one, until hitting the jacuzzi. Only a handful of other people there--three pale, talkative Brits obviously used to swimming and sunbathing in the cold. So, the upshots: No jackpot :? -- I lost my sunglasses :[ -- I can swim in a tepid pool in less than 80-degree weather :o -- I am now an almost-fluid Blackjack player ;) and, lo and behold, I didn't come back completely empty handed! I now own a New York, New York souvenir T-shirt by playing a long time on their slots. Oh, yeah. I'm a winner!

2004-12-10T13:01:00.000-08:00
CLOVIS AT NIGHT
When you first arrive in downtown Fresno, the best treats are (1) a card casino right in the heart of the city; and (2) an old Security Bank building obviously preserved to offer the city some historical respect beyond its legacy as a stopover for grape pickers. Snideness asideness, Fresno has grown, is not that bad, and save for the lack of mountains or ocean has something to offer everyone. Everyone has to eat and drive. In Fresno, you can eat and drive! On a related subject, the Purple Heart gang we met up there were some of the nicest folks ever, and wish to do everything possible to help wounded veterans who have yet to shake off the trauma--physically and mentally--of their combat experiences. We learned a tremendous amount about what it means to have fought in a war in defense of this nation and how these veterans can receive due compensation for their injuries. This is something we should have explored long ago, but--(and this, in general, sums up my view of life experiences)--it is what it is, and things happen when they happen. End of story.
My most aggravating fun was the Saturday night we followed an SUV full of seasoned vets in search of a steakhouse. Listening to an endless pablum CD of Neil Diamond, we drove several miles to Clovis. Don't ask me what that town is known for--beyond long boulevards lined with every fast food joint known to man and dozens of mini-malls. We passed two or three steakhouses on an endless trek before stopping at the one the guys were looking for, only to find it was an hour wait before getting a table! The SUV took off again and we followed it another 5 or 10 miles. I practiced poise and patience. But I was damn hungry. The couple I was with--Don, in usual style, had stayed behind at the motel--got equally impatient and finally abandoned the intrepid SUV. We backtracked down the broad Clovis boulevard, returned to Fresno and finally ate at an El Torito next door to our motel! Well, finally I got to compare El Torito with Acapulco. Acapulco wins by a landslide!
We returned home just before a rainstorm and got Buckwheat out of jail. I now have a Purple Heart supporter sticker I'll be putting on my car window. If people ask wonderingly, I'll tell them: I'm a veteran of the emotional wars.

2004-12-02T09:42:00.000-08:00
BYE FOR NOW...
Don and I are gone for four days, so this site is officially "closed" for the trip. We'll return with pix, though -- of Fresno! Beautiful resort town (Not!) FRESNO! Don is finance officer for his Purple Heart chapter and together we're going to learn the finer points of helping wounded vets get all the benefits the country they're willing to shed blood for can offer them.
Will there be fun? The sequoias are close by and I hope to get a chance to see them--in three dimensions. I plan to hug a tree. See ya!

2004-11-25T14:06:00.000-08:00
YE MERRY OL' THANKSGIVING
It's true time foreshortens as you get older. I swear last year's holidays feel so close in time! Here we are, 2004, adieu (hey, I am projecting forward quickly): And so much to be thankful for. Yesterday, feeling myself teetering on the holiday cheer precipice, I splurged and bought two music CDs--Coldplay's "A Rush of Blood to the Head," and U-2's "How To Dismantle an Atomic Bomb." Right now I am listening to the Coldplay compilation for the first time. Solid! Groovy! Rad! Tubular! Am ashamed that I don't know this generation's appropriate complimentary adjective. Awesome--that'll do. As for U-2, there's "Vertigo" and one or two other cuts that I really like, but the rest of the CD is, shall we say, wee too much Bono?
I have made a new acquaintance with a second cousin who took it upon herself to reach out to us while here with her husband visiting his Mom. Heather is a weaver and lives in Colorado. She and spouse Craig are both retired from NASA--part of the first down-sizing of the '80s. Her Mom Gerri and my Mom were cousins, but did I remember that? Noooooo....Eh, disconnect, big-time! She told us all about our relatives in Denmark whom they have visited several times. I feel my cells stretching as I learn more about distant family.
Thank You, Multiverse, Cosmic flux, God!

2004-11-17T10:56:00.000-08:00
SEPARATED AT BIRTH?

2004-11-13T21:30:00.000-08:00
THE KIDS ARE ALRIGHT
Yesterday Don and I went to see "After the Sunset" with Pierce Brosnan and Salma Hayek. (And Woody Harrelson, whom I've never really cared for.) Brosnan and Hayek play jewel thieves in early retirement but (surprise!) presented with a huge temptation when the breathtaking "Napoleon Diamond"--incredibly secured--arrives at the shore of their tropical island paradise. There's of course more to it than that and it was a fairly entertaining movie. And if I come back next life looking like Salma, I certainly won't mind reincarnating on this misery laden planet one more time.
And today I drove to the Inland Empire and saw my lovely daughter-in-law and my two exquisitely gorgeous grandsons! (See below.) Mom and me and the two kids drove to Rancho Cucamonga to yet another mall, this one called "Victoria Gardens"--open air, new, great stores, but since Julie forgot to bring the stroller, we didn't get out there--just drove through-- but instead went to an Italian restaurant. Gus threw pizza all over the floor and Roy ate macaroni and cheese and I had something called a Tuscan lunch (delicious!) with a glass of Chianti. ( <--is that spelled correctly?) Anyway, we had such fun and my grandbabes are so fine. Eric, the dear boy, had to prepare for a court case. It was great to see him. My beautiful, hard-working, and --hey, I'll just say it--brilliant son! Anyway....the kids are . . .

2004-11-10T15:18:00.000-08:00
BANANA CREAM PIE!
I bought a bag of Splenda granular and now my diabetic spouse can enjoy just about anything that would normally require regular sugar. That includes banana cream pie, and I've just had a special request by him to make one for dessert tonight. Hey, that's fine, cuz it's indistinguishable from the real thing, with real sugar! And fairly simple to make. After all -- he's making the pot roast. We each have our specialties. Other than almost finishing up the next issue and wondering if anything special will be happening this month, nothing else is going on. So this post is all I can manage. Oh, wait -- one thing. I'm having an ongoing discussion with a friend of ours in Las Vegas about the political thing. He's an apparent leftie with bad feelings about the war in Iraq. Our e-mail conversations are making me think. Can't ask for more than that.

2004-11-05T10:15:00.000-08:00
OVER, THANK GOD--AND GOD BLESS AMERICA

I happily copied this photo from another blog site, and really like it. Not because I necessarily feel affection toward the Republican party, but because I like elephants. I think they are one of the most mystically beautiful and gently spiritual creatures on Earth. If I were enormously wealthy, I'd have a pet elephant. Buckwheat is a terrific substitute!
I've never been a big flag-waver, but 9/11 changed me. Here it was on the other side of the continent, but mass media brought that terrible event right into our homes, our normally laid back and nonchalant West Coast homes, and I, for one, will never forget it.
But enough about that. It's Friday! This is my favorite day, the end of a tremulous week and the beginning of what I hear will be a rainy weekend. I plan to bake bread, can you believe?? Though I guess I'll have to go find a baking thermometer, because I seem to have a tendency to destroy the yeast with water I think is lukewarm, but turns out to be fatally scalding to those sensitive little fungi. From fungi to elephants -- life is a fascinating myriad of earthly creatures (and, methinks, those from outside our planet. That thought has sustained a small but growing publication for nearly 20 years.)

2004-11-02T16:16:00.000-08:00
BETTER LATE THAN NEVER

I figure a few more jack-o-lanterns, even past their 2004 era, might help in quelling the evil spirits that seem to be infusing this particular Presidential election. I frankly can't stand the tension of not knowing whether we'll have Bush (I consider that the safe and honorable choice--but I'm neither red nor blue. Call me Purple--independent) or Kerry, that less than honorable vet and political opportunist. In all fairness, all politicians are opportunists; they have to be. He's just a little more transparent than most. However, this whole nasty shebang'll be over at about 3-5 p.m. today, EST. Or is it PST? Then it's off trying to get all of us Americans on the same page about terrorism and the nature of patriotism.
We went to the boat yesterday and I put up our little American flag. Boats and flags, they have a warmth that even the California in November sunshine can't compete with. Don't ask me to explain that.
Nancy started a blog (and I forgot the address). She's a greatly entertaining and creative writer and I've been urging her to get back into it. Go, Nance!

2004-10-29T15:00:00.000-07:00
Halloween A'Comin'!
The coming Spook-A-Day is my second favorite holiday. I always like to dress up even if I have no place to go. That's all I have to say at the moment. Please watch this space for a jack-o-lantern illustration!

2004-10-23T10:45:00.000-07:00
STICKY HEAD
I know, I know, I know, it's been ages since I've posted. Well, goddammit, my computer's been down! Though I liked to hear and feel the "click" of my fingernails on its keys, Don's lap-top and my nervous system weren't in any position to blog. That's just the way it is. Was. Now I have a new power pack (times two--I also took 1-1/2 meds today!) and while the 'puter was at the clinic, I rearranged my office, much to Don's dismay, cuz he can't tolerate change, poor boy, but such a wonderful healing thing for me! So, I'm a brand new girl. In sum, I have the strength and courage to write a little bit about my own peculiar psychology.
The power of love presupposes loss. And you can quote me. That is, my human heart stretches out in a handful of directions with deep love and adoration. I so love people, and a dog, but beneath my cascades of sweet emotion is that chilling fear of loss. That's a mental construct that fosters my clingy nature; both Don and Buckwheat can sure testify to that; it just so happens they both appear to thrive on on it somewhat. But there are others to whom these sticky tendrils--nurtured in my heart, flipped up to my brain, projected, unbidden, straight out to those I love and whose presence I crave--are off-putting and, metaphysically, might in fact be pushing them away--those very people I would choose to be more involved in my life. Aw, screw it.
That's enough about my bizarre sticky head. I'm working on staying present and loving for the sake of loving alone. It's well worth it. Now, if you'll excuse me, por favor, I must go clean and shop--two favorite escapes from mercurial mentalizing!!

2004-10-14T20:00:00.000-07:00
WHAT I KNOW=
Just to clarify: Buckwheat didn't make it with us last time, contrary to my last post. Maybe tomorrow, if we go to the boat as I am hoping. Meanwhile, Don had a few teeth pulled at the VA yesterday, and I had the enlightening opportunity to stand in line with a bunch of vets as I waited for Don's medication. Medication is an important thing. The two men behind me chatted about it--prescription and otherwise. The man I let stand ahead of me in the line could only grumble and complain, because he was gonna miss an appointment after already waiting three hours for his medication, and here he was, still waiting, and no clue when he'd be graced with the small brown bag festooned with computer printouts and holding his precious meds. He got 'em, with a few minutes to spare. In other news: my computer is on the fritz. Don lent me his laptop and set me up with my e-mail. So I'll be okay until my own machine returns. We think its power pack is sick. Maybe dead. It could be even more serious.
I don't want to think about it. On TV a few minutes ago I saw an interview with author and UCLA professor Carolyn See. She says people try too hard to write outside themselves, thinking their own lives are too boring and mundane to write about. She says to write about your obsessions, what you love or hate. I only know that I veer away from hatred always, and temper my love enough so that I don't appear too crazy. What do I know? . . . that life and love become more dear as each day goes by. That Buckwheat personifies unconditional love. That he and Don are probably the most honest individuals I have ever met in my life. Oh, and that buying that boat was the right decision! Tune in later for deeper thoughts.

2004-10-07T09:04:00.000-07:00
GIFTS OF NATURAL FLOW
Today the three of us (that's right--Buckwheat, too!) are heading down to the boat, which we've done a number of times since we got her. We sailed once, with Bill navigating. Heaven! We even spent the night--also, just once so far--with the boy, and he left a legacy of shed fur in the cockpit, but we forgive his organic natural flow. (That's him and my knee at the hatch.) Speaking of natural flow--two items have recently flowed oh so naturally into our lives, for which we are regularly thrilled and utterly grateful. The boat, of course, and a new bed. I have to talk about this bed! I have been wanting a King Size bed for ages. We were trying to sleep on an old and highly un-comfy queen. The three of us. Then, poof! A neighbor offers us his king size bed frame, free! Not something I'd go out and select and buy, but hey! The gifts of natural flow are surprising and whimsical and often just right. The bed is dark cherry, carved with leaves, grooves and curves and things, and is a four-poster! But these aren't just any posts.... they're 5-feet tall, from mattress top to tip! The headboard tips and dips in a Goth fleur de lis style. In fact, the bed is so Goth I'm thinking one of Don's characters from Past Sins must have shimmied down this rococo resting place from the Astral Realm, just for us. Former owner: a female fire-eater! What could be more perfect?
And do we sleep well? Fantastically, dreamily, deeply--except when I drive Don to the couch with my snoring. I must do something about that.

2004-09-30T11:31:00.000-07:00
A ROUGH COUPLA DAYS
When a major figure in the UFO field dies, the rest of the community undergoes a major gut-whacking tremor. And in the case of Dr. John Mack, the sudden death of this distinguished scholar and one of ufodom's few (perhaps only?) reputable academics to openly tackle alien abduction makes the loss all the more shocking and painful. And again, it highlights the transitoriness of life--something Don and I have been discussing every morning this week. Ah, well--life. . . life . . . life . . . death. Then life . . . life . . . life . . . (I just re-read Siddhartha and my fixation on the inevitabilities and the ineffabilities and incongruities and infinities and imponderables--always present--just escalated into sleep-disrupting intensity. (Note to self: Must take an extra melatonin tonight and throw in a Unisom.)

Then, night before last, Buckwheat and I are laying on the bed, me reading a Dean Koontz novel and my big tan cutie snoozing. But not for long. All of the usual sudden, Buckwheat starts wriggling and squirming. He buries his face in my comforter-covered thigh, shaking and snorting. He begins scratching like a herd of fleas have just declared Feast Day on his bod. I'm concerned. Ten minutes later, I'm a tad panicky--little bumps are popping up all over his face and extremities, making his fur look like a distant shot of the Afghan desert. His Shar Pei genes became pronounced. Between fits of squirming and scratching, dear Bucky looks at me forlornly: "Mom, do something." My dog has hives!
Well, it's 11 p.m. by now, but Don and I get dressed and rush our poor boy to the all-night pet clinic. Huge hypos of steroid and Benadryl later, Buckwheat's mood has smoothed out. We're still shaken, but get to bed before the sun rises. The next day he sleeps. Today he's normal.

Me, I'm heading that direction. The boat, tomorrow, shall help.

2004-09-19T11:47:00.000-07:00
DID IT WITHOUT DON!

Buying a boat is one thing. Setting up a new scanner and loading software and successfully scanning your first photo is something else! My first scanning coup was an illustration for the next issue which I emailed Nancy last night as the show ended. I was nearly as tickled as when we first signed the papers for Past Sins! (The boat-- and the book, as a matter of fact, though the latter certainly didn't take my signature.) As a test for this blog entry I copied a photo from 1949 or '50. That's me with Daddy somewhere in the California mountains during winter.
Little did I know that day what lay ahead. (Though my fingers were in my mouth and so that particular lifelong habit was set.)

2004-09-16T11:59:00.000-07:00
We Deserve It. Really.
I hope we're not being bad kids. But we've never had a honeymoon. We've never had a real vacation. As Don is tired of hearing from me, WE NEVER GO ANYWHERE!! But that's about to change! Deep breath: Here goes . . . {{{{Don and I bought a boat!}}}}--She's a charity boat and was moola less than she's really worth--so call it an investment! And this pretty li'l investment we can go to Catalina on!! Also use the baby as a second office, since it's right near the home of our esteemed colleagues and friends Bill and Nancy! Don and I are about to burst with joy and excitement, I tell ya. Buckwheat has taken to it like the ol' sea dog we know he can be. Below is a pic here so all of you can get uber-green with jealousy. No one's gotten green with seasickness as yet--well, we haven't taken her out yet, as the engine had "bad gas" and had to be taken to a clinic--but I did have a bout of food poisoning. That's another story. Puke city! This was in conjunction with some data inputting, so maybe my lazy self was just rebelling and decided to purge. You see, I have just realized that I'm moving into life these days from a really organic level. More about that later.
Meanwhile: Doesn't this just twinkle your eyes and make you long for the sea?
SEE:

2004-09-03T17:57:00.000-07:00
AAAAAHHHHHH!
It's over. Done. Finis. History! That incomprehensibly huge mailing, incorporating flyers and papers and stickers and zip-code sorting to the point of insanity, is now a memory, and I am decompressing with a small glass of wine and an evening ahead of me with absolutely no plans. Yeah, it's Friday, it's Labor Day weekend, and perhaps Don and I should have a trip planned--we do, on Sunday, whoopee!--but at the moment I want to catch my breath. Tomorrow I visit the sometimes suffocating Inland Empire to attend my newest grandson's 1st birthday. Cute little Gus, I love you, and your brother, Roy.
And your Dad, energetic reservist who's just been activated by the U.S. Army for a year, and thank the wonderful omnipresent God for his assignment NOT being in Iraq! In fact, Eric will be posted at Ft. Irwin, the Army's main combat training center. As JAG, I hope he'll be far, far away from the guns and bombs. I'll find out more tomorrow.

2004-08-24T17:17:00.000-07:00
YE OLD BUTT WORK

Yup, I've dropped off the blogger radar--the everything radar, when you get right down to it. I've been sitting on my butt for the last three days completing a "desk job" of nightmarish proportions! But that's cool; I've also had an extended opportunity to get an overdose of daytime TV. The job perk: it's an assembly-line mailing, leaving room for putting my eyes and mind elsewhere now and again. I am so surprised--daytime TV doesn't totally suck! On the History Channel, Don and I found out more about the Civil War era than we can possibly need for daily 21st Century life, up to and including that Sam Colt and Philo Remington, main marketers of the guns used in the war, were contemporaries. Remington was less concerned about the almighty dollar and tried to outfox (outgun?) Colt by offering his shooter at a more convenient price. This is important news. But Oprah provided the really good stuff, since her show today was about transgender children. Final conclusion--Mom, Dad, just let 'em be what they know they are, thus avoiding childhood depression and possible suicide. At the end of the show, one conflicted daddy unable to accept his young son's desire to be a girl told the world he was now ready to go out and buy his son/daughter the dolls he so craved. Hey, live and let live, I always say. And inculcating childcare skills early is always a plus.

2004-08-17T18:58:00.000-07:00
REDONDO AGAIN
Today Joni and I did our usual miles-long trek from her apartment in Redondo to the boardwalk in Hermosa. We chilled at Hennessey's and ate their Tuesday two-for-one burger special (we went veggie--with bbq sauce). On the way there I chatted with two 16-year-old surfer girls and regaled them about how, when I was their age, I so wanted to surf, as "all my boyfriends did" (slight exaggeration), but that I was chicken. And that surfing is the most exciting and beautiful sport ever. 'Twas very cool to see these tanned and pretty little ones lugging boards and talking about the lifestyle . . .
In her inimitable, nothing-is-impossible, always sincere manner, Joni asked me when I am going to learn to surf! I laughed and tried to explain: "I bodysurf. That's as far as I can go." I stopped just short of saying I'm too old. "I'll learn it when I go to Hawaii."
As if!!
For her part, Joni is dealing with some monstrous apartment owners who have doubled her rent. With all planets in Aquarius and perhaps the most metaphysically astute consciousness in the West, she will soon flash in a new home. Go, Joni!!

2004-08-16T13:10:00.000-07:00
NOT A LAUGHING MATTER?
Perhaps since UFOs--as we cover them in the magazine--aren't fictional or comical, the smallish comic convention we attended yesterday for "Dark Matters" resulted in almost zilch magazine buys. One sub, maybe two magazines--after 8 hours! Cynthia, a great fan of the show and an industrious promoter, arranged for our table at the Con and Dwight and Don greeted friends, Dwight signing photos of himself as Murdock of "The A-Team" and Reg Barclay of "Star Trek," perhaps his best-known roles. I thought the event, held at the majestic Shrine Auditorium, was lots of kiddy fun--the comic books and assorted toys and figurines available were simply awesome. My inner kid frolicked. I found a large creepy insect transformer for my grandson and a small "money toad" for myself. Both cute; the bug adorned with flashy colors. I'll take a photo. 'Til then, here's a shot of Dwight and Don, buds forever!

2004-08-11T08:59:00.000-07:00
HELPLESSLY HOPING
Blogger support usually has all the answers. Per their instructions I had Don get rid of my "cookies," but the repetitive blog entries about Buckwheat's upset tummy ("ABOUT THE BOY") will not be deleted!!. I attempted to delete the entry something like 20 times and they're still all there. I give up. On to something new . . .
I will write more extensively about this at the UFO Magazine blog: The Dan Burisch supporters have been stung by our latest issue; main "handler" Marcie McDowell wrote a huge--but not evidence laden--note accusing the magazine of venal moneymaking schemes, slander and general lies about the vaunted member of "Majestic" and the brilliant "doctor" of . . . is it biology? Psychology? Scamology? Dan Crain aka Dan Burisch. Claims to know a real ET! Heh-heh. I always consider these violent outbursts from the exposed a badge of honor!

2004-08-07T20:31:00.000-07:00
DUE TO TECHNICAL DIFFICULTIES...
...The current blog glitch has not been corrected. After a few more blog episodes here it won't matter much, but the anal part of me absolutely despises waste--waste in any form. Even cyber-waste!
Be that as it may, I had some great escapes today--a pale microbrew (at 11 a.m.!) and a game of Scrabble, then a movie. Cath's birthday choice. Nope, 'twasn't "The Village." Instead, "Collateral," and the flick was really entertaining, albeit with more than a couple of moments where you had to suspend your disbelief like a lazy spider on a silken thread.

2004-08-06T09:20:00.000-07:00
RECTIFY MY BLOG

I notified Blogger about my disastrous repeat entry. Soon this thing should be back to normal. Maybe. And incidentally--Mr. B. hasn't barfed in over 24 hours--but I curtailed his morning walk somewhat. Didn't want him to romp as much as he was inclined to do, what with smelling dog-delicious odors in the brush and chasing imaginary creatures. On tap for manana: Cath's birthday Margarita at Casa Whatever in La Crescenta and a possible movie. Hoping to see "The Village," M. Night Shyamalan's latest.

2004-08-05T13:26:00.000-07:00
HOLY SHIT
Pardon my French. But my blog about Buckwheat's tummy troubles has duplicated itself and refuses to be erased! On one of these insanely cloned and re-cloned copies was the photo you see here. I suppose I need to get a life . . .

2004-08-05T12:56:00.030-07:00
ABOUT THE BOY
Buckwheat has upchucked on the living room rug the last couple of days, and of course I'm worried. He looks fine otherwise, but I'm concerned he's not getting enough nourishment. We've been on our regular walks, too, and at first I thought he might simply have over-exerted himself; yesterday we took a long hike in the morning, and although it wasn't that hot, he really jumped and ran around a lot, tumbling in the scrub brush--so excited to be out and about in the hills we both love. Today, however, we only went once around the park, a very easy, short trip. I left for the post office and when I came back Don showed me the new barf spot . . . my poor baby's tummy isn't working right.
In other news: Scallops for dinner tonight.
(I just so love the wild, head-spinning, delirirous, fireworks-a-minute excitement of my life in this not-quite-Topanga canyon!!)

2004-08-05T12:56:00.013-07:00
ABOUT THE BOY
Buckwheat has upchucked on the living room rug the last couple of days, and of course I'm worried. He looks fine otherwise, but I'm concerned he's not getting enough nourishment. We've been on our regular walks, too, and at first I thought he might simply have over-exerted himself; yesterday we took a long hike in the morning, and although it wasn't that hot, he really jumped and ran around a lot, tumbling in the scrub brush--so excited to be out and about in the hills we both love. Today, however, we only went once around the park, a very easy, short trip. I left for the post office and when I came back Don showed me the new barf spot . . . my poor baby's tummy isn't working right.
In other news: Scallops for dinner tonight.
(I just so love the wild, head-spinning, delirirous, fireworks-a-minute excitement of my life in this not-quite-Topanga canyon!!

2004-08-05T12:56:00.007-07:00
ABOUT THE BOY
Buckwheat has upchucked on the living room rug the last couple of days, and of course I'm worried. He looks fine otherwise, but I'm concerned he's not getting enough nourishment. We've been on our regular walks, too, and at first I thought he might simply have over-exerted himself; yesterday we took a long hike in the morning, and although it wasn't that hot, he really jumped and ran around a lot, tumbling in the scrub brush--so excited to be out and about in the hills we both love. Today, however, we only went once around the park, a very easy, short trip. I left for the post office and when I came back Don showed me the new barf spot . . . my poor baby's tummy isn't working right.
In other news: Scallops for dinner tonight.
(I just so love the wild, head-spinning, delirirous, fireworks-a-minute excitement of my life in this not-quite-Topanga canyon!!

2004-08-05T12:56:00.006-07:00
ABOUT THE BOY
Buckwheat has upchucked on the living room rug the last couple of days, and of course I'm worried. He looks fine otherwise, but I'm concerned he's not getting enough nourishment. We've been on our regular walks, too, and at first I thought he might simply have over-exerted himself; yesterday we took a long hike in the morning, and although it wasn't that hot, he really jumped and ran around a lot, tumbling in the scrub brush--so excited to be out and about in the hills we both love. Today, however, we only went once around the park, a very easy, short trip. I left for the post office and when I came back Don showed me the new barf spot . . . my poor baby's tummy isn't working right.
In other news: Scallops for dinner tonight.
(I just so love the wild, head-spinning, delirirous, fireworks-a-minute excitement of my life in this not-quite-Topanga canyon!!

2004-08-01T20:07:00.000-07:00
MATRICULATION OF THE EGO
Cath called me and she's staying in California, which I knew was the right decision. Besides her son maintaining continuity with his home and school, Cath herself has a valuable life and learning experience she needs to stay with. After completing a novel that she worked on with near religious dedication, she enrolled in an advanced creative writing course at UCLA. I did the same thing some years ago (not the novel part--enrolling in a writing class), and the way she talked about her experience makes me ashamed of my own reaction to my own adult classroom journey . . . She says the other participants--younger, all--challenge her "to (her) very soul's core." Liberal with their criticisms, tremendously bright and voluble, she says they often make her feel like she's intellectually "treading water." The others in my own class those years ago made me feel the same way; I can remember one critical moment where I felt they were laughing at my ideas. It stirred up pain from the past, so much so that it precipitated a depression--needlessly, in retrospect. But I fled from the scene. Catherine's ego is one to be proud of: She says she welcomes these uncomfortable feelings, and wants to stay with the class and look at these feelings so that she can transcend them. I've always known Catherine's sensibilities are enviable. But when she told me this, my admiration for her emotional courage soared.
It hurts--seeing my own wussy ego still stuck in the lower grades.

2004-07-29T08:00:00.000-07:00
RELAX. SHOP TO IT!

Since last post I've settled down quite a bit and much of my mellowed mood is due to two shopping ventures (oh, and knowing the new mag is on the stands). The first Macy's recon reminded me why I've created ad-hoc swimsuits from shorts and crop-tops: Because, damn it, bathing suits cost too much! Outrageous! Well, my thrift-shop top fell apart, so I was forced to find a new one. Macy's had a sale. For a thin and flimsy piece of white cloth to cover my boobs (and, frankly, I firmly and unswervingly believe Nature intended all of us to visit the beach stark naked--but that's another story . . .), I paid (((cringe))) $18! Originally $38, would you believe? When I told Don he about had a cow. Well, I made up for that yesterday. Macy's sale got even bigger. I homed in on the 50%-off and 65%-off racks. There I found two pairs of slacks and a summer top--in all, $20! Now, that's more like it.
Did I mention that Buckwheat chewed off the strap from my new bathing suit top? He, too, believes in topless beach-going, ha-ha. Boy, was I pissed. I sewed it back on. Now, to find a beach where Don and I can "vacation" . . . for two days.

2004-07-26T20:55:00.000-07:00
THE THIN LINE BETWEEN SANITY . . .
. . . and madness: I will readily admit that I feel my own mind flirting with the other side of that line, and I'd like to say not of my own volition. But the truth of the matter is that my firm belief in self-reliance precludes blaming some peculiar twist of brain matter for my mood swings. Well, I'd also like to blame the heat. It was, after all, over 100 degrees here today! Baby came over early and she, along with Buckwheat, slept most of the day. It's Don's birthday! So I was kept busy making a sugarless cake and stuff, and Dwight visited this morning and we went out to dinner tonight. Watched "Cold Mountain." That was depressing, as a matter of fact, but no excuse for my hinky emotions. I'm out of whack. I'm on the fritz. I may have to visit the ocean tomorrow. Right now I feel like . . .

2004-07-22T17:38:00.000-07:00
TRAVELERS

I get a postcard from Savannah, GA on the way to Florida (my sister and brother-in-law). Then one from Waikiki (my son and daughter-in-law). Cath still plans a road trip to northern Nevada, via Vegas; later a trip to Pennsylvania and even Mexico. Dwight frequently travels to distant foreign lands! Dear Bill and Nancy jet back to New York and New Jersey periodically.

Then there's us. Don and I drive to Denny's for breakfast, and while I'm silently pouting because I'm severely travel challenged, he fluffs his mane and pipes up, "Don't say I never take you anywhere!" He thinks that's so funny.

What's funny (not in the ha-ha sense) is that we haven't set foot on a plane since 9-11. Don is security-phobic when it comes to airports; I just see it as a necessary annoyance that can easily be transcended by the right frame of mind. The frame is thusly: Excited to be traveling! Looking forward to traveler's adventures and new scenic horizons! Aren't we glad they're frisking those Syrian musicians!

But why bother? Unless funds galore drop into our eager little laps, I'm limited to traveling from the bed to the bathroom in the middle of the night--Long distance travel? Around the park with Buckwheat!

Am I pouting again? Moi?

2004-07-20T18:24:00.000-07:00
ANOTHER DAY, ANOTHER SNAKE
But this one was a 2-1/2 foot one, a kinder, gentler, considerably smaller serpent. I saw him quickly slithering beneath the garage door when I rummaging through that deplorable, chaotic place (boxes... boxes ... boxes ... papers ... more papers ... ancient christmas ornaments ... endless books ... dozens and dozens of magazines ... cobwebs, dust, vermin, mold, bacteria, flotsam, jetsam, icksam,unidentified creeping objects ... and I am losing my mind, going screaming bonkers because of it!!), so I screamed, and Don came running (kind of a hobbling stroll, actually),and did the "manly thing" and tracked down the animal. It was a matter of moving boxes and papers, oh yeah. We let "him" be and I'm sure he went back to his home and told a scary story to his pack, (Do snakes live in a pack? Or is it a den? Perhaps a flock, since according to reports, birds actually are related to reptiles.
Medical update: Don breezed through his sigmoidthingy with flying colors, albeit nervous bowels. A "clean" report!--as clean as that part of the body can be, that is. His joke to the doc as the sigmoidoscope was adroitly inserted: "Am I supposed to smile when you do that?"
There are snaky things, and then there are snaky things!

2004-07-19T14:12:00.000-07:00
SURFSIDE SUNDAY, SIGMOID MONDAY

Heaven at the beach! Joni invited me down yesterday and we walked a good six miles (just an estimate), from Redondo to Hermosa and back. Then, arriving at the Great Little Mexican Stand (can't remember its real name), we ordered tosada and nachos with diet Cokes. Then pigged out! Truly a pleasurable day, though my legs complained all evening.
Today I've run around some more, but in a different way -- back and forth to markets buying Don just the kinds of juices and Jello he can have today. Nothing else. Later, he has to drink some truly gawd-awful fluid called Fleet, then I'm quite certain we'll be quite glad the house has two bathrooms! He's having a "Siggie" tomorrow--the shorthand he uses to refer to his sigmoidoscopy.
Wish I could report more excitement. Maybe next week. WAIT! The new magazine should be off the press tomorrow, according to the last report.

2004-07-17T10:31:00.000-07:00
I, TOMATO
The in-built human habituation that Don and I gingerly fell into this year: an inordinate attachment to organic offshoots of our life. Buckwheat, for one, but now it's the fabulous tomato crop we somehow pulled off!

Delicious! But more maters than I can handle so I'm gathering up a bunch for friends and neighbors.
In other news: Don and I went to see a really great movie yesterday, "I, Robot." Not only does it dazzle with awesome special effects, entertainingly explores the nature of consciousness, and possibly the soul, but it stars Will Smith--an actor whose presence in any frame assures that your eyes are glued and your spirit's lifted. He's so cool. Wish I could give him some of our tomatoes.
Oh, and my youngest grandson Gus took his first steps last week. Now he and his brother and folks are in Honolulu visiting Grandpa Mike.

2004-07-15T18:26:00.000-07:00
SWITCHEROO!
So I'm sitting here contemplating northern Nevada, southwestern fires and Eastern meditation practices, when the phone rings, and it's Cath. She just got a letter from her prospective employer directing her to accept the job in the Silver State, in writing, by Tuesday. Still on the fence, she wants to see the place. I've already settled into staying home. She says she'll await her car's repaired air conditioning and take off tomorrow; better she says, with no one else to "influence" her once she gets to this presumably culturally barren place of 900 inhabitants, situated at 4000-plus elevation. Good thing, 'cuz I would've cruelly kept reminding her that she'll have a hard time finding a really good triple-shot latte there.

2004-07-15T17:59:00.000-07:00
COASTIN'

Been powering up the publishing hill; crested, puffing, at the inimitable
peak yesterday, and now I'm . . . coasting downhill, though I paid bunches
of bills this a.m. Yuck. Later: So I'm fiddling around with my blog and searching
for photos, so I wittily log on to my on-line photo storage site,
and because I'm just not paying attention, I erase the cartoon I had put
there . . . not realizing that this clever move erased it from yesterday's
entry, too! I'll try to find and post it again. Meanwhile, here I am, the
day after bluelines, foggy in head and ready for bed (not really--maybe in
3 hours). Was perkily thinking I'd be taking a road trip tomorrow with Cath,
but she decided her cash flow says no, which is fine, 'cuz mine is starting
to squeal like a tire losing its rubber. But I won't let that stop me. Gotta
go! She wants to visit the northern Nevada site of her prospective new job
. . . she's apparently finking out of that verbal commitment, but still wants
to see Paiute, Nevada, 1.75 hours north of Vegas. So we're going next week.
I wouldn't be interested if we weren't going to Vegas first! Such is the
lure of neon, slot machines and all the transient glitter and cheap buffets.

2004-07-13T17:26:00.000-07:00
SORTA GROOVIN'
Painted (bathroom cupboards--a smoky gray), went to the 99-Cents store, made a fairly delicious tomato quiche and waited--bluelines impending. Bill and Nancy may go to the printer and handle 'em, sans the Vickster, depending on when Mike "our liaison" calls. It's been hot and clear--perfect beach weather, and I plan to head out as soon as I'm free to do so. Meanwhile, all the shenanigans in the political realm--the strategic Kerry & Edwards pairing; singleminded, motivated, be-missioned Bush keepin' on but getting a little scared; the vicious mud between Dems and Repubs, etc. All so useless, until we can divorce ourselves from Saudi Arabia . . . but that's another story. I found a cartoon that explains my lifelong (and increasing) apathy about American political contests:

Harvest Note: Tomato recipes wanted! Our plants runneth over.

2004-07-12T16:28:00.000-07:00
THE NEW ISSUE IS GONNA BE . . .
We went to press today with a jam-packed issue! We're back to scrutinizing some painfully visible yahoos on the UFO circuit, and this time one Dan Burisch is being fully exposed. And Dan, you're no Bill Cooper [now deceased charlatan who was as unpleasant as he was nuts, and truly did his best to defile ufology], but God knows you make a great case in point when it comes to dodos with fantastic stories that cannot be confirmed! But just for safety's sake, say hi to J-Rod [purported extraterrestrial entity who's here to help save the human genome]. The issue has a wrap-up of the Mexican sightings and some really great columns. After some deadline withdrawals, wherein I felt I should be down at the boat squeezing myself on-board to help, I settled into handling my nearby business by grocery shopping and cleaning the kitchen. Another surprise: Baby came over at 7 a.m.! She loves it here. I went to her owner, a very nice lady named Beatrice, and she told me to stop feeding her . . . we don't feed her, but I cannot help giving her a jerky strip or a Milk Bone when she visits. She has ear polyps. That needs to be handled someday, but Beatrice doesn't seem to want to shell out the $500 for it. Baby's ear polyps are not really my problem, yet I'm concerned. I love animals, crazily.

2004-07-09T17:21:00.001-07:00
SURFER DOG
Buckwheat had his first visit to the beach today, and it was a gas! But . . . he isn't fond of getting in the water. He stuck to me like glue, and when I wandered into the gorgeous sea, he felt compelled to follow. He dashed in, and just as we tried to get back to shore, a wave washed over him--head and everything--and it probably scared him. But other than demonstrating a puppy's shyness toward the ocean, he was a wonderful beach companion. We'll surely do it again--but I'll have to leave him home on days I want to bodysurf. Oh, yeah. I forgot my camera. So no illustrations. Next time!

2004-07-08T15:12:00.000-07:00
OTHER PEOPLE'S LIVES

Don't pay attention to the headline. I was trying to nap and that phrase came to me and would make a great book title, but since I'm not ready to write a book, I thought I'd use it here. The relevance? I spent most of my youth envying and thinking I should be living other people's lives. Only in my more "advanced" years have I come to terms with living my own. I feel vastly privileged to be doing so.
The magazine is just about "in the can." So intriguingly sharp--it even has an article by brash and handsome newsman George Knapp, six-time Emmy award winner and one of the few "real" journalists to openly tackle the UFO beat. I've never considered myself "real" in that sense, since I've never worked for a national publication until I founded one myself, hah-hah! Sometimes you gotta work outside the box! 18 years later . . .
Been sneaking glances at Don's copies of Writer's Digest in hopes that I might see a market or nurse an idea that will inspire me to freelance, or at least send out a query or two. Baby, acording to Don, would make a wonderful subject for a light piece in Dog & Kennel or Dog Fancy; he's absolutely right, but the right tone won't come. So he plans to write it. Speaking of the little local tramp (and I use that in the hobo sense), for the first time, Baby came to our door in the morning and has been spending the WHOLE DAY here! She's still here. I'm understandably getting nervous, as I do not want another dog. Her owners are apparently so laissez-faire that it doesn't concern them that she's gone all day. So, all of you--do you know where your pet is tonight?

2004-07-07T17:32:00.000-07:00
COUNTERPOINT
The work week started with new deadline bearing down on us. Things seem to roll so smoothely and the product is beautiful and one of a kind. What a pleasure! It's the way work is supposed to be. We had a visit from the accountant and his helper and of course that threw me into anxiety mode. There's really nothing to feel anxious about--yet. It is a time to exercise faith. In the real world, all is in order! I declare it so.

2004-07-05T15:18:00.000-07:00
AS PSYCHEDELIC AS WE COULD MANAGE!
Don and I had a quiet 4th of grilled dogs (the hot, all-beef kind) and mucho Jimi Hendrix, as he (Don, not Jimi) found our "Electric Ladyland" CD and transferred it to minidisc. It's a Sony, but not an I-POD, but surely almost as good. The nuances of "Voodoo Chile" can be heard oh-so-well on that little thing. Stuck in the '60s? You could say that. At least I vary my listening habits a lot more than Don, who can be seen listening to Jim Morrison practically every day. (Ever heard of REM, Don, or even Cold Play? How about trying to listen to some Black Crowes or perhaps some vintage ZZ-Top?) I have no room to talk. I can barely tear myself away from Beatles midis, only because they're so easy to find and listen to. Back to the holiday: I began painting our bathroom cupboards! I will plant some border posies! I lit two sparklers, in direct defiance of the NO FIREWORKS signs posted everywhere in the Canyon! And how could I forget? I went to a small church service in Las Crescenta, which presented the real Riders of the Purple Sage! Of course, in my blissful wishful thinkin' li'l head, I'm thinking New Riders of the Purple Sage . . . But, hell, whaddya want for a practically free concert? For some reason, psychedelic cowboys aren't prone to playing church services. But we had the real thing--a spillover from the Gene Autry-Roy Rogers days. Oh, well. No kidding--a top cowboy band appearing live! I think the lead singer is a friend of the minister. Think they may have a Doors service one of these Sundays? I'm sure they'll get right on it. It would have to be a tribute band anyway.

2004-07-03T21:27:00.000-07:00

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, AMERICA!

2004-07-02T13:36:00.000-07:00
AND MORE BORED THAN EVER

Don and I just got into a debate. He unctuously informed me that nobody ever uses the word "unctuous" in polite conversation. That threw me into one of my favorite mini-hobbies--looking words up in my old and frazzled dictionary. I love it! Unctuous: "Oily," like ointment. But really, in polite conversation, the meaning will generally be "offensively smoothe or suave." Unctuous was the wrong word to use in describing Don's 'tude when telling me about the word! If I find an accurate description I'll soon be posting it RIGHT HERE. Unless Something Wonderful Happens! Then I will be gloriously yanked away from my overused computer.

2004-07-02T12:35:00.000-07:00
AM I A WASTE OF TIME?

Usually Fridays are my favorite day of the week. Something about Fridays soothes and blissfully sails into a needed weekend. But today, I feel I'm wasting the fluffy Friday vibes just futzing around on the computer and gazing around my messy office without doing anything about it. In a word, vegetating. Here it is, the holiday weekend and nothing's happening. I'm at that miserably awkward age: To young to rock and too old to rock! Ah, well, life is what it is . . . perhaps I can talk Don into going out to dinner tonight. Or to a movie tomorrow. Meanwhile, my loyal colleagues are working their butts off to get the next issue of UFO Magazine done, all dolled up and off to the printer. Still have to write my editor's note.
But not before I clean my office.

2004-07-01T11:48:00.001-07:00
VARIABLE HARVEST

I've fussed, fumed and generally turned into a feverish, fretful farmer over my tomato plants, but now Don and I have something to dote on and consume as soon as possible!The green ones in the back have been that way for over three weeks and I am patiently waiting for them to turn. If they don't, I'm dragging out the corn meal and my faint southern roots, and will make fried green maters! The five plants outside are slowly eking out tomatoes, almost all of them green. Some of the biggest and most beautiful ones picked up some kind of strange disease of the skin (It might be the tomato version of sunburn--not quite sure.) Nevertheless, we are filled with hope and yearnings for the red, luscious fruit. I joined a tomato forum but I find the members there are far more experienced as tomato farmers than I, very few growing in California. But Nature, regardless of state, moves on! We're hopeful.
And I've begun another cultivation operation: Abundance! I'll write more about that later, but meanwhile--check this out!

2004-06-29T13:46:00.000-07:00
CANINE SOCIALITE

For the last week, each evening except one, Buckwheat has been visited by a cute little girl named "Baby" who wanders around the neighborhood getting petted and cadging treats . . . On our walks we used to see Baby at the Fire Station and thought she was the station's mascot. But, no--apparently she just hung out there cuz the guys were nice to her. Somehow word has gotten out about this household--dog-friendly to a fault--and now Baby comes by and scratches on our front door every evening until we let her in. Here she is waiting for her her treat, as Buckwheat looks on:She's a sweet little girl and makes herself completely, comfortably at home here. She has a real home, but when we called the number on her tag, the lady there was somewhat non-comittal about Baby's wanderings, and I got the impression it's a lifestyle everyone's happy with. Well, almost everyone. We don't like the idea of her crossing the Canyon road without accompaniment. But she seems street-wise, so we simply are enjoying her nightly visits--and Buckwheat really loves it when she comes over; although Baby is not much of a playmate, and has been heard to snap when B. gets too rowdy. Poor Buckwheat. He's neutered, but he still has those adolescent horomonal surges. After Baby left last night I caught him humping an old pillow I'd left on the office floor.

2004-06-26T11:34:00.000-07:00
FIELD EXPEDIENT DECORATING

Don and I are lucky enough to "own" a house. I say own in quotes, because the domicile actually belongs to a bank in Michigan; that is, until I win the lottery and pay this puppy off. Meanwhile, not being a renter means I can do as I wish with the place. Unfortunately, we're a little cash-strapped for anything more than my on-the-fly and on-the-cheap decorating inspirations. Current case in point: The kitchen! New stove (birthday present from "we" to me) notwithstanding, our fab kitchen suffers from dilapidated kitchen cabinetry, made of light wood veneers that haven't endured my overall sloppiness too well. The, um, cupboards below the sink kinda rotted, to the point that both cupboard doors had to be removed and tossed, leaving my undersink store of cleaning products fully exposed. Sooooooooooo.... you walk into the kitchen and there in all their glory are two doorless cupboards and bottles of bleach, polish and ammonia, Comet cleanser, old plastic spray bottles and assorted old sponges I can't bear to throw away, since I may need them to clean the baseboards, okay? (Clean the baseboards! LOL! As if!! My baseboards will be grimy until the day we sell this place.) Anyway, unless you're a professional janitor, the contents of that exposed cupboard hardly enhance the overall ambience of said kitchen. In desperation and feeling like I had just mainlined Martha Stewart DNA, I decided to . . . sew curtains! Since we cannot yet weather the cost of replacing the cabinetry, or getting new veneers, I decided some quick cover solutions were in order. I went to Wal-Mart and found some colorful fabric with apples all over it, suitably country cute (even with my currently suppressed metropolitan sensibilities). Voila! But hold on . . . I can only Martha Stewart-ize myself for a short time. I put the other half of the fabric away, somewhere, planning to complete the cupboard covers after a well-earned respite from such forced domesticity. Now I can't find the cloth! I put it somewhere and it is gone. I don't want to go back to Wal-Mart and buy more, because if I do, then I'll find the other piece and that will add up to three unused pieces of fabric in the garage begging for me to do something cozy and cute with them. So I asked myself--what would Martha do? The answer came so quickly it almost knocked me over. Why honey, Martha said to me in my head, get new cupboards! Running back and forth to Wal-Mart and sewing crooked curtains by hand?? Fuggedaboudit! Now, basking in a relieving swoosh of self-acceptance, I am leaving one half of my cupboard exposed to the world. With faith that my lost apple fabric will turn up. You don't like it? Call Martha!!

2004-06-23T17:32:00.000-07:00
HAPPY, HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BAYBEE . . .

It's actually not until Friday. Glendale, California, June 25, 6:27 a.m., 19XX, er, well, that is, um, heh-heh, only a confoundingly short time after the National Security Act was instituted: Double Cancer, Moon in Aquarius in the 8th House, and a whole s**t-load of planets in the 12th House, including Sun, Venus and Mercury--so who'll trade horoscopes, eh?--but with her genteel permission, I opened my sister's present which arrived Monday and was floored and thrilled to find an air purifier shaped like a UFO! How does she do it? My sister is like the Houdini of gift givers--always magically coming up with the most perfect and unique thing, while sitting in her slippers on the back porch looking at the cool ripples of the "Rivah" in Virginia.
The sleazeballs who've entered our personal zone haven't exactly faded into the background, but things are getting better all the time, so we're able to shove them to the back of our group mind. For now. Last night watched a CD of a movie called "The Cooler." Alec Baldwin was ace, the ending made me feel better, but that's about all I can say for it. Oh, and there was beaucoup temptation to learn to play craps! Much more social than the slots.

2004-06-21T14:08:00.000-07:00
HOT TOMATOES!

Well, they're still green, but since we had a couple of years where our tomato plants got decimated by thieving squirrels, just seeing the ripening fruit forming in such lovely bunches, and safely removed from the ground, warms my heart. I have to keep staring at these plants, and Don and Buckwheat and pictures of my grandsons and my smoothe stones to remind myself where the real riches in life are. Not to be too overly detailed, but somehow our sweet and honest family has managed to intersect with some real vile pond scum--thieving people, not squirrels. We're talking completely sentient and educated mammals with large, multi-furrowed brains. But missing consciences. I plan to pray about all this. What else can you do? We're in quite a fascinating and puzzling world.