Words Escape Me

Thanks to my friend Andy, I'm venturing into a whole new frontier. Were this the radio, it'd be a radio show. Instead it is a computer, so it is a podcast. And that, friends, is as technical as it's gonna get around here.

Episode 1 is up. Exciting, no? Go listen why dontcha? You'll find that I'm the mumbliest person on the show. And possibly in the world. Discuss. Also, Silvio? Silvio is hilarious.

Oh. In case you're wondering what all the talk about Wiretap and Jonathan Goldstein is about, all will be revealed here.

What are you doing hanging around here? Go listen.

Class discussion

I sent an email to a colleague inquiring whether a board member could visit his class.
He replied, "Yes, though we will be reviewing a violently (and sometimes sexually) graphic story that the class is reading. If you don't think that's inappropriate for the visitor to see, by all means."

So, it's not inappropriate for the students, then? Just checking.

New Year's Eve Eve

Things have been pretty lackadaisical (a word it turns out I'm not very confident about spelling) on the blogging front and I thought in this moment between one thing and another, I might try to say something. If 2011 has taught us nothing else, it's that just when one thinks the Blog Bully is lying dormant, or, at any rate, otherwise engaged, he may suddenly spring from the metaphorical bushes and shake his head disapprovingly. Besides, yesterday I had lunch and Project Planning with the, frankly, almost ridiculously adorable Katy Stephan (was she wearing a woolen cap, a bright blue sweater and a bright green coat-- looking every bit the heroine of some movie I'd happily see on a chilly afternoon at the Clay? She was.) who makes a song a week. Then I see that the highly impressive Lisa Congdon plans to embark on some kind of daily artistic endeavor for a year. Well. It's not like I don't have time on my hands; I've been watching Jeeves and Wooster for hours. Sometimes (read: again and again and again) it takes the example of my very prolific friends to nudge me in the right direction.

Katy, having seen the oft-mentioned list, has offered to take #13 in hand and make me a dress. Apparently, she also sews. I know. It might be better not to dwell too much on it. I don't think does it to make us feel inadequate; some people just like making things and others like, say, eating things prepared by others and sitting on the sofa. I'm terribly excited about this Dress of the Future. I think the very idea of it augurs well for 2012.

Christmas afforded me the opportunity to give my horse-loving nieces cookie cutters that will enable them to make a small celebratory herd of their own. I can only hope that they find it a less overwhelming task than I did. Royal icing? Is very sticky. Blue food-dye gel? Is very, very blue. It's possible there may still be some on the cutting board. I'm not saying. They did seem pleased, which was gratifying, although my younger niece was visibly disgusted to have been given an apron. She is ever vigilant lest we try to foist any gender normative accoutrements upon her. I would argue, however, that cookies, horse enthusiasm, and sticky hands are gender neutral. As is--ahem--the gracious acceptance of gifts.

In other Christmas news, apparently the Bible has been re-translated. Beware, lapsed Catholics. In case you missed Christmas and were planning to drop by for Easter, if the priest says, "Peace be with you," you can no longer rest in the calm assurance that you know the proper reply. "And also with you" has gone the way of hoop skirts, apparently. The (seemingly much more peculiarly translated) response, "and with your spirit" has taken its place. This sort of thing is going on throughout all sorts of prayers I thought I knew. It made for a lively mass. Well, that and the bongos. Yes. Bongos. The thing traditional carols have been just crying out for.

As 2012 rises into view, I wish you well and thank you for keeping track of me over here. I am always astonished (to say nothing of touched) when anyone tells me they read it. Though it may be difficult to detect though the veritable wall of complaining, I do live in a near constant state of gratitude. Were anyone to scratch the complainy surface, in fact, they would probably be sickened by the gooey sentimental mess of love and admiration they'd find. There are so many extraordinary people in my corner, I imagine it's pretty stuffy and uncomfortable. They don't seem to mind. I'm lucky that way.

May your 2012 be sparkly and full of people who love you and small personal hoorays.

Christmas spirit

I bought a goofy little wooden ornament from some bygone era for my bother. It's a very cheerful cat on skis. Here he is:

Unfortunately, he came to me with one broken ski (which seems to bother him not at all, so I see no reason for it to bother me) and missing his little loop from which you can hang an ornament hook. That seemed a graver problem since he is, after all, meant to go on the tree and, besides, he can't stand. Yesterday, I wrapped him in tissue and took him to Tuggy's Hardware a few blocks away. When the man helping me discovered he was out of the very small size of eye hook required for the job, he opened up a prepackaged picture-hanging kit that was hanging there for sale, removed a little eye hook and screwed it carefully into the hole already on the cat's head. Then he just handed it to me, refusing my offer of payment and said, "That's my gift to you. Merry Christmas."

Sheesh. Hooray for neighborhoods. And kindness. And generosity. And fixing what's broken.

In case you need one, here's my gift to you:

#63: Check.

I checked something off my oft-mentioned Life List.
#63: Buy a real painting.

I really wanted to own a painting--you know--with actual paint. Not a print. But I hardly knew where to begin. You know what there are a lot of? Paintings. Many I don't like, and more I can't afford, which narrows the field a little, but not really enough to give me a starting point. I thought that it would be really great if I could buy a painting from a friend. In that way, I would be supporting the work of someone I care about while also owning art that was that much more meaningful to me. Great idea. However, I didn't actually know any painters.

At least, not when I wrote the list. Enter: Lisa Congdon.

It's very fortunate when the painter you befriend at the moment you're in the market for a painting happens to make art you think is beautiful. She might just as easily painted a bunch of stuff with bleeding eyeballs. (I have a particular horror of bleeding eyeball paintings of which there are more than you might think. Often hung in cafes, which seems to show a real lack of foresight.)

Instead, I am really delighted to have this beautiful little forest to call my own.

Maybe she's made something just for you and you didn't even know it. You should probably check.

The results are in

NPR posted their top 100 songs of the year.

I have heard 8 of them. Eight. I counted. And one of those is by Paul Simon. Of the other 92, I had heard of maybe six of the artists.

So that's official then. I will never be cool.

It's this or silence

In which I write something for fear of slipping back into the black hole of writing nothing. The lack of what I believe is nowadays called "content" should not thwart us, right? Right.

Last night, the blog bully and I went to see a play at Shotgun, where the box office manager is perhaps the nicest man in the world, in addition to being a very snappy dresser. I enjoyed the play, and its sparkly lead actress (seriously, she just glitters up there despite being dressed in Puritan garb), however, I would have enjoyed it, say, 32% more if the songs had been much, much shorter. The songs were a little bit like "you know the story that you are watching? Well, I'm going to tell you, through the magic of song, all the things that are happening, even though you're right here. Understandably, this will take me quite a long time." Perhaps this was a popular device in Ye Olden Times? Perhaps people could not pay attention to things that were merely spoken? I don't know. On the bright side, though: sparkling girl. I cannot overstate this. Also, the blog bully brought snacks in very tiny containers, in the manner popular among parents of preschool-aged children. However, later, as he is ever-vigilant lest people develop any treacly sort of feelings about him, he mocked me for not being able walk up a steep hill at his insane rate of speed. I have a sub optimal level of fitness, yes, but I'm the one with the blog. So there.

Speaking of sub optimal fitness, the needlessly renovated gym reopens today (it really seemed quite nice before; I can only hope they have transformed it into some kind of unimaginable nirvana such that I will long to go there as often as possible) and I intend to go. This very afternoon. I have been in a pool once in the last month and a half, but that was in Palm Springs where I was floating languidly around in my un-serious bathing suit and, thus, doesn't count. Indeed, I dread shimmying into my serious, unembellished bathing suit, which more than any other article of clothing, should quite bluntly reveal what my bread-eating days of leisure hath wrought. [I suspect "hath" and "days" fail to agree grammatically, but I've no idea what the plural of "hath" might be.] Anyway, the point is, I will look silly and then I might drown. So, I look forward to that. I'll let you know how it goes.

Update: The figure I cut in my serious bathing suit was downright demoralizing, but I did not drown. This might have occurred to you since you're so smart, but it didn't occur to me: when the gym is under renovation for three weeks, they turn the heat off. That pool was cold. I hope no octogenarians (of whom there are usually many in the pool) were speeded towards their graves. In other news, there are no longer any curtains in the showers--a strange "improvement"--so my unexpected fascination with the Boobs of Others (seriously. I really had no idea they were so variable) and the cautionary tales writ large on the bodies of the elderly will presumably run rampant.

Is this even legal?

The incense-scented purveyor of saris and scarves and beads and things on the corner by my work is, according to a large banner, having a "Grand Opening!" How is this possible? By my count this is fourth time the store has reopened under different names while continuing to sell exactly the same merchandise. Sometimes they actually go out of business and have a liquidation sale before completely emptying the shop before they bring it all back--display cases, lighting, cash register, ten million incense holders, boxes and boxes of merchandise--a month or two later. It seems like a great deal of work for nothing. Perhaps they have come to share that view because, this time, I'm pretty sure they never even closed. They painted over the awning and changed the shop name to "Things Lucky," (which, frankly, is not too great as shop names go). This new method seems less exhausting, certainly, but also kind of like they are--um--big cheaters?

Are you a tax lawyer? Or maybe a mafia boss? Terrific. Please explain this to me. It's been baffling me for years.

Sing along...it's a round

This has been languishing pitifully in the drafts folder for a full three weeks. It is displeased with me. But today, but hook or by crook, I'm clicking "publish."

Camp.

We were addressed by several people with good things to say.

We learned that Oprah built her empire based on intention. Not the kind that the road to hell is paved with, but the kind, apparently, that changes the lives of scores of people. I have never actually seen the Oprah Winfrey show, incidentally, but don't tell anyone. What I mostly appreciated is that Brian Piotrowicz, one of the show's producers who came to talk to us, cries every bit as easily as I do. Meet a president? Cry. Meet Carol Burnett? Cry. Hear a terrible story of personal loss? Cry. Disagree with a colleague? Cry. Yep. Me too.

We learned that we are basically zombie slaves to dopamine. Okay, it was more complicated that that, but Buster is smarter than I am. Plus, his name is Buster, which I enjoy.

We learned that one way to address the profound problem of water-borne illness in Ethiopia is to get a bunch of fancy friends together and climb Mount Kilamanjaro. Look, I'm not saying it's my way, or even your way, but it was his way. And frankly, he was so handsome and charming (did he call his mother on speaker phone so we could all sing Happy Birthday to her? He did. Did she ask if he was taking his vitamins and had he met a nice girl? Uh...she did.) that you might have been briefly convinced that you could totally climb Mt. Kilamanjaro if it meant you could hang out with him.

But none of that relates to the Girl Scout song.

Make new friends but keep the old...One of the reasons that this has been loitering around the drafts folder is that I felt unequal to the task of explaining how marvelous these two women are. The good news is that during my procrastination, video of their presentations has been published. Now you can just see for yourself how rad they are.

Old, forever keepable friend: Evany Thomas. I have known Evany for about thirty years. (I know!) I don't think there is a bad photo of her in existence, though that is merely an aside. I have often told Evany that she is my hero, but she never believes me. Evany does all kind of amazing things, but she has the grace to be at least a little apprehensive about them first? I appreciate that.

Camp Mighty - Evany Thomas from Rcom Creative on Vimeo.

New, shiny bright friend: Lisa Congdon. If someone asked, "what did you get out of camp?" I'd say, Lisa Congdon. Lisa is inspiring and quite ridiculously talented and disciplined and generous and snarky. She is way cooler thsn I am. Now, she is also my friend. How great is that? For Lisa, I will try to put together some kind of vegan menu so I can invite her to dinner and you know I've never made THAT commitment before.

Camp Mighty - Lisa Congdon from Rcom Creative on Vimeo.

After the Mighty Addresses (which is a title I just made up), we broke into teams and talked about our life lists and identified five things we'd like to get done within the year. And yes, I did cry. It was exciting to hear everyone's plans and struggles and intentions, but what I found myself reflecting on most--even as I blubbered in front of a bunch of almost-strangers--was how damn fortunate I am and, secretly, even in the fearful, underemployed version of myself, how I'm pretty mighty already. Indeed, even while I was down there I got an email about performing in a story slam and another about collaborating on a podcast. I have this extraordinary community of creative people around me all the time of which Evany and Lisa are just a small sample. One of the things Evany suggested would help to make you the best version of yourself was to "have fantiasigreat friends." Check.

Here are a few of them: Katy writes a song every week. Indeed, she'll even write one just for you. Daniel and Darren and Rob have filled my life with music in a way I never expected. So has Hannah. And Lori. Sara has written/drawn several books. This one is the latest. Christopher still makes me laugh and I've known him for more than 20 years. Stephanie takes people all over the world. Abby flies through the air with the greatest of ease. Samantha writes and writes and opened the door to storytelling for me, which, to our mutual surprise, turns out to be my niche in the world. Andy has done all sorts of things including writing this book. He is developing the aforementioned podcast and wants me on it!

And those are just the people most easily linkable. There's a whole cadre of less cyber-present people who are brightening the world while being solidly in my corner. Finding your people is half the battle. This means, I suppose, that I'm halfway to being really quite astonishing.

It's finished! Can I get an amen? You have no idea what a relief it is to hit....publish.

Mi dispiache

I have read in blogs about blogging (exhaustingly, such things exist) that it is very gauche to A) lapse in posting and B) then blather on in an apologetic way about it. About this I say: too bad. I fully expect to continue to do both as long as this little platform limps along. (A fairly incongruous image, for which I suppose I must also apologize.)

So here's what happened.
1. I never finished posting about camp (I will, I will) and now--lo it does hang over my head in the manner of an unfinished term paper. Interestingly, being haunted by unfinished tasks is pretty much the antithesis of Camp Mighty's whole...um...gestalt. Oops.

2. I got sick. Blah. And ate nothing for Thanksgiving dinner but a great many goat cheese crostini, which I was meant to have taken to the family home for hors d'oeuvres. Presumably, they managed within the confines of the actual oeuvres. We didn't really discuss it.

3. Immediate following tiresome illness, I got awfully busy at work and for days came home latish devoid of creative impulses.

4. My gym closed for renovations. I continue not to care at all nor, indeed, to notice very much. This insouciant attitude, combined with goat cheese crostini and similar, will come back to haunt me I suspect.

5. I finished Italian Two. Or, Ho finito Italiano Due. Do I parlo italiano now? Non proprio, ma posso dire uno o due cose. E molto divertente. (My teacher told us that every exercise we were about to embark upon would be "molto divertente." I love her.) Sadly, I will not be taking Italiano Tre any time soon. Forse in primavera. I will miss i altri studenti and my delightful professoressa.

6. I told a story out in the world. It made for an odd evening. I'll tell you about it sometime.

7. I got a Christmas tree. It is smaller than the first (small) one I saw and liked, but it was also not FIFTY DOLLARS. Wha? Additionally, it is from the Christmas Tree Lot of Moral Superiority that funds a nonprofit, rather than the other The Cheapest Thing Here is FIFTY DOLLARS and Funds Two Dudes Who Sell Costly Trees lot. My house is now quite snug and I think it is not inaccurate to say "it's beginning to look a lot like Christmas."

8. I rendered the house jolly in the aforementioned manner while suffering from the worst headache of my life. I took several breaks in order to weep.

9. I am now better and, thus, I am here. Hi.

During the previous weeks of various indispositions, the blog bully similarly has been otherwise occupied and--foolishly--I thought I could sneak all the sloth past him, but he is nothing if not alert. Today I got busted. And I was so close, too. Sigh.

I hope that all four of you faithful readers are in good health, good spirits, and have ten warm toes.

Christmas shopping

I thought I might try to find a baseball-charm necklace for my eight-year-old niece (who is a slugger). A Google search results in this among other things: "Very cool necklace that shows off your passion for baseball and faith in Christ at the same time."

There may never have been a more hardworking piece of jewelry.

Thankful

As it turns out, rather than trotting my fresh hair cut out to have turkey with my parents and cousins, I will be lying on the sofa in dismayingly hair-flatting fashion, wearing sweatpants, and drinking fluids. Later, I may dine exclusively on goat cheese costini, which, though not popular among the Pilgrims, I have in ridiculous abundance, as I was relied upon to bring hors d'oeuvres this evening.

Why I should be so ridiculously susceptible to illness, I could not say: I enjoy sleeping; I take many vitamins; and did I not, just this very week, eat Brussels sprouts? Yet, nevertheless, I am sick nearly every holiday. Last New Year's Eve, I was lying on this very same couch with a fever. Sigh. Here's hoping the Thanksgiving indisposition means I will be robust for Christmas.

Meanwhile, I am still very grateful. I lead a blessed life, a thing I try to keep in some small corner of my consciousness even on my complainiest days. When you try to call them all to mind at your table this evening, may you too discover that you have too many blessings to count.

Seven things

Let it be known that just because I have been a blog slacker does not mean that I have failed to be mighty. Last week featured (in chronological order): total exhaustion, Italian class, dinner with a stranger (including a delicious sidecar), The Civil Wars at the Fillmore with a woman I'd only met once before (Dear Fillmore, I don't think it would be so very terrible if you let us sit down. Still, thanks for the poster. Dear Civil Wars, Damn. Is it reasonable to be so talented and so good looking at the same time?), catching a cold and failing to go to Caught in Motion's CD release concert, and my much beloved Nice Guy Trio at Viracocha. Ta da!

Nevertheless, I know I owe you Lessons from Camp. I've not forgotten. Domani e un altro giorno.

For now though, lessons from today.
1) The key to not watching TV all night is to not turn it on. I know this sounds elementary, but it I am having a small lightbulb moment. Once I turn on the streaming what have you, I am unlikely to turn it off, but having not turned it on upon entering the house, I have instead done some dishes, made a proper meal featuring Brussels sprouts and sweet potatoes (a previously unimaginable extravaganza of healthfulness for which I am feeling rather pleased with myself), and I'm here--not leaving you all lonely and abandoned in the dreaded blogosphere.

2) Knowing the temperature that baked chicken is done has changed my life. Gone are the days of guesswork and exploratory slicing. For your records, the magic number is 165 degrees Farenheit. The thermometer makes dainty holes compared to the knife.

3) Brussels sprouts and sweet potatoes needn't be disgusting. I know. It surprised me too.

4) While it is profoundly dispiriting to be able to hear one's new neighbors talking through the walls (perhaps the former neighbors never spoke to each other? Perhaps they had softer voices?) I find it less upsetting because they are speaking French. I am officially ridiculous. Ou, si vous voulez, je suis officialement ridicule.

4b) While it is profoundly dispiriting to be informed that one of one's new neighbors is pregnant, I find it less upsetting because she is French. Je continue d'etre officialement ridicule.

5) Yesterday, I said, "I can say almost nothing; I'm in Italian Two" in Italian to an Italian. He seemed favorably impressed. Upon reflection, that doesn't really count as a lesson so much as showing off. Sorry about that.

6) If you sleep through your alarm, you will be late to work, but rested.

7) My back hurts rather a lot. Also not a lesson, just something that is becoming increasingly clear as I sit here. Or perhaps it is a lesson after all. Now hear this: do not be twisty in your sleep. You will regret it, even if you do have the benefit of accidentally sleeping an extra hour.

Forward looking

I just happened upon this interview with REM on NPR. It's worth looking at just to see the picture of them. Were any of us ever so very, very young?

In discussing the strangeness of a new life as seen from the audience rather than the stage, Mike Mills says to Michael Stipe that that is not likely to be their future. That surely they will continue to make music, just not together. "It won't be what we had," he says, "but it will be what we have."

Ah. I struggle with that particular life lesson (as we shall discover in further dispatches from camp), but it always helps to have things so nicely said.

Mightier

I'm back! Did you miss me (as requested)?

I am very aware that it is difficult to make a case for the fact that I am mightier in the face of all the silence. I'll be honest; I've been tired. It turns out that meeting hmmm...let's say meeting 127 new people (There were 125 of us; I knew 2 before I got there; but I also chatted with several members of the hotel staff and the lead singer of the Ton Tons, so yeah. 127.), dancing, swimming, drinking, trying to make a plan for a shiny new life, and driving for many, many hours takes a lot out of a girl.

It was good. I wish you had been there.

I think I'm going to have to take it in pieces, so there will be further camp dispatches to come, but we'll start small. It's less overwhelming that way.

1. A salute to Joanne Harris whose book Gentlemen and Players--in CD form--I listened to alll the way there and allllllll the way home.

2. I stayed the night at the Crescent Hotel in Beverley Hills before I went to camp. When I pulled up to the [compulsory] valet (p.s. I never use valet parking because I resent paying for parking and I have tipping anxiety) I was all sweaty and t-shirt clad and shaky from the scary LA freeways and the disinclination of the populous to let anyone change lanes under any circumstances. I told the valet that I felt like I was one of the Beverly Hillbillies. I'm pretty sure that saying that made me even more one of the Beverley Hillbillies. I'm also pretty sure that he was from another country and had never encountered the Beverly Hillbillies. So that went well.

3. I bathed and changed and later looked totally like I belonged in the swanky lobby. In case you worried.

4. Marja came to see me, which is always a good thing.

5. The bartender gave me better directions to Palm Springs than Google did.

6. The Crescent has perhaps the most comfortable bed in the world. I also found the sheets to smell very faintly, and yet not unpleasantly, of grape soda.

7. I got out of LA without dying in a fiery crash, but I very much felt that it could have gone either way.

8. The Ace Hotel is a charmer. The rooms, though in the middle of the desert, have a nautical theme. Go figure. The shampoo, conditioner and body wash have rather masculine scents and there are many channels of gay porn available. I'm pretty sure these are serious indications that the Ace has been given the gay seal of approval. This means, of course, that its cool status is now official.

9. The Crescent has better beds, but the Ace has that warm, warm open-late-at-night swimming pool. Even. Oh! The Ace also has these lights over the bed that on one end is a bright, normal reading light or, on the other end, a red bulb with a dim glow. These made me sad to be alone as it would have been entertaining to have some witty fellow to make "Roxanne" jokes with and then share, you know, hotel bed shenanigans. Alas. 'Twas not to be. Someday I'm going to meet that guy, though, and then I'm going back.

10. The singer for the Ton Tons is almost too fantastic to be real. We pretty much all wanted to be her and use our hands in big dramatic gestures.

11. The chili at the hotel restaurant was too spicy for me to eat. I felt I had failed.

12. The tea at the restaurant was $4.85. I am still trying to get over it.

13. Many people you've never met before prove to be delightful. That was a pretty pervasive theme.

14. A lady admired my bathing suit. That's always nice.

15. There is a fig cocktail available, but I can't whole-heartedly recommend it. Get the one with gin and mint instead.

16. We were given small camp care packages: s'mores kits wrapped in bandanas. There was a chocolate bar, some graham crackers, and a little box of marshmallow peeps. That was jolly.

17. It turns out that a Space Camp themed costume party is way more fun that I imagined it would be. People from the wedding on the other side of the property showed up to do some dancing. Also, my large astronaut helmet (which, when on one's head, is like listening to a seashell in surround sound) was a huge hit both with other campers and with random hotel guests. Some of the latter group seemed to find it life altering. They were also sorry to have missed the hotel's monthly full-moon drum circle the night before. You may draw your own conclusions.

18. Previously, I had only been to camp once: Girl Scout Camp. It was not altogether a success. I was very shy, for one thing, and for another, they tried but ultimately failed to wake me up for the midnight fairy party and I still harbor some bitterness. Still, I'll bet we sang this Girl Scout hit "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold." They don't specify which is which, but I don't suppose it matters. We will further discuss the real life enactment of this ditty another day when we address Things I Learned. To spare you the suspense I'll just tell you now that there was some crying. It wasn't all coming from me, though, which made for a pleasant change.

Arrevederci

So. It's upon us. In the morning I get in the car and drive to LA. I am taking too many clothes, but that is the joy of driving rather than flying. It takes much, much longer, but you can overpack to your heart's content.

Unless I become suddenly both sufficiently technologically advanced and patient to update this from my iPod (a thing that strikes me as actually hilarious; therefore, unlikely), I will tell you all about camp when I get home.

Meanwhile, please behave yourselves and if you miss me a little bit, that would be nice too.

Go see it

I'll be honest, I'm all excited about camp and I think it might be keeping me from having amusing things to say. Is that possible? Probably not. Nevertheless, my brain is mostly doing this: "should I take those shoes? Those shoes are really pretty, but they make me miserable to walk in for five seconds. or the other shoes that are less impressive, but also less crippling? I think it's going to be colder during the day that we thought. I have to rethink the sundresses. Should I take snacks in the car or should I plan to look for an In&Out Burger like the rest of America? blahblahblahblahblah." Like that. It's not entertaining.

Instead, I will tell you that Race, by David Mamet, is a hell of a good play. An uncomfortable, surprising, great play. In fact, the only down side was that the blog bully, who came along, somehow lost his hat at the theatre. It is a small hat and a large theatre, but still. It's gotta be in there somewhere. And yet...where? We were sad. But that was not the play's fault. Really, I think you should go see it. If you live here, that is. It's in its last week at ACT, so hurry.

Bad news: Bob Marley is no longer with us

This morning, a woman called into the radio station with an urgent question.

Woman: I might have dreamed this because I dream a lot of things, but my friend told me that Bob Marley died. Is this true?

DJ: Um...well, Bob Marley...

Woman: (laughs) Oh! No! Not Bob Marley. But a man with a son.

DJ: A man with a son died....?

Woman: A reggae guy.

DJ: A reggae guy. Um...I'm going to have to go with: you dreamed it.

Now I don't have to stop in order to smell them

Remember this? So do I.

Aside from a sense of bitter disappointment, I walked out of that doctor's appointment with a prescription for a nasal spray. Never having used a nasal spray, I think I lack panache in administering it, but I do try. The most notable quality of this product (aside from mitigating the headaches) is that it smells like roses. I don't know if it is actually "rose scented" or if it just seems that way to me. The result of squirting rose-scented liquid up your nose is somewhat confusing-- olfactorily speaking--as you thereafter encounter various things that never previously smelled of roses, but it is not entirely unpleasant.

Still, as a concept, it lacks the romance of "looking at the world though rose-colored glasses." Squirting stuff up your nose is just not all that poetic, no matter what the result.

Zzzzzz

Last night, I had a dream that a hot Australian guy moved into the garage of my building. He'd put tile down on the floor which apparently made it legal for habitation. Upon waking, this amused me mostly because "hot Australian guy" is not a big ideal of mine. I'm more for "lanky, attractively be-spectacled, tie-wearing, literary guy." I think the buff dream Australian was also a surfer, which, if you're me, is even funnier. However, dream me was all flustered around him. Understandably, that type of guy is not particularly drawn to me, but I was very taken with dream Australian and desperately wanted him to like me. He kindly helped be re-set the level on my water heater (which was located in his "apartment") and then... invited me to have pizza! Sadly, I was already late for my birthday picnic and wasn't able to stay. But, for the record, I was very torn.