I've never had any direct problems with my head. I once hit it on the pavement at a swim meet and spent the next day in emergency. Later I miscounted the amount of strokes to the wall during a backstroke set, and slammed my head in to the wall. (That happened no less than 14 times). My dad threw a basketball at my head thinking I was looking. I was not.
And last Tuesday I bent over and hit my head on a doorknob. Morning and evening.
I've never had trouble fitting my head in ballcaps and headbands. I have 4 Dodger hats bought from a normal persons sort of store. They fit just fine. I have a hat I bought solely on the off chance I get a last minute call to go to the Kentucky Derby. I had no trouble finding or fitting in to that hat.
My head, it's in equal proportion to my body, looking generally the same in size to everyone else in pictures, and since I have no other choice but an expensive not yet invented plastic surgery and years of recovery, I will keep it.
It's just my head, it feels a bit tinier than it ought to be, when I think of dating.
Once I dated someone for a month and a half who one day told me he had to walk our friends dog - and never returned. Another time I thought I'd received all the positive signs to later find out I was being enlisted in a pyramid scheme. I've looked far and long, from Tennessee to Texas, New York to Arizona, across all the nations 4 corners. For a year and a half I dated someone, who one day, just didn't respond to a text message, to never to be heard from again.
My dating adventures are, for lack of a theasaurous in arms reach, adventorous, and if it wasn't for my due diligence very possible they all are victims of the same kidnapper. But alas they are living and thriving and leaving me an exhausted shell of the spirited upbeat dater I once was.
It's just, I can't wrap it around my unusually normal sized yet tiny head. So I won't. But I best not beat it up hitting the pool wall. I may just never be able to understand it at all. And I must remain sharp to punch them all in the face should we ever meet again.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
A literal narrative in beauty
The "theys" of the world say LA has no seasons. We don't. We have fires and we have earthquakes. We have mudslides, and we have the most unnatural of disasters in an entertainment industry. My friend Bill in Chicago, content apparently with sub zero temperatures and lake snow effect, says he'd never live in LA. Seasons, he says, is what keeps him in Evanston. I like Bill but he's wrong about a lot of things.
Bill in Evanston keeps Bill out of LA and one less Bill on the 105, and the 605, and the 10 East, and the 405 South. So Bill can stay in Evanston. But if Bill stumbled upon my blog, he'd get not a tutorial in Chicago or LA or freeway traffic or things he's wrong about but a written essay, a literal narrative in beauty. And here it goes.
A society sysincly accustomed to excess. A population encouraged to live in future wants. A happiness always slightly out of reach. Out of touch. A people out of touch.
It's actually very simple to have too much of something. Too much coffee. Too much work. Too much wine. We're familiar without much more example of a planet supple with excess, and a people not shy of having too much.
Bill of Evanston needs dire long winters, piles of autumn leaves, densely humid summers, drastic seasonal change, just as an investment banker needs gobs of cash, and a kept lady needs another handbag, one more pair of Manolos, a better car.
Bigger better faster larger smaller more efficient newer more more, just honestly more. For the love of God, more of it all.
I have a Tivo that thinks it knows me. It recommends television shows I wouldn't watch. Last week I came home and it had recorded three episodes of Sesame Street and that afternoon's Ducktails.
My Tivo thinks I'm a 3 year old.
I tried to tell it, through the technological specified ways, that I was actually 28, going on 29. I came home the next day, to recordings of boxing, MMA, and a really awkward girl on girl mudwrestling championship. 28 and female, Tivo, female.
I turned off the suggestions feature.
As someone who works in technology I'm an odd person to be astonished by new media, but I am. Odd. And astonished.
My GPS, correctly, globally, positioning, via a satellite, my exact location. It knows where I am at all the time. All the damn time. It blows my mind. But at the end of the day and the beginning of the next one and every day after that, I know LA better than it. I know that canyon where it narrows to one lane and creates a logging effect down the hill. I know that driveway where it's pretty darn near impossible to turn. I know four emergency vehicles in front of me telling me you can't go through a street. I know the best way home from my Mom's house. But that GPS, well her and I never really seem to be on the same page. Our drives together are a series of verbal outbursts by me and her, "REROUTING ROUTE REROUTING ROUTE REROUTING ROUTE." We still don't agree the best way to get home from the north valley, but yesterday she said "Please Make a U-Turn Only When It's Safe," and it was then I knew she was starting to get me. I waited until it was safe, and then I didn't listen to her after that.
A world of more bigger better has pushed out a technology trying to get to know me. It wants to know what shows I like. It wants to tell me how to get around in my own city, it reads my e-mails and it personalizes ads. My teeth are white enough thank you very much google g-mail ads.
I know what shows I like, and sometimes yes they may be Sesame Street. And I know how to get around my own city, not always, but it's then I will rely on the woman in my GPS. I'm OK with the amount of money in my bank account. It could be less and it could be more, but I will be happy all the same. Ten pairs of shoes or one to suffice. Happiness lives somewhere else.
Happiness lives with beauty. In beauty's guest house. Whereas bigger better more excess ignites a boundary of too much, you can never have too much beauty. Never will I love my sister too much, or that gingerbread candle smell too amazing. I don't think I will ever say I have had too much Vivaldi and he plays on medium volume through my car stereo and I drive through the small collection of autumn leaves pieced around the road on my drive to the office. So that's the catch with beauty, Bill from Evanson. You can never have too much of it, but can live on the smidgest of amounts. A one sentence text from my best friend. When my favorite one year old dives in to her birthday cupcakes hairless head first. LA doesn't have drastic seasons, but Bill from Evanston is still wrong. Because if you're looking for happiness, you'll find it. And if you're looking for beauty, if you're looking for a fall morning in LA where just a small pocket of leaves have gathered and they crisp under the drive of your tires you will find it here, just as you will find it in Evanston. If you're looking for beauty, you will find it pretty much anywhere you seek it.
Bill in Evanston keeps Bill out of LA and one less Bill on the 105, and the 605, and the 10 East, and the 405 South. So Bill can stay in Evanston. But if Bill stumbled upon my blog, he'd get not a tutorial in Chicago or LA or freeway traffic or things he's wrong about but a written essay, a literal narrative in beauty. And here it goes.
A society sysincly accustomed to excess. A population encouraged to live in future wants. A happiness always slightly out of reach. Out of touch. A people out of touch.
It's actually very simple to have too much of something. Too much coffee. Too much work. Too much wine. We're familiar without much more example of a planet supple with excess, and a people not shy of having too much.
Bill of Evanston needs dire long winters, piles of autumn leaves, densely humid summers, drastic seasonal change, just as an investment banker needs gobs of cash, and a kept lady needs another handbag, one more pair of Manolos, a better car.
Bigger better faster larger smaller more efficient newer more more, just honestly more. For the love of God, more of it all.
I have a Tivo that thinks it knows me. It recommends television shows I wouldn't watch. Last week I came home and it had recorded three episodes of Sesame Street and that afternoon's Ducktails.
My Tivo thinks I'm a 3 year old.
I tried to tell it, through the technological specified ways, that I was actually 28, going on 29. I came home the next day, to recordings of boxing, MMA, and a really awkward girl on girl mudwrestling championship. 28 and female, Tivo, female.
I turned off the suggestions feature.
As someone who works in technology I'm an odd person to be astonished by new media, but I am. Odd. And astonished.
My GPS, correctly, globally, positioning, via a satellite, my exact location. It knows where I am at all the time. All the damn time. It blows my mind. But at the end of the day and the beginning of the next one and every day after that, I know LA better than it. I know that canyon where it narrows to one lane and creates a logging effect down the hill. I know that driveway where it's pretty darn near impossible to turn. I know four emergency vehicles in front of me telling me you can't go through a street. I know the best way home from my Mom's house. But that GPS, well her and I never really seem to be on the same page. Our drives together are a series of verbal outbursts by me and her, "REROUTING ROUTE REROUTING ROUTE REROUTING ROUTE." We still don't agree the best way to get home from the north valley, but yesterday she said "Please Make a U-Turn Only When It's Safe," and it was then I knew she was starting to get me. I waited until it was safe, and then I didn't listen to her after that.
A world of more bigger better has pushed out a technology trying to get to know me. It wants to know what shows I like. It wants to tell me how to get around in my own city, it reads my e-mails and it personalizes ads. My teeth are white enough thank you very much google g-mail ads.
I know what shows I like, and sometimes yes they may be Sesame Street. And I know how to get around my own city, not always, but it's then I will rely on the woman in my GPS. I'm OK with the amount of money in my bank account. It could be less and it could be more, but I will be happy all the same. Ten pairs of shoes or one to suffice. Happiness lives somewhere else.
Happiness lives with beauty. In beauty's guest house. Whereas bigger better more excess ignites a boundary of too much, you can never have too much beauty. Never will I love my sister too much, or that gingerbread candle smell too amazing. I don't think I will ever say I have had too much Vivaldi and he plays on medium volume through my car stereo and I drive through the small collection of autumn leaves pieced around the road on my drive to the office. So that's the catch with beauty, Bill from Evanson. You can never have too much of it, but can live on the smidgest of amounts. A one sentence text from my best friend. When my favorite one year old dives in to her birthday cupcakes hairless head first. LA doesn't have drastic seasons, but Bill from Evanston is still wrong. Because if you're looking for happiness, you'll find it. And if you're looking for beauty, if you're looking for a fall morning in LA where just a small pocket of leaves have gathered and they crisp under the drive of your tires you will find it here, just as you will find it in Evanston. If you're looking for beauty, you will find it pretty much anywhere you seek it.
Thursday, October 16, 2008
Life After Baseball
There’s this little spot in Hollywood where you can get yourself arguably just about the best burger in town. It’s too trendy for its own good, but how can you fault it, the burger almost necessitates it. There’s a lot that goes in to the perfect burger, but top among those is the ability to choose its contents – the cheese from a list of cheeses, sauces from a list of such, veggie or turkey or beef, veggies and fried eggs and bacon and more. You can never go in there and order the same burger based on the multitude of choice. But I do. Always do I order the same burger – with the same sauce and cheese and additions. It’s far more expensive than any one burger ought to be, but when you take the first bite, it’s obvious why you’ve overpaid.
It’s an amazing hamburger.
Three quarters of the way through the experience, total joy dissipates, and a newer feeling emerges: post patty depression. Sure that I never (although I live only 3 miles from the restaurant) will have a hamburger ever again that tastes as good as that one. I try to make that last quarter last. Like a running back who is trying for the winning game point. If a bit of lettuce drops, I swoop it up, and make sure to eat it. I tuck back in the bacon so it makes a perfect bite. I chew slowly, and I focus very intently on nothing but the now moment. The crowd and clutter, friends and Hollywood fade away, and there’s nothing but me and the now and the last bite I take of that burger. It was delicious, and now it’s over.
Sadness takes its place on my now empty plate and I sigh with mixed feelings of joy and loss. A pound gained, a burger lost.
I’ll snap out of it, most often with the help of liquor and spirits, and come to realize I will eat there again; I will eat a delicious hamburger once more.
Not unlike post patty depression, I mourn the end of Dodger baseball 08. What is there for me now? The warm summer nights give way to the brutal Los Angeles 78-degree winter, an election will give way to thanksgiving, birthdays and vacations, and work, and life will go on, I suppose.
I saw cheap tickets on the internet Wednesday morning and I thought about snagging one and going to game 5. Certain at the start of the LCS, as every sportscaster, sports writer, and sports professional, I too thought the Dodgers would split in Philly, take 2 out of 3 in LA and return the LCS for a decisive two games where they would most certainly clinch the pennant for a chance at the world series title. I would suppose the magic of sports is that it’s never written the way you would write it. Philly was a stronger team, with stronger pitching, and a stronger bullpen, and I ultimately didn’t snag that last minute ticket, because if by chance we couldn’t push the series to Philadelphia I’d have to watch Philly celebrating on our perfectly groomed field, and I’d see the end of a really, quite wonderful season that's better left in it's pristineness in my own imagination.
I went to the gym for innings one through three, one because moving helps, and I could skim the debate happening at the same time on a TV right next to it. After 30 minutes and 3 errors in one inning by an errorless Rafael Furcal, several verbal profane outbursts, I got off and went upstairs for yoga. Yoga gave way to boot camp class, and 2 ½ hours at the gym later all in an effort to avoid the end of the season, I had to read by text message what I didn’t need a blackberry to tell me: Game Over.
Season Over.
Just six long chilly months of doing other things to pass the time.
That last game was difficult, if not impossible to watch because it was a lot like the feeling I have as I finish that burger. But I’ll always come around to accept the obvious, I will eat a delicious burger again, and baseball in LA will be back, in no time at all.
It’s an amazing hamburger.
Three quarters of the way through the experience, total joy dissipates, and a newer feeling emerges: post patty depression. Sure that I never (although I live only 3 miles from the restaurant) will have a hamburger ever again that tastes as good as that one. I try to make that last quarter last. Like a running back who is trying for the winning game point. If a bit of lettuce drops, I swoop it up, and make sure to eat it. I tuck back in the bacon so it makes a perfect bite. I chew slowly, and I focus very intently on nothing but the now moment. The crowd and clutter, friends and Hollywood fade away, and there’s nothing but me and the now and the last bite I take of that burger. It was delicious, and now it’s over.
Sadness takes its place on my now empty plate and I sigh with mixed feelings of joy and loss. A pound gained, a burger lost.
I’ll snap out of it, most often with the help of liquor and spirits, and come to realize I will eat there again; I will eat a delicious hamburger once more.
Not unlike post patty depression, I mourn the end of Dodger baseball 08. What is there for me now? The warm summer nights give way to the brutal Los Angeles 78-degree winter, an election will give way to thanksgiving, birthdays and vacations, and work, and life will go on, I suppose.
I saw cheap tickets on the internet Wednesday morning and I thought about snagging one and going to game 5. Certain at the start of the LCS, as every sportscaster, sports writer, and sports professional, I too thought the Dodgers would split in Philly, take 2 out of 3 in LA and return the LCS for a decisive two games where they would most certainly clinch the pennant for a chance at the world series title. I would suppose the magic of sports is that it’s never written the way you would write it. Philly was a stronger team, with stronger pitching, and a stronger bullpen, and I ultimately didn’t snag that last minute ticket, because if by chance we couldn’t push the series to Philadelphia I’d have to watch Philly celebrating on our perfectly groomed field, and I’d see the end of a really, quite wonderful season that's better left in it's pristineness in my own imagination.
I went to the gym for innings one through three, one because moving helps, and I could skim the debate happening at the same time on a TV right next to it. After 30 minutes and 3 errors in one inning by an errorless Rafael Furcal, several verbal profane outbursts, I got off and went upstairs for yoga. Yoga gave way to boot camp class, and 2 ½ hours at the gym later all in an effort to avoid the end of the season, I had to read by text message what I didn’t need a blackberry to tell me: Game Over.
Season Over.
Just six long chilly months of doing other things to pass the time.
That last game was difficult, if not impossible to watch because it was a lot like the feeling I have as I finish that burger. But I’ll always come around to accept the obvious, I will eat a delicious burger again, and baseball in LA will be back, in no time at all.
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