Secret Pop

Aug 4, 2003


For nearly all of the weekend, the sultry Southland pall was on me in a thoroughly clammy way. Along with the scent of sunshine and the desire for a swim -- whatever that smells like.

I eat things that appall some people, and I've grown comfortable with that fact. I don't read off my dream menu just for inherent shock value; in fact, I am more often inclined to keep my whims to myself except in the company of very close friends who are less likely to make a face and then an exit. But even my own sister thinks I should take my culinary cues from Fear Factor. When she was visiting earlier in the week, we caught the last half of Hannibal, whose gore appeals to her. And I thought (tacitly) that that bit of pan-seared brain was probably delicious. Truth.

I am a bit of a broken record when a dog is on the scene. I have to exclaim, "Doggy!" or sing praise-filled songs of its cuteness. Even I don't find this amusing anymore.

I can be a bit manic about bugs. If I see one flying around in my apartment, I usually embark on a quest to either end its days with an artful whack of a bit of junk mail or chase it out a window that I can close before it knows what's in the works. And I have been known to utter taunting words of triumph when either of these finally occurs. I have traced the origins of this behavior to the Great Fly Infestation of 1994, a story I will save for another day.

I don't sleep as well or as often as statistics suggest that I should.

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