"Nay," say I.

On the eve of this Chinese New Year, I am bold and unburdened. I'm even defying the natural part of my hair.

As January sinks into the sea...

I wonder where the day began. It feels as if yesterday never ended. The two just ran together. That's how the days often are. Paints swirling into that nameless grey goop that happens when distinction gives way to the blend. There are things I may remember about today. But I may forget why the memory of them lingers. I often feel as if I live in a roiling soup of déjà vu. Synapses, firing and misfiring, call up flashes of recollection that can easily be confused with premonition. I ask myself what that's from. When it happened. Why it feels as if I've felt it before. Whether all the other brains work like this.

There were words -- several of them -- that made a difference today. I could hear them without wondering if I was taking too great a leap in understanding their meaning. Or what was intended. There were moments that felt like progress. And I realized how new things are. Always. But also for the first time. It is all so new. I am not the same. I embrace what I once would have set fire to. I lean in instead of away. I accept. I do not know if it is a survival technique or a bandage or a form of magnificent denial. Whatever it is, I can sense its difference from what came before. I can scarcely remember the lure of old comforts. Old deceptions read clear and true. Old addresses. Old phone numbers. Stacking up like a great and useless math problem. Who even does long division anymore? There is room to laugh about it all. That's what calculators are for.

When someone else tells a story with magic in it, I find myself listening with great release. I am eager to hear something new. And quiet enough inside to not try and jump ahead to how it all ends. I used to listen to stories like they were a guessing game or a mystery to solve. I am no longer as interested in who done it. I am suddenly more intrigued by how it was done.

"This far and no further."

I would like to position myself above the reproach of a public who doesn't get me. But I still discover a strange bit of dismay when someone feels compelled to tell me what's wrong with me or to suggest that I could have been more than I am. A recent guestbook entry made me feel that. A sense of recoiling at the implication of narcissisim. The assertion that the world might be better served if I would put a plug in it. It's the sort of thing that might make a girl want to stop taking pictures altogether.

Maybe I shouldn't feel the ire of defense rising within me, but I catch myself wanting to tell everyone that I don't share all these pictures of myself because I dance around with glee at the sight of my own face. I take pictures -- and share them -- usually because there is a feeling on that day or at that moment, and I am hoping to capture it and keep it. I post plenty of pictures that display me some distance from my best. And I take plenty of pictures that don't have me in them at all. If that makes any difference.

In any case. Someone might have told Frida Kahlo to get a new subject. Or to pluck her eyebrows. Who says the opinions of the dissenters count for more than a hill of very small and inconsequential, bacteria-infested beans? I also dissociate the concepts of narcissism and autiobiography. Writing what happens to me or what I think is not a mere exercise in self-absorption. What else does one write? Fiction?

Nonetheless, I am tempted to issue a moratorium on pictures. Especially if they were taken today.

I wanted to say something about how God wrote the Bible and it's ALL about him, but I relish the title of blasphemer about as much as I like that of narcissist. The people who would be offended by this would not be welcoming vessels to my explanation, I suspect.

If you only knew me, all this would be moot.

Ciao, Tiger Lily.

The other day, I was filling out one of those questionnaires my friends send me from time to time. On one line, it asked what inspires me, and I started going through this list of the usual things. Music. Art. Beauty. Twilight. Sense memory. A perfect sandwich. But I realized it was all crap. The things that inspire me most are love and pain, which are really just two sides of the same hand slapping you.

I have been inspired by others. When I have loved them and wanted their applause more than all the acclaim in the world. I have devised wonders in the hopes of provoking a smile or a kiss or an appreciative embrace. The kind that says, "Oh, you!" There are people who have managed to pull wonders out of me. I hope the same will be said of me one day by someone who counts.

There is a weight in my head. It has been following me for days.

Early in the morning

I find gratification in productivity. Even when it seems like it's just busy work. I got up extra early today and did some rewrites and took some phone calls and embarked on some planning. With lunch meetings and twilight cocktails and afternoon parties on the verge, and the willingness of the besotted in my mixture, I am looking forward. Making plans is as good as making friends is almost as good as making an ass of oneself. A rose is a rose is a rose.

Onions for the Eyes

I like the way Henry Higgins put it when he said he was "devilish sleepy." Me, too. But not really. I'm tired. Drained to the very bottom. But not sleepy, really. Just unwilling, maybe.

My tee shirt says, "Unicorns are stupid." It's true.

einz, zwei, drei

I haven't been sick in a long time. This week, a little surprise of a cough has taken hold of me. I tried to beat it down last night with a five-mile run. That was woefully bad strategy. I came home and realized it hurt to breathe. And the cough has been getting worse. And sleep eluded me last night like so many things. I even got into bed before 2 A.M. -- a wonder of earliness for me.

I breathe shallowly today. Hoping to avoid awakening the cough. I have been remanded to that weakened position of tiptoeing round the fact of things. I suppose another, more confident girl might cough proudly. Might spray the faces of her lunch companions with her aspirated chewings and then laugh, in that half laugh-half cough sort of way. But I -- meekly -- choose to suppress. I would prefer that the world not know I suffer from any sort of ailment. Pink lipstick helps with the illusion.

94% is the longest percent of them all.

Almost done. Almost. This is worse than a real job.

Taking the leap

I want to cry out, "I'm still here!" Like Papillon at the end of the movie, when he jumps off the cliff into the ocean to float away on his raft of bags and cocoanuts. But I'm not saying it in defiance. I'm saying it in desperation. Distilling gigantic documents into little bite-sized PDFs is no fun at any hour. Particularly this one.

I give up. I'll go eat ice cream to pass the time.

The itchy ache of progress

I've gotten so much work done today. And it really just took sitting still for hours and hours. With music playing and ready access to cool water and a nice warm jacket on, I have just been tackling it all like a champ. My back hurts so very much right now, of course. The sitting. The hunching. The never quite keeping both feet on the floor. I would like to take a never-ending bath, and I would like to simmer like a lobster. I won't be happy unless I'm all over pink when I emerge. A combination of bathing and braising, really. I would kill for that.

I sort of forgot to eat and just kept working. The TV was on in the living room for a good bit, but I had my music up louder than what was playing. It's all just stimulus. Even if I only catch it in my peripheral vision. It's good for me. For the same reasons that people put mobiles above baby's cribs. Maybe I will hang a mobile in my little office. But only if I can find a really stupid one.

For some reason, that reminds me of when we used to tie thread between the head and thorax of red baron beetles we captured in the wild of the Philippines. They would fly, and we would hold them on the string like a kite. It seems cruel now. And gross. What made me want to pick up some yucky beetle and dress it with string? We were filthy then. Eating guavas without washing them. Sucking on lemon grass we picked in fields. Lemon grass that was, in all likelihood, covered in all manner of animal pee. If you know me at all, you may have heard my explanation of why thinking about this would make me suddenly feel like having a good throw up. It's a fine line between tropical fruit paradise and pee-covered produce extravaganza. I wash every piece of produce I buy. Twice.

This is just proof that I have a lot of unruly short hairs.

"Every breath that is in your lungs..."

...is a tiny little gift to me.

It was just that kind of day.

I got home late last night. I went to bed later. And I woke up early early early. But then I filled the time and the sun came up and I planned and prodded and produced. It's strange, though; the more I do, the more I must.

Artificial Heat and Ghosts in the Wee Hours

I tried to sleep without the heat on again. But I awoke shivering and with an especially cold nose. And I realized I had been dreaming very intensely and that I was in need of something.

If today has already begun, it feels nothing like it. But don't trust a girl who's had three hours of sleep.

Swashbuckling Gridiron

It's unusual for me to know this far in advance the names of the teams contending for the Superbowl trophy (which is a giant pewter elephant filled with fruit cereal, right?), but I heard it would be the Buccaneers versus the Raiders, and I thought, "Finally! An appropriate occasion for me to wear an eyepatch and carry a parrot on my shoulder!" I won't, of course. My depth perception is bad enough, and parrots are hard to come by. But it was a pleasant thought.

"I drove all night."

My sister and I were lamenting the fact that Celine Dion is singing Cyndi Lauper's song in these intolerable car commercials. What made anyone think that Celine Dion singing in a car would make me want to buy it? I feel as if I never want to buy anything again. And she's putting her kid in the commercials, too? I should go check on eBay and see if she's selling off bits of her DNA, as well. My advice? Keep it, lady. There's enough of you in the world.

I had Rothko paintings in the eye of my brain today. For some reason. Glorious, genius, tragic Rothko. There's a painting of his at a nearby museum, and when I look at it, I feel as if it is me on that canvas. Flesh and blood and white stuff. I once knew euphoria at his hand.

Ice cream did not find me. But many other pleasant things did.

His surfaces were velvety as poems of the night.

Give us a tune.

I had myself a mess of dreams last night. Sleeping fitfully does not contribute very forcefully to wanting to wake up. But I awoke often, so the jarring was deadened. I was sure I would rise with a hangover, but I felt no such thing. Instead, I was up and doing laundry and appreciating the way the sunlight streams through the glass in the French doors and makes the leaves on the bushes seem translucent in an electric sort of way.

I want to go somewhere where there is ice cream.

This photo made me think of those certain German and Russian expressionists whose paintings were all shadowy angles and awkward points of view. I used to sketch angles with a soft pencil and pretend I knew where the shadows were meant to fall.

How Tiresome It Grows

I wasn't sure how I was going to spend the day, but somewhere along the way, the itch to be with friends and family made itself plain, and that swayed me. I've had too many drinks for a girl who hopes to maintain her complexion. And I've had a night that was mostly fun and adventuresome. But I am tired again. And lacking in poetry. And wondering if the secrets are hiding somewhere just below my surface.

The weather makes it difficult to get any sense of what January usually means. The dratted coastal fog wreaked havoc on my progress. I wore a cute sweater that was woefully too warm. I cooked dinner and hoped the scent of it wouldn't linger too long in my hair, like it does.

I had a chat today with a close friend, and I found myself making the assertion that -- while I am ever so open to influence -- I am not what I would consider to be intellectually or spiritually impressionable. And I usually find those that are to be sort of disappointingly weak-minded. I'm all for being changed by a book. But if a book is able to change your life, what is that saying about your life? I like movies. But I've never had one alter my world view. I have been devouring a heap of challenging reading material lately. And even the stuff I despise is fodder for the mill, as far as I'm concerned. I'm thrilled to be adding to my lexicon. I glide over the works of other writers in a sort of dance of Braille, sightless fingers interpreting meaning as rote and racing for the end of a page without any assurance about the actual end of anything. I am as open-minded as they come. Anxious to accept and to be affected. But I think there is a strict distinction between openmindedness and tongue-lolling apathy. However great the prose, no one will surreptitiously convince me to suddenly subscribe to fascism or some form of religion or a vegetarian lifestyle. I'll make those decisions separately, thank you. And I'll reserve a special form of judgment for those who do otherwise.

I asked my friend if this makes me despicably elitist. He said no. But I wouldn't have minded if he had said yes. Elitisim has always been my bag. In a very welcoming, come-on-up-and-join-us sort of way. I believe in exclusionary evaluation with an underlying desire to include. If that makes any sense at all.

I think I was impressing someone tonight. But he clumsily tried to pay me a compliment and ended up insulting me. In a very jejune fashion, of course. It has no lasting impact on me. But it was amusing to watch him flounder as he realized that his flattering intentions had gone awry. That his bar-side instincts had served him poorly. It was a convenient ushering in of an exit, and thank all that is holy for that.

Last night, I was talking with a pair of friends and letting them in on the not-so-secret secret that so many artists usually create most fervently when they are abjectly dissatisfied. It was intended as a comfort. A mark that the lack of creative productivity in their lives might be a sign of contentment. That one might have to work specifically to find a path to creativity that immerses itself in bliss. I recognized that in myself. That the years when I had considered myself most happy were also the years when my writing nearly stopped altogether. There were other things, of course. And even in my happiest times, there were travails to contend with. I can't say the experiment is scientific, in my case. But today, when I can't really put my finger on the size of things -- when I'm not certain whether I'm fine with it all or flailing about in the frenzy of malcontent -- it's difficult not to be pensive about how my path will form itself in the coming days and weeks. So much that I can do. So much that I must do. So much that I want to do. And no longer a story about the absence of time or the inconvenience of ill-timed inspiration. It's all there. It's all mine. I'm grateful and fearful and occasionally just numb. The girl who never sits still does so for a reason. All that sitting is murder on the back.

Old Tales Told Anew

I've just arrived home. Papillon was just wrapping up, and Muppet Treasure Island is now on the television. I remember buying this movie in all its clamshell glory on a spree right after the new year in 1997. I remember going home to watch my purchases and intermittently dozing in front of the MST treatment of Mitchell. I had just gotten home from an arduous holiday journey, and I was tuckered out. I was wearing a little wool houndstooth check skirt and a black sweater. I remember thinking Kermit sounded so different. I've since gotten more used to that. Loss is like that. Eventually, you come to accept it. Because you must.

It's late. And I'm tired. And it shows. I want a long, hot bath and a can of pop. That's a frequent remedy for me these days.

Billy Connolly makes me laugh. And Jim Hawkins' dreamy falsetto lament makes me want to sing along. "There's gotta be something better than this for me."

The tug of sleep is upon me. It's a welcome urging. In the morning, there's work to be done. And plans to be made. My poetry is missing tonight. Perhaps I'll find it when I've had a bit of rest.

When you're chewing on life's gristle

I got a lovely glimpse of the airport today. Airports are places of wonder for me. They always have been. There's something very grand about them. And the possibilities they embody. Control towers and jetways and flashy lights and everything. Airports are nearly always brimming with people who are coming and going. I enjoy being a part of that crowd.

I shouldn't be as tired as I am. That much is true. I hope that the remaining hours will find a formula to either fix or justify that.

As bright and beautiful as it was today, there was a blue cast to things. Maybe it's just something about Fridays. And maybe I'm the only one who feels it. I dislike the calendar, in that. I dislike the notion of things lived in a circle. Having a favorite day of the week. Or always getting the same sense of dread towards the end of your Sunday. Or always getting the same sense of relief on a Friday night. I remember being caught in that circle. With television shows I looked forward to and deadlines that always came on the same day. I remember carrying that millstone. I'm still as much a prisoner in it today, I suppose. But I try and choose calendars that distract me from it. There's a Vespa eternal calendar on my wall and a little Sof'Boy pull away calendar on my desk. And then there's my Taschen desk calendar. This year, it's those Gil Elvgren Pin-Ups. As it was in 1997, the first year I began using Taschen desk calendars. See? It all goes in a circle. No matter what you do. Blast.

We Chinese rather like the gristle, actually. That's less surprising than it should be.

Keep them laughing as you go...

Fahrenheit

I always longed to be superlative. Whatever the endeavor. I always wanted to be the something-est. I think I still do. The sourest spots on my landscape today are those that do not afford me that opportunity. I think it would pain me to ever find my book at the top of a bestseller list or my song at the top of the charts. If only because of the inevitability of falling from that spot. I remember waking up at one point in my very early twenties and lamenting the realization that I would likely never be the youngest person ever to do anything at this point. Up until then, I had been the youngest member of a symphony orchestra, the youngest person at the office, the youngest person in the class. I still had a shot at prodigy status. And in the absence of that, I had always aimed to be the smartest or the most vivacious or the most splendid or the most effervescent. I wanted to give the most wonderful parties and write the most saveable letters and give the most extravagant gifts and tell the most enduring stories. If you were making a list, I wanted to be at the top of it. Whatever the list was for.

To have been unseated from such a slot has never been pleasant for me. And it has had a tendency to taint the very memory of a previous glory.

Maybe that's why I'm always catching myself rewriting my own history. Rearranging my impressions of things. Perhaps it's just a means of distracting me from the memory of catching various brass rings that have since gone a-tarnish or have disintegrated altogether. Why linger on the triumph of a victory that has turned. Never trust those carny folk, by the way. I wouldn't be surprised if some of those brass rings were never made of brass to begin with.

A matter of assessment

Someone called and asked how my day was going, and I found it easy to say that it was a perfect day. A great day. It was productive and pretty outside and anticipatory and easy all at once. I laughed and laughed at dinner. And worried, like I do, that I might offend the ears of people dining near me. You'll catch me retelling vulgar bits from something or other (today, it was a Robert Schimmel comedy special), hand gestures and all. And then you'll soon after catch me realizing that I'm in a booth within earshot of mothers and grandmothers and children and clerics. And I'll worry that the universal symbol for whacking off is an acceptable thing for a girl to be doing in a restaurant. My charged laughter does little to defray attention-getting.

The movie started too late, so the night was called earlier than planned. But it was a good day, I'm happy to report. And tomorrow has every reason to be at least as pleasing. Now, if I could just manage to not get ensnared by the blasted telephone...

For now, there's wine to finish, work to finish, a day to prepare for. All meritable attention-takers.

Gentle Prodding

The promos for Bill Maher's upcoming HBO special are particularly clever, if you ask me. Clever enough to make me sit for a moment, and then decide to get up and go to my computer and make a note of it. I like it when things are good.

I also like it when I find myself wearing a pair of jeans that fits so favorably as to keep me wanting to catch reflections of my backside throughout the day. Such was the case with today's jeans. If only jeans were an appreciable currency. I'd be so very rich.

I took a great many pictures today. When the light's right and everything comes together, I set the digital camera loose and offer praises to heaven that digital photography is free. The picture I am posting is not one of the many from the daylight hours. I took it in the evening. This setting on the camera makes me look kind of like a yam with yarn for hair. But I'm okay with it.

Sneaky Wee Hours

I was at one point congratulating myself that I was going to get to bed just after midnight. Now look what's happened. Crap.

Choices of the Chooser

Who am I to demand that inspiration come to me in the form of beautiful and breathtaking things? My pen has been more frantic under the influence of something more like pestilence. And memories are sometimes more concentrated -- more effective. I can be inspired by the moment that survived the aftermath and the want of forgetting. It shines more. Its edges are more defined. I can be cut by them. With ease.

I heard a song on the radio while I was driving home from work one night. It was late. It was always so late when I was driving home in those days. I had been hired to work there in the dark, it seemed. In my memory, although my time at that place took place from the early part of summer until just before Halloween, it was always that first day of Daylight Savings Time. Every day that I recall feels like that. Unnaturally dark. Each day, I was struggling to get used to it.

I was driving home from work one night, and a song played, and it was pretty to me. When I got home, I asked my boyfriend to download it for me. He did. I listened to it and found the melody to be pretty. In those days, even the most poignant words were only wonders seen through plate glass for me. I was impervious to them. When my heart stirred, it was for reasons that were real and present. Not because of familiar sentiments played through the veil of a pop song. I have no way of tallying whether it stirred more then. Or less.

But that was nearly three years ago. And that moment of that song belongs in a closed book. A time that is finished. A time I can only recreate in memory, and even that falsely. False, because the image is influenced by the years that came after. By the many times I heard that song again. By the many different ways it made me feel. That song has now become the journey of its impact. Each hearing producing a new set of responses. And a trail of memories to compare them to.

Some moments make me say, "Yes! I want to feel that way again!" And I lament their passing, mourning the certainty that my wish will not be fulfilled. Other moments are more like punishment. And they make me think that, as I have grown from childhood to this, I have come to learn many different meanings for the word "discipline."

There is a discipline to inspiration. There are rules to how I listen, how I see, how I soak in it all. There is a path to productivity that I can follow. That I can will myself to. Or I can just sit and feel it and let it pass without documentation. It seems that the inspiration might appear more precious if I allowed some of it to fall away. Instead, whenever I can, I reach for the little notebook in my handbag or the sunbleached receipts that intermittently rest on the floor of my car. Anything I can write on. Instead, I carry a camera with me nearly everywhere. And I train myself to be ready for inspiration to strike. Like lightning.

I collect the bits and pieces. And sometimes I do something with them. And sometimes I don't. And sometimes the inspiration changes. Or the circumstances do. So that I find myself starting one thing and finishing another. Or never finishing at all. Because the landscape has shifted before I was able to freeze it. All this change. It makes it hard to ever get anything done.

That time in my history -- when the nights always seemed to be the same dark color and the days were nearly always spent indoors -- that time swirls in on itself. A handful of distinct moments emerge, and they are all I can see. All that can be used to measure myself in that age. Was I happy? Was I being true to myself? Was I a fool? I was not seeking in those days. I was not absent in my present. I was not fixed on what was to come. Plans came easily, because they were formed around certainty and an easy goal of making someone else happy. I remember those days. But I'm often sure I am remembering them wrong.

I search only for something I can't see.

Edict

People who sit in their cars and honk to avoid going to the door and knocking should be murdered. But if this ever happens, then nearly everyone on my street will be murdered, and suddenly I will be living in a bad neighborhood. Is there no justice?

Whither

The word "millennium" got ruined many times over. First, by that movie with Cheryl Ladd and Kris Kristofferson in it. Then, by the computer industry. And again by the computer industry. And then by the advertising industry. It holds no oomph anymore. It lacks grandeur. It provokes the response, "Millennium? Huh." And a shrug. And an immediate forgetting of that exchange. I have a pen on my desk that says "millennium" on it. I think it's a model name. I hate it now.

I drank too much wine last night. Enough to make me fearful about going to sleep. Fearful of how the waking process might go. But the morning went by without event, projectile or otherwise. And I forgot the whole business. Except to remember to take special care to only drink the good stuff. Or at least the stuff that pretends to be good. I'm usually fairly successful at that. Maybe because I believe that things that cost more are actually better. I know that people will argue about this with me, but I find, almost without exception, that if you don't know which to buy, the more expensive analog will be the better one. I bought some generic Sudafed at Walgreen's. It's called Wal-Phed. And it costs barely half as much as the real thing. For a short while, I congratulated myself on my thrift. But I popped one in my mouth this morning and learned that the money you save is what would ordinarily go into the candy coating. These little red demons are as bitter as -- well, as something very bitter. The name brand pills can be swallowed without even bothering with a swig of water. But these require multiple flushings of the tongue before that foul taste can be forgotten.

I did say ALMOST without exception, of course. And I don't think one should invite gouging of any sort. I will happily pay less. I am often tricked into placing value above everything else in my personal pyramid of importance, and I will freely admit to being proud of buying on sale. But I will happily pay less for THE SAME thing. I am, however, reluctant to pay less for something that claims I won't be able to tell the difference. Oh, I'll be able to tell. Just try me, Simply Soda. Give it a whirl, drugstore brand snack cracker. I'm right here, unlabeled toothpaste. I'm not all talk.

"No frills" isn't a slogan of savvy triumph. It's an acknowledgement of an unspoken agreement. It means, "This product sucks, but you're cheap. So everybody gets what they want." I want airlines to spend the extra money to serve me a meal that doesn't come in a small foil sack and consist mainly of nuts. Let them charge me for it. It's not like I don't already spend ten extra dollars at the airport McDonald's to try and make up for the lack of nourishment afforded by my flight. I prefer to choose which corners I cut. Is that wrong?

Actually, my favorite wines are really quite affordable. Usually under $10 a bottle. If only because I have a few bottles of very pricey stuff, and I never want to open them. So, instead of wasting an elegant varietal on an evening with a jerk I'd rather forget, I usually end up letting it sit until it becomes expensive vinegar. This is the same mechanism that explains why there is so much in my refrigerator that shouldn't still be. But soft! Is this a breakthrough? No. I don't suppose. False alarms are many when you're bored and looking for fun on the Internet. I think, when I began this, I was going to write something about displacement and life lived on hold.

Someone nearby is playing a flute. Badly.

3113

See the opening titles of Catch Me If You Can. That is my mandate.

I work all the time. I have no idea what day of the week it is, most days. I felt a small surge of relief and joy tonight when I realized it was only Friday. Even though it makes no difference that it is Friday. It just makes the parking situation less negotiable.

It was easier to be confident and easy when I didn't know the difference. There's that curious phenomemon of trying too hard -- the effort that drives it all away from you. Deciding that you want something is the surest path to never getting it. Like eating the fruit of the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil. Knowing what it is. Knowing what it's worth. Having the blinders removed. Bringing it all into focus. See the truth, and you will surely despise it. It's the reason all the classy joints keep the price tags hidden. To see a thing for what it truly is is to see it naked and ashamed and valueless. In many ways, living in the fog of an innocent illusion was more like the idea of life one has. The idea that things make sense and some of it will come out right in the end. If life was a Stephen Spielberg movie, you could be certain of the happy ending. You could count on the redemption story.

The ones who hear the subtext more clearly than the words are more precious, more insightful, more wise, more worthy.

I watched a wonderful Japanese film called Good Morning recently. A 1959 Technicolor piece. Reading the subtitles, it is remarkable that the Japanese communicate almost exclusively on what is implied. Nearly every statement ends with, "But..." or "And so you see..." And that includes the ellipses. Sentences trail off into the incomplete of the unsaid. It's how it's done. The world is a question. There is none of the surefooted buffoonery of other-world arrogance. Even if he believes that he knows more than you do, he will never let you know it. But we are the nation that wears those scouting sashes -- the ones covered in badges that declare our mastery of something or our completion of something else. We are the nation of the award. And of the awards ceremony. We are not subtle. We are not secret. We do not admire humility or crave anonymity. Not most of us.

I don't know what I admire or what I crave. I think I do what is expected of me. Even when I try to subvert that. I am as predictable as time. Even when I think I am full of surprises, they are only the surprises everyone knew were coming. I am true to the premonitions. My buttons are easy to push. And they are labeled in easy-to-read alphanumeric symbols.

I am attracted to the blues and the reds.

It's been cold. But not cold enough. And then hot. Too hot. And then windy. And then murky. And then utterly nothing. I haven't even had a chance to find a favorite sweater. Previous winters have had their favorite sweaters picked out long before now. But sometimes it seems as if everything within my reach has fallen out of favor with me. All gone sooty with -- why isn't "crapulence" a word? I said yesterday in an email: "Isn't there a Greek letter called 'crapsilon?' That's the letter I am thinking right now." I'm all for adding more words to the dictionary with "crap" in them. Crap is in abundance this season.

I'm rambling and not wanting to. I'm tempted to stomp my feet. But I have hardwood floors and intolerant neighbors. And I have been taught to put their needs before my own. Cash this promptly. It's void after 60 days.

Get back to where you once belonged.

I, observational.

I have started days -- many of them -- with a commitment to going through the motions. I have marked time with memories and taken note of the changes.

I realized yesterday, while watching a movie that I'd only just gotten around to watching, that I have come a long way. I took further note of it in the wee hours, before I gave in to sleep. Yesterday, it was okay to relax and have a day. With work submitted and obligations not yet on the calendar, I was free. And it was new to me. These past few days, brewing coffee and making lunch and running errands and doing dishes and the very most ordinary sort of activities have provided me with...ballast. It's a curious sensation to be holding dissatisfaction at arm's length. Even for a day.

I recall the duality of the start of the day. Being glad to be up and out. Being dismayed to be required to sit still. Being drawn to the window and what lay within its frame. Being anxious to be somewhere else. My days begin differently, now. And they never end.

Ouchy

I just banged my head on the corner of the freezer door. I'll bet I'm well on my way to brain damage. I have hit my head on more things than most people my age. I've hit my head on more things than some people who hit their heads on things for a living. Curiously enough, my father often makes an entrance with a bandage on his head. It's so common a thing that you're less likely to ask what he hit his head on and more likely to ask if the gash goes to the bone. Genetically, I think my father managed to serve me with the most questionable of the bequests. Couldn't I have gotten his blue eyes instead?

Oh, sure, it's a cute sort of clumsiness, but, if you were having emergency heart transplant surgery, you wouldn't want me carrying the sloshing bowl of fluid and organ from the cooler to the operating table. I'd trip and spill it for sure. And then fall on it and mash it accidentally with the heel of my hand, trying to break my own fall. And I would scramble to piece it back together and pick the hair and bits of carpet out of it, but to no avail. And you would try to raise your fist and curse my name before succumbing to death, but in your weakened state, your fury would be mistaken for sentiment. And I would be comforted.

This has been a true story.

Easy Breezy

It was still awfully windy tonight. But warm. I could feel the wind blowing, but I didn't need my jacket at all. I wish I hadn't bothered bringing it.

I went to see Dennis Quaid and his band The Sharks at Cinespace tonight. I think that's what it's called. Cinespace. Cinescape. Cinesnack. Cinecide. Something like that. It was a fun show. Dennis Quaid is remarkably not unlike his protrayal of Jerry Lee Lewis when he gets behind the microphone. He was out there full throttle from the moment he stepped on stage. I noted that he would definitely need a lozenge after the show. Possibly two.

And who would have guessed that so much of the Hollywood crowd that turned out to cheer him on would be dance-happy lesbians? I didn't mind them. Only they were in such dense numbers up near the stage that I could barely see Dennis through them. I actually recognized one blonde woman I remember seeing at the Sunset Room last spring. I have only seen her that one time, but she apparently made an impression on me. Because I recognized her rather mechanical dance style and her long blonde hair immediately. At the Sunset Room, she was heavy into this other blonde woman, who was dancing with a man, who soon realized he was an appendage. I'm surprised I remembered it at all. Doesn't my brain need that space?

I was tired from the moment I picked up my keys to leave, but I still filled the night right up. Fred's 62. Cinespace. Yamashiro's. Nova Express. I'd have gone to a movie, too, only it's late and my nocturnal behavior is screwy enough as it is. And it's a good thing. My upstairs neighbor is playing a guitar right now. I may have to puncture my ear drums if I'm ever to have any rest.

I'll turn in without regret and look forward to a day of getting ahead of it all. Already a week into this 2003. The race is on!

Why do birds suddenly appear?

My UPS guy just told me he has a crush on me. That was weird.

MGM Parade

The wind is howling. It sounds exactly like that part of The Wizard of Oz score when all the female voices simulate the sound of the tornado in the ouverture and as Dorothy gets a load of Munchkinland. It's a corny sort of onomatopoiea: the wind goes, "Woooooo." Stupid.

Also, I got Kermit the Frog-tographer from Macy's just before Christmas, and I love him. He's very well-made and nifty. I've left him in the big plastic bag he came in, because I don't want him to get soiled. But it looks sort of morbid. With his mouth wide open the way Muppets do. As if he got put in that bag and then suffocated there. The death mask of a frog. I should take him out. And drop him in quicksand. No, really. I should take him out. And suspend him in a fishtank.

Cruel humor comes easily at this hour, it seems.

Turner Classic Movies is playing what they're calling the MGM Parade (see above), and they're on this short about how to carve a turkey. I find it impossibly amusing. This poor guy is botching the job of carving a turkey. "Grrr. Is he inside a big dilemma!" the narrator cries and makes some remark about how the guy's wife's family isn't being so very supportive. Then begins the carving lesson. And when the white meat begins to give way, the narrator utters such gems as, "Mm, mm. Life doesn't seem so bad after all," and "Yow-wee. Are my gastric juices effervescing!" and "I'm sorry, dear patrons, but THIS is my piece." Does it get any better than this? I submit that it does not.

"All shall love me, and despair."

I've been immersed in The Fellowship of the Ring nearly all day. I watched a patch of it on a pay channel. Then, I put the special extended DVD in and sat down in front of it, fully planning to avoid my work and have a sandwich and make a few hours fall away. But I got distracted, and then it was onto the second disc, and I hadn't even really watched it. So I put the second disc in, but I soon ended it. The shorter version was playing on television again, so I let it play. And I worked. And the wind blew. So tempestuous a wind that my kitchen windows kept rattling open. And the fire's flames are drawn up the chimney magnificently. Drawn up up up by the thirsty wind. When the film was over, some crap film came on, and I couldn't bear it, so I put the special edition in. Again. From the beginning. And I worked. And it played. And eventually, I satisfied myself that I could sit in front of the fire and watch without guilt or shame. So I did. I'm still watching it. One side of me is nearly scorched from the flames. The other side is slightly less warm. And still the wind blows. Whistling through the window glass. Hurling things about in the street. Rattling anything it can. I appreciate the safety of inside.

Big continuity error in Boromir's night of a million arrows scene, by the way. Watch out for me, Hollywood. I always notice. The most common one: Plates of food that rotate their contents every time the camera cuts away. Smartypants? I am the smartest pants in town.

Dragging of the Feet

I'm so tired all the time. I haven't felt well-rested in months. Sleep has just become something else to do. I went out to pick up my photographs today. It was beautiful out. I stopped by Walgreen's to buy some uninteresting supplies. A woman at the door held a small crochet purse out at me and mumbled something. I kept walking. When I left, she was in the parking lot, making the same unintelligible pitch. I made a stop at the newsstand and bought music magazines and things that looked worth reading. When I returned to my car, she was right there again. I kept ignoring her. I thought, She looks like she's doing all right. She's got a sweater and a handbag and an armload of purchases from the 99 Cents Only store. I think she's asking for five dollars, which is a bit grand for panhandling. And if she's trying to sell that coin purse for that amount, she's cracked.

Each time I ignored her, she said something that sounded like, "God bless you." But I had a feeling she was being sarcastic.

It's warm out, but my apartment is chilly. I put a fire on and allowed TNN to fill my living room with the dulcet tones of the Star Trek: The Next Generation marathon they're running. It's the episode where Ryker gets the power of the Q. What's funny is that Ryker grants Wesley Crusher his greatest desire, which is to be ten years older -- a man. And then -- poof! He's this big, strong Sears model-type guy. But it's been ten years since this episode, and Wil Wheaton still looks like the same dork he was back then. Ha ha. And then the hot Klingon chick appears for Worf. Blah blah blah. They all realize they would rather not have what they most want. How noble and wise and advanced they are. Gah! This is such a Twilight Zone-inspired crock.

I was never much of a fan of Ryker-centric episodes. And it's a Deep Space Nine marathon I'm pining for. But my first season DVD set is pre-ordered, so I can feign patience for now. Plus, I have work to do and no excuses. Save for distraction.

For instance, I always frowned on the use of "Plus," as a sentence opener. I think it was most displeasing to me in the days when I wrote catalog copy. I don't know why. It's no less functional than any synonym of it. But for some reason, it seemed lazy to me. I'm a snob like that. I'm glad I am also able to outgrow things.

If only my stream of consciousness would accidentally dump me on the threshold of my current project. Instead, I feel myself being drawn toward that massive stack of still-cellophaned DVDs in my living room. Oh, they want watching, don't they? And maybe I should make some soup. And I really ought to clean my floors. And it's never too soon to get started on your taxes. And I can't remember if I like the way I looked in that one pair of pants. Why don't I go retry them?

The Demon Barber of Fleet Street

I went to see The Two Towers a second time a few days ago. I wanted to take my dad. When Gollum came on screen, my dad leaned over to me and said, "I assume that's a computer animation." I was going to say, "No, it's Steve Buscemi," but he wouldn't have known who I meant. Edwards Cinemas carry Reese's Pieces. It's like a better world in there in some ways.

I went to drop off film and buy my firewood and fake firelogs and other crap. I was wearing tennis shoes and black velour pants and a red wool Boy Scouts jacket of some kind. I was ready for action, that's for certain. But Ralph's was short on it. I did see a few actor types in the aisles. That's something I haven't yet gauged my reaction to. I see famous people. I know what they've been in. I'm not starstruck, necessarily. I just think it's weird to see someone you sort of know while you are certain they don't know you. Like having lived some portion of your life in a room with one-way glass.

This is the third year in a row I didn't send out holiday cards. I feel a failure. Next year, I'm knitting sweaters for everyone!

Get down.

It's getting on that dusky hour when I would have had ideas and images dancing in my head if I were near a west-facing window. In the immediate, my urgency is wrought of the need for fireplace fodder and something to look forward to. I thought about meals I haven't made in so, so long. I wondered if it would be worth all the effort to cook something spectacular for just me. No. In the end, I suppose it isn't. I never feel very much like eating what I've made. To serve. That is my wish.

Thoughts spark in the electromagnetic soup. They pop into your brain of a sudden. They assault you. Or tickle you. They invade. Is it such a wonder that it might occur in tandem? That two thoughts -- in many ways the same -- might burst from the ether simultaneously but in two different places? This is just a wordy way of asking, "Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Are you ever? Does it ever make sense to believe in likemindedness? Can it be sustained? Should it?

I'm very questiony today. Recently. I'm taking inventory.

Sometimes, I think I like myself better when I'm smiling.

The Time-Trampled Face

I was sorting through an assortment of digital pictures on my computer just now (and, yes, the number of files on my computer ending in .jpg would leave you agog) and I ended up looking at a series of pictures taken a year ago today. I wondered if I've really begun to look so very different. Or if I've just been tired lately. Perspective is curious. I remember looking at the pictures when they were taken and thinking how different I looked even then. Something about the eyes. I was ghastly sick that week. But none of that factors in.

Maybe I'm just missing out on opportunities to see what my eyes look like when the sunlight is streaming into them. Pouring in through my corneas and finding its way to my brain chamber.

Isn't it funny how sudden sunlight makes you sneeze?

Deep Pacific

I didn't mean to stay away from home as long as I did. There was always something left to do. Or some favor that cropped up. I found myself relaxing guiltily. And yearning to be back. For belonging. Or something else. I was glad to nestle into the embrace of the holiday week. But gladder still to break free of it.

I sang these words tonight (I made them up): "I feel as if I am made of the substance that god is made of!"



I don't think it was an accurate statement. But it was good for a laugh.

"In the pale light of the morning, nothing's worth remembering."

I get all worked up over things. A song lyric plays in the car, and I want to pull the car over so that I can scribble it down and have a thought about it. I instruct myself to remember things just so I can keep from having to pull over all the time, and then when I get to my destination, the things I was supposed to remember have vaporized. I know they were there, but I have no ability to resurrect them. Often, there aren't even shadows or trails to follow. I just have to shrug and keep going.

With movies, it's all the more maddening, because I have to wait until they're over to write it all down, if I'm at the cinema. If I'm at home, I can run for paper and pen. Or call upon TiVo.

But then, hours later, days later, years later -- I find the scribbled words and I wonder why I wrote them down. Or I remember their one-time significance and scoff at it. Maybe I'm always thinking I've outgrown an idea. As sentimental as I am, I catch myself recalling the way I used to feel about something and stifling the same sort of instinct that causes an elementary school bully to ridicule you for having a mother who loves you enough to make cupcakes for your class or put your photograph on a tee shirt.

What a fool I was. What an addlepated fool. What a mutton-headed dolt was I.

"Eternal life thanks to science!"

Adam referred me to the Raelians. He knows how I'm always searching for answers. I am particularly curious about a religion/philosophy that displays such pervasive and skillful use of feather GIFs.

Bottoms Up

Happy new year, gents and jerks. I failed to fulfill all of my obligations tonight, and for that, I feel like an heel. But I laughed a lot. And I've got that little sore throat that says I stayed out too late and didn't wear enough jacket. Last year, that turned into a month of death-defying illness. This year, I hope it will turn into a few days of soup and tea and a fresh start.

Cheers for kisses, however far from midnight they may fall.

Should old acquaintance be forgot

Just a matter of hours now. The numbers change. The tide shifts. The page gets turned. And you start over again. And you start singing In My Life by the Beatles.

Memories carry immense significance for me on nights like this. I am in the business of keeping them. Making them, as well. I will put away apologies for now, and face a fine Tuesday night.

We'll take a cup of kindness yet.

Dining near the stars.

I went out for dinner with friends. Off in another corner of the restaurant, Peter Strauss and Rachel Ticotin were having their dinner. If it wouldn't have made me look a fool, I would have wanted to tell Peter Strauss what a huge crush I had had on him when I was a girl. Particularly because of Masada and a remake he did of Angel on My Shoulder. That was when I was just on the fringe of beginning to realize that I found men -- certain of them -- attractive and wonderful. Of course, all I ever wanted to do was marry them. Nine year-old girls don't generally hope for a hot night in the jacuzzi with the celebrity of their choice. They just want to marry him and change their surname. Love was so simple in those days, hm?

I wore the cutest shoes in the world tonight. I love them. That's another simple kind of love that I find to be entirely manageable. A hat gets tossed in the air for that.

Peter and Rachel left the restuarant as we were standing outside on the sidewalk. We watched them walk to their car. It's a shame that everyone doesn't just know everyone. Or that the world doesn't have so few people in it that such a thing could be true. It would be nice to never be barricaded by that wall of unfamiliarity. I would have liked to say, "Hi," in the same way that one might ask one's neighbor how the tulips are coming in this year. I would have liked to ask how their dinner was without actually caring what they answered. Good old casual acquaintance. Would that take the fun out of everything? I'm on the fence about it.

The Softest Skin

I enjoyed performing tonight. Despite an overwhelming feeling of brutal exhaustion. I had fun on stage, and I didn't hate my choices. The best line I think I uttered was "a book about burritos?" But certain things stick with me for reasons that aren't obvious. There were other happy moments.

We toasted the last show of the regular season with asti spumante, and the flavor brought back memories of past toasts and past celebrations. And we pondered our resolutions. That someone's resolution was "to pork Mary" was amusing to me. But I think it was only because pork makes for a funny verb. And maybe because I'm not sure if it's acceptable to be flattered by that.

I didn't have a well thought-out resolution to offer. I have made lists before. I have written them on airsick bags or scraps of note paper or napkins. I have made them on New Year's Day. Or in October. Or in the middle of February at a Chinese restaurant. I have forgotten most of them. Promises I make to me seem easier to break. I don't know what task I will burden myself with this year. I am just relieved to be looking forward to it. I have very positive things to reflect on and a great deal to be excited about. This coming year has every reason to be the best one yet. The one I've just lived has been its own set of superlatives. I feel fortunate. And wiser in some respects. I'm not willing to accept the monotone of self-doubt. I would like to be someone very important to someone else this year. But I would also like to take a crack at being very important to myself for a change.

And then it began to rain. A downpour through the window of a restaurant where the Christmas lights are still up. Ooh, but that is something I like. I like seeing the reflection of red and green traffic lights on wet asphalt. It's pretty to me. And it's nice when it's so late that the streets are empty enough for you to see that bit of colorplay.

I feel unusually tired tonight. And ready for something like rest.

Sometimes, when I'm leaving Los Angeles, I feel a sense of relief and anticipation. Other times, those feelings accompany my trip back. Maybe it's just that I like to be in the car going somewhere.

Holiday Postlude

I bought Pumpkin Pie ice cream at Cold Stone last night. They have Egg Nog, too. This fact is one of my favorite details of the yuletide season. In the summertime, all they can offer you is strawberry, which you can get all year long. What else would there be? Swimming pool-flavored ice cream? They usually offer some baseball-themed flavor or something that has a patriotic package in time for Independence Day. But the other seasons don't really offer the same flavoring opportunities that the holidays do. You can get a Shamrock Shake at McDonald's for St. Patrick's Day, but that's kind of wrong, isn't it? Shamrocks don't taste like mint in the slightest.

One A.M. has a way of sneaking up on me.

I tell myself I'm going to go to sleep at a more reasonable hour. I've got things to do. I need my rest. And yet, night after night, I glance at some time-telling device in a state of complete alertness and realize that it is one A.M. and that once I've done with my many pre-sleep rituals, it will be four A.M. or something similar and I will again be on my way to a day of wondering whether I might have amounted to more if I had bothered to get a good night's sleep and have a complete breakfast.

I don't believe in breakfast. I know people the world over insist that it's the one thing that will keep you from death or idiocy. But I just don't buy it. I love breakfast food. I will happily eat it at any hour of the day you please. I just don't make any special apportionments for the taking of a meal before my day begins. And I get a lot done, as such things go. Ask anyone who knows me.

There are a lot of things I don't believe in. And not for the sake of being contrary and not in a state of "anymore." I just find that many time-honored bits of advice -- many generation-affirmed rules of life and how it's to be lived -- are just not applicable to me. I like folklore and wives' tales and spooky mumbo jumbo about superstitious nonsense. But I just like it because it amuses me. Not because it provides me with a basis for making important decisions in my daily existence.

I think I just don't like rules. I'm not a rebel in the classic sense. But I don't like doing anything just because I'm supposed to. I feel myself pushing off the expectations placed on me the way my family's dog wriggles out of a santa hat we try and tie to her head. "It doesn't belong there!" Amen to that.

I wish life -- or my life, to be more specific -- could be lived without limits. Without pragmatism. Without fear. Without guilt. I wish the days would be hotbeds of opportunity for me. Vast expanses of adventures not yet had. I wish I could live my life in a more linear fashion. And in higher gear. And without access to the reverse setting at all.

I also want to fault myself less for wanting to be kind and generous or for wanting to do a good deed. The idealist in me is melting away like a salted slug. I want to belay that process. I want to buy the idealist in me a drink and see where the night takes us. She's a goer when you get a little of the devil's juice in her. So I hear.

I find poetry from time to time. In the most unlikely places. There is poetry in release and in forgiveness and in sorrow and in shadow. There is delicate verse in accidental confessions and deliberate ones. There is the turn of a lyric in the occasional moment of splendor. Just as there is in the moments of despondence. I am as needy as I am needless. As desirous as I am restrained. I am as surprising as I am dependable. And I am as unfinished as I am complete.

I am done for now.

"Forgive me. I was wrong to despair."

Note: This will not be a review of The Two Towers but rather of the experience of sitting next to a hulking pile of man filth for the duration of the film.

I was really looking forward to seeing The Two Towers, and sorely disappointed that I wasn't able to manage to see the midnight showing on the morning of the night it opened -- if that makes any sense. But I finally got there. And I finally got to see a film on the Cinerama Dome screen at the Arclight, which was a fine thing. They claim to have the best popcorm. They're not just tooting their own horns.

The man sitting next to me couldn't have had any rings on his fingers. Unless they were masonic. He could not have belonged to anyone. I don't say this because I have some elitist opinion about who does and doesn't deserve to have love or partnership. I'm just saying that this person could not have been the sort who had had to live in the state of compromise required by an intimate relationship. And also there is the fact that he was very human-smelling. And he had such a preposterous mole on his upper lip. No one could ever be paired up with someone with a mole like that. I'm sure of it.

Carrying on. He was there with two other male "buddies." They were all well past the age of the middle. He was a heavy-set fellow, with a paunchy girth resting high up on his torso, and squat, fat legs that splayed out to either side, the right one managing to rest almost perpetually in my pre-purchased seating territory. He was wearing a short-sleeved, button-down shirt. It was reddish and sort of plaid or gingham. I tried to only look at him peripherally. Particularly when he began to do things that would have encouraged me to memorize his face lest I ever see him on the street and have the opportunity to dispose of him without anyone noticing.

From the very commencement of the film, he would not be still. And he had brought with him a big crinkly jacket that made a great deal of noise every time he balled it up and tried to stuff it further into his lap. Which was often. He only spoke twice, and in both cases it was full voice and to say something inane. The two utterances were, "Dwarf tossing?" and "At least he didn't say, 'Walk this way.'" But in the periods when he was not speaking, he made more noise than I thought humanly possible. Every yawn was followed by a luxurious groan and smacking of the mouth. Popcorn was perpetually being urged from between his teeth with loud sucking noises. His breathing was more like persistent sighing with intermittent sniffling and whimpering and frequent coughs and sneezes. Then there were the belches. Which required him to actually scoot forward in his seat to steady their force. Early in the film I saw him do something which he proceeded to do at least seven or eight times, despite my attempts to not notice. He would reach his chubby arm across himself and insert his fingers into the opening of his sleeve, scratch at his armpits for a few seconds, and then quite plainly raise those fingers back to his nose and sniff at them. He did this to both armpits a number of times. I thought I was going to be sick.

And when he wasn't scratching himself, pawing at his crotch, smoothing his hair, fidgeting, clearing his throat, picking his teeth, or rearranging his clothing -- well, he wasn't doing anything, because there simply was not a moment in the film when he wasn't doing at least one of those things. I even recall seeing him readjusting the buttons of his shirt, finding a kernel of popped corn within the shirt, and raising it to his lips and eating it. Yuck.

My only complaint about the film was that it wasn't loud enough. If only the battle for Helm's Deep would have taken the whole length of the film, I might not have had to hear his laborious efforts to keep from suffocating on his own membranes. Instead, at all the quiet, tender, sentimental moments, he was coughing or chortling or hacking or harrumphing. So much so that I wanted to pound him. I kept asking myself what one says in this circumstance. How does one ask another person to be still? How does one ask an adult to breathe more quietly or to stop punching his crisp outerwear into a ball. Most of the phrases that came to mind were sarcastic and nasty and would probably have provoked a conversation, if only because he wouldn't have understood my meaning. So I kept to myself. All the while thinking, "I will have to write this down when I'm out of here." And the cataloguing of the annoyances began to take precedence over the watching of the film. That's one of the problems with watching films with the public when one is hypersensitive to inconsiderate behavior. It's the same problem with driving in any urban setting.

The thing is, his apparent struggle for life was such a noisy affair that, at points, I would turn and look right at him in horror and disbelief. And he was completely oblivious to it. He never noticed me glaring at him or leaning away from him or trying to call up the dormant powers of my Asian laser eye rays (all of us Asians have them, but some of us haven't figured out how to use them on command -- I'm one of these unfortunates). He was unfazed. And I thought to myself, "He wins, you know. He wins. He's not bothered by you. And you're bothered by the very fact of his existence. I cannot enjoy myself, and he has no idea that he is party to that. What a rotting bargain this is."

That's the sad truth. When you go to the movies and it bugs you that other people are unaware or in some cases deliberately rude, you're the only one who suffers. Some jerks -- incredibly -- are even amused and goaded on by your vocalized displeasure. There are people who feel empowered when they have ruined someone else's day. A guy in a truck was able to claim that of me on Christmas morning, as a matter of fact. And the only victory over that sort of abominable behavior is to ignore it. Which seems like a ridiculous compromise. "Be the bigger person," the world will tell you. "Don't let him get the best of you." But this is all nonsense. I'm of the mind today that it would be far more satisfying to surprise these folks with a smashing of the face with a mallet or a dropping of a nice, sturdy safe on their head. I did not leave the cinema with my fists raised in victory for not having let that fat heap know that he should aspire to never again leave his house. That he should only watch programs in a soundproof booth. Or underwater. That he should have his septum examined. And that he should stop picking at his armpits. I felt somewhat deflated and impotent. And the catharsis of writing it all down is only half a treat. Most people, reading this, would think I'm an unreasonable looney. They're wrong, though. I'm the sort of considerate that you don't notice. So considerate that it never occurs to you that you have never been disturbed by me. So careful to not interfere in your fun-having that you have no idea that I've made the effort. And I get about as much credit for that as the tooth fairy. It's all about as rewarding as giving a pizza to a homeless man who is annoyed because you have unwittingly interrupted him in the middle of a cell phone call. If this is the city of angels, the angels are mostly asses.

I should add that I am guiltily and girlishly taken with both Viggo Mortensen (spaces between his teeth and all) and Orlando Bloom. All that valor and bombast makes a girl want to go off to war. But then the dirty fingernails and the days and days without bathing bring her right back to reality.

And that's what I thought of The Two Towers.

stream of holiday consciousness

retire the red sweater road rage smile like you mean it walk the dog peel a squash sparkly glasses merlot my dog skip a christmas story something about places to visit in the holy land about schmidt more abba gold greasy popcorn m and m peanut butter inferior to the reese piece candles records pajama pants the street where you live a swanky lamp its smiling at me oh mary you are my daughter lots of pictures but not enough by a long shot coffee scented candles and the money they save you sleeveless medium rare lychee a couch for dozing cold feet knee socks the right gift the wrong tag bows that stick not so well christmas thief strikes twice wine makes my cheeks feel pink why so nervous not where i used to be the old days more presents to wrap no one is ever forgotten no one ever uses an ice cream maker save money shop after christmas sleep in but get dressed in a hurry coconut macaroons sitting cross legged a long drive a country road a wagon farm a fake horse a failed attempt a warm reception an expected silence a surprising absence of melancholy

A kiss before dying (where "dying" is sleep and the "kiss" is a blog entry).

I miss late night Christmas phone calls. The race to be the first to wish someone an especially happy day. Wanting the day to begin as early as possible. And to last forever. I miss late night lots of things. I am always up late these days. But the rest must slumber while I toil or blink or tick away the minutes with fevered thinking. They have clocks to punch.

I miss the thrill of being remembered. And sweetly. I miss the gestures that left me enraptured, unable to speak, spilling over with emotion and gratitude. I miss the feeling of a warm, special day. When the moments are so vivid, you don't have to remind yourself to take note of them. They stick. Effortlessly.

Sensorily, the holidays are a carnival for me. I plan to steal a few hugs if I can manage it. Tender sentiment of any sort would make me swell up inside like a big Christmas balloon. It's a short list -- the things that only come once a year. Overdoing it is in order.

"Fa ra ra ra ra ra ra ra ra."

I am deep into my A Christmas Story marathon. It's welcome and familiar. I will leave it on in my bedroom through the night. I will wake drowsily from time to time and catch bits of it. Just like last year. And then the festivities will be upon me and who knows where that will lead. I have celebrated this holiday in many different ways over the years. The memories that linger are precious. Even the ones that provoke feelings of sorrow. And I can tell the years apart by what I wore. Last year, it was snug red sailor pants and a sparkly black turtleneck. I haven't decided what it will be this year. But red and black would certainly not surprise me.

I have wrapping to do. And more film to watch. Chuck a coin in the fountain for me. I have no wish to be forlorn.

We Chinese can pronounce our L's just fine, as it happens.

Merrily Merrily

What a place, this Hollywood. I saw a gang of bald, illustrated men being subdued by our men in blue in a tattoo parlor on Hollywood Boulevard as I made my way to the Disney Store. I wondered what they had done, but not enough to stand around amongst the other lookieloos hoping to find out.

I didn't have as good a day as I would have liked. And I'm almost too weak to begin the wrapping task. When oh when will the A Christmas Story marathon begin?

With Passion

I hope you will experience something amazing. Something that will stir your insides and make you lie awake at night. I wish you more of what you want than what you need. And I hope you find reasons to laugh and cheer and cry. If you have prizes to open, don't open them gingerly; tear the paper and smash it up into a ball when you're done with it. And if you have snow to play in, make an angel for me. I once tried to make one in Julian, California, and ended up falling back -- trustingly -- onto solid rock with about a centimeter of snow on it. It hurt my head.

I took this picture about a week ago in front of my parents' Christmas tree.

Peace.

Accidental Onion

I spent much of the day nearly asleep in my car. Willing my eyelids open. Singing songs I've sung so many times in recent drives that I've grown to hate them. I drove nearly 400 miles today. And always with a purpose. I far prefer driving with no plans at all. But that's rare for me. I like when you don't care when you get there. But you know something pleasant is waiting for you.

Today didn't turn out as it was written. A lot of artistic license was taken with the script. But I'm through it. To a point. And I will finish my shopping and wrapping tomorrow. Frantic and harried, like all procrastinators. I already got several perfect gifts. Anything that shows up on Christmas morning will just be icing.

My quality control method for determining if fast food denizens have managed to omit the onion from my sandwich is to bite in and find out with my mouth. I think this is a bad protocol and should be rethought forthwith. Ptooey.

"Every time that I look at you, I can see the future."

There is comfort in remembrance. Not necessarily reassurance. But comfort. Yes. It is as it was. It is as it wasn't. It isn't anything at all. But it all presses forward and things get left behind. I don't have promises to court or ambivalence to stir into the Christmas drink. Holiday cheer has not eluded me. Failure has not pinned me. I get more out of the moments and less grudgingly. I am unafraid when ordering fizzy drinks. I awoke feeling different. Only just slightly. But enough to notice. Can it be a prison if the doors are all wide open?

Even my dreams are letting me off more easily.

Split Peach

There are times when I am made to feel -- by someone who purports to love me -- as if I am inconsiderate or selfish and unjustly so. I can't properly articulate the sort of frustration and despair this engenders. Persuasive words clog up in my throat. I hear myself giving up. The provocation of the irrational is no longer the irresistible nectar it once was. The argument is like an asthmatic attack. I can't breathe. And the only weapon against it is to wait for it to pass.

How idealistic and belief-rich this girl once was. Eager to convince. To sway an opinion. To illumine. But giving up is sometimes nobler than persisting with the banging of one's head against a wall. To throw in the towel is to submit. And that is as much a part of my nature as is the will to overcome. Apologetic vanquisher. Zealous deserter. I do things that don't always make sense.

It's hard to look forward to the holidays when all of the traditional topnotes are missing.

The Sanrio Store: Vortex of Universal Happiness

The little Japanese schoolgirl in me loves this time of year. But Sanrio provides pan-seasonal joy. It occurs to me how lame I am. That a new character in Hello Kitty land is as intriguing to me as the new kid at school -- the world is again a place of wonder. And that I feel similarly refurbished at Urban Outfitters or any other such purveyor of retail cool.

I used to flip through catalogs and mark the items I would buy if I had the money. It was nearly as good as actually buying them. As if making the decision to want to buy it was a powerful statement of decisive good taste. Shopping in a store is like that for me. I look around. And I congratulate myself on the items I am fortunate enough to want. If wanting things -- tangible or otherwise -- is anything at all like having them, I should be content. I am prosperous in that currency.

The closer you get to sunrise, the more secrets get revealed. It's a mathematical certainty.

Dawn Comes Daily

Late nights that turn into early mornings when you are as reluctant to leave as you are to stay. I remember this.

"Irving Berlin."

There was one word that kept coming into my head while watching Star Trek: Nemesis, and that word was derivative. I will have to elaborate on another day. I have many thoughts, but they are painfully disorganized.

I saw it in the big theater at Grauman's Chinese. I think my last foray there was on account of Star Wars: Attack of the Clones. The Lil Bow Wow trailer that night garnered hilarious booing from the packed house. The trailer for The Core before today's screening contained a few things worth booing, too, coincidentally. Most noteworthy is the fact that the ostensible protagonist of this thematically nuclear-science-centric story can't pronounce the word "nuclear." I cringe just thinking of sitting through two or so hours of that guy saying "nucular" this and "nucular" that. If that ever becomes an accepted variation of the word, I may be forced to swallow a lump of coal. Then, there's the announcement that the catastrophe cannot be avoided. Someone says something to the effect of, "What can we do to fix it?" and someone else says, "We can't," and then Stanley Tucci says, "What if we could?" What a world this is. The world of The Core. "You will never win the lottery, Fergus." "Yes, but what if I did." "Ah, well, you make a good point there." Who's scoring this debate?

Oh. And in other news of trailer debacles, I can't imagine why the trailer for Daredevil is as bad as it is. I'm sure the movie will be bad. But trailers are usually such inaccurate harbingers of that sort of truth. In the background of visual imagery of Ben Affleck in mussed hair and/or a rather unimpressively-made and ill-fitting superhero costume, there's a ridiculous hip hop song playing. Both times I've seen this trailer in the theater, I haven't been able to keep from laughing. Are the lyrics "supercalifragilistic monkey dropping go ballistic"? Because if they're not, they might as well be. What?

I got a spot of Christmas shopping done. And I had a nice dinner and a nice lunch and a lot of laughing and gadding about. For some reason, I was freakishly giddy today. I was flustered and going at everything at a fevered pitch. It was partly crazy and harried and out of control. And it was partly buoyant and wonderful. I've been going for nearly a full round of the clock. And I suspect I shall still experience difficulty getting sleep to overtake me. I may have to seduce sleep with some challenging reading. Or barbiturates.

Today was a real bit of L.A. And possibly a bit of Christmas, too.

Epilogue: Apparently, it's "Supercalifragilistic. When we drop, we go ballistic." You're a better person for knowing that.

Rain and Rye Bread
How I do love the rain. When it pours. Especially when it pours. Making a run for it. Giggling and sprinting into the house. Delighting in the shelter it provides. You're never as glad to be back home as when you're taking refuge there. And then you're lured immediately to the fireplace and to the warmth of a cordial (and to the company of the elite who won't think you dim and affected for calling a shot of Goldschlager "a cordial") and records playing while the dialogue flows and the semi-absence of time that takes over when the day is just grey from end to end and you can't tell it's over until it's quiet and dark.
But I love to be in it as much as I love to come in from out of it. The cars that drove against the curbs today looked as if they were surfing. Great fans of water shot up from under their tires. What a hurry they were all in. And I stood under the private shelter of my leopard print umbrella and waited for my car to be retrieved. And I laughed at how cold and wet everything was. How my new handbag was faring. The way it smells when the world is soaked. And how you can begin looking forward to the bright, fresh tomorrow. The squeaky clean skies above the still damp streets. If the sun makes a go of it, the city will look like a postcard of what a coastal holiday purports to be. Set a white Christmas against a golden one and I wonder which one pulls ahead in the popular races.
I ran across the street to buy ice cream to serve with a hasty dessert. The sidewalks weren't so wet that I made a mess of my shoes. I ran the whole way. And I remembered how much I enjoy the taste of cold air in my lungs and the angry beating of an effort-roused heart. I love that there are places I can run to.

Glimpse

Reminders of ponytail days. One in particular.

   

Half-Hearted Clap on the Back

Even as things were, I didn't quit until NOW, which is much later than it was when I first surrendered to the idea of quitting. As quitters go, I think I come off looking surprisingly responsible and motivated.

And I still have to put sheets on my bed before I can climb into it. Frown.

Well Begun Is Half Done

She's a tricky one, that Mary Poppins. This spoonful of sugar tastes just like medicine.

I am convinced I will never be finished with this project. Every possible pitfall has presented. And I feel my eyeballs going all squishy. So be it. I shall wear the "Quitter" jersey for this leg of the race. But I'll make up for it in the downhill.

There to Here in No Time Flat

I drove fast tonight. I could hear the whoosh I was making as I sped past other motorists, entities who became little more than a color of paint and a pair of headlights to me in the aftermath. I was in a hurry. And I established a fast pace to begin with. But moreso, I was looking forward to being able to come to a stop. And I remembered the release of coming home. And it was alluring. I covered the 175 miles or so in about 1:45. It's positively criminal. But I am teaching myself not to be sorry.

For the record, this was me in gig mode. In the days that followed, I dressed in black and played until my fingers bled. Literally. When I go, I go full tilt.

It's late, and I'm aware of it. I feel that omnipresent ache of overdoing it. It's the sensation I have often relied upon to remind me that I'm here and up to things. Like the satisfaction of sore muscles after a good, long run.

I have begun to feel a bland disinterest come over me when people express wonder at how much I do and how little sleep I take and how hard I push and blah di blah di blah. I am impatient these days. And less than anxious to inspire awe purely on the basis of how efficiently my motor runs. It doesn't really. I waste plenty. I waste a great deal. Like there was profit in it. I waste flagranty. I waste away at times. It's all part of the process.

One day, I will smile, knowing that I have inspired something legitimate. Knowing that someone I know is proud to show me off or to parade my work around in front of the crew at the office. It will mean something more to me to be admired for something that exists outside of my personal chemistry. I want to be remembered -- and possibly applauded -- for the right things. And there are certain memories -- and their bearers -- that mean more to me than others. I want it to mean something when someone points to me and says, "Isn't she something?" I want the triumph of it.

I also realize that I am growing to despise approval in the same way that an addict despises her fix. The way she rails against the satiation the evil substance delivers. I don't want to care what anyone else thinks anymore. But that is a goal that bobs on the horizon. A bit of flotsam, lingering along the edge of the ocean, just before it drops away against the curve of space. I can reach for it. And I am made for reaching. But I am using a spyglass and things are so much farther off than I can measure. Whatever my vision may tell me. My fingertips might just as easily caress the edge of the sun.

When I drive fast, I sing at the top of my lungs.

Holiday Spirit Handily Avoided

I thought playing hours and hours of Christmas songs would turn my frown upside down. But that was not the case. Maybe the fare was too Rudolph-heavy. I don't know. I used to look forward to this. Like so many other things. Today, I am anxious for my obligation to be behind me, and I am hoping Santa will understand my wish list when it says, "I would like to disappear."

Between shows today, I went out to my car with a click-track CD and wrote a bluegrassy fiddle part for a song that apparently needed that. And then I played it in the second show. I suppose I can say I'm proud of myself. That I was able to do that. That I pulled it off. I have grown so much more confident that ideas will come when I'm sitting there with manuscript paper and a mechanical pencil. And they do. I haven't written much in the way of songs of my own. A few ditties sung in the bathtub by a girl between the ages of six and ten. I still remember them. As songs go, they stink. But accompaniment is apparently my strong suit. Give me a great song someone else has written, and I'll gussy it up a bit.

When I played the song, I was ever so nervous. Perhaps because I hadn't had a chance to properly rehearse it. Perhaps because I care what some people think of my playing. Perhaps because I wasn't able to eat all day and was feeling shaky and tired. But I felt myself trembling as I played the zippity quick notes, and I felt dizzy and lightheaded when it was all over.

I am not accustomed to the rush of adrenalin anymore. It seems foreign to me. And that makes me feel poorly. I notice an almost perpetual furrow in my brow. And a consistent frown. Or at least an absence of smile. I look, right now, as if I am in great pain. And I think it's true. Those fir trees may as well be jabbing their needles into my weepy eyes. That's what the season means to me. And no amount of bows or wrapping or scented tissue paper will change that before it's suddenly next year.

Poof. It will be 2003. And you will catch me saying that I can't believe it. And I will be speaking the truth. I can't believe how much time has gone by. How much has happened. How little has happened. How much is yet to come. How little I know of it. I am aching with the disappointment.

And yet I would prefer the world to believe I'm so happy it hurts. And my only costume for that is a new shade of lipstick.

The Strange and the Familiar

It's something to be re-introduced. To hear someone say, "Hey, everyone, Mary's here!" To have everyone wonder how you've been and what you've been up to. To realize that it's been so long since they've seen you that it makes sense for them to comment on how wonderful you look. Or how slender. Or how mischievous. I realize, at such times, that I am not terribly enthusiastic about presenting anyone with a snapshot of where I am today. I tell them where I live. Where I have and haven't decided to earn my keep. That sort of thing. But mostly, I sort of feel as if very little has changed. And I don't have a litany of exciting dollops of life to pass out. It would be nice if I could just have some notecards made that I could hand out that would list the salient points. But I fear that would appear rude and against the social norm. I do a lot. But I'm too tired and beleaguered to crow about it.

My world was once filled with wonder. And an antsy, itchy urgency to take it all in. To drink it all down. To get drunk on it. In spurts, my world becomes a mess of time constraints and priorities and not being able to be two places at once. There are fewer opportunities to have a look around and sigh and say, I like it here.

There's the matter of this rut to contend with.

But it's still pleasant to be reminded that there are people who are happy when you appear and glad to see you. If I were making a list for the sake of resolution, I would say that more time should be made for happy reunions. Every day needn't be a punch in the face.

Also, there are people I dislike for smelling bad. Camels smell bad, but I never feel angry at them for it. Some people I look forward to catching up with. Others I hear myself hopscotching through the events of the past year or two, and I realize I'm thinking, Hm. I don't want to be talking to you anymore. I wonder if I'm being fair. And I wonder if I have any obligation to be.

I don't think I am a fan of most pink things.

The Funny and Where to Find It

Meeks and Scott made a commercial parody for Meeks' broadcasting class. It goes something like this. I laughed in a manner that approximated shrieking. And Cereal House is now the official sponsor of Plural. A lifetime of free breakfast!

Hoi Polloi

I am a member of a band. We performed tonight at a neat little bar called the Honey Bee Hive. The crowd liked us, and I received thumbs up on my ponytails and flash of bare midriff. I don't know if I have an actual "look," but I know I like it when I get encircled in a hug and a hand finds a bit of exposed hip and waist. That sort of innocent touch, unwittingly discovering how smooth I am, there's poetry there. If such things must be orchestrated by the proper choice of outfit, then so be it. Whatever look delivers me into a lovely sensation of warmth and kind acceptance, that's the look I want.

I stay up late enough these days that I would be well within my rights to turn into a slugabed. I wonder if I deserve commendation for not actually being one. Instead, I lunge at the day with alacrity and only lament it when I realize the toll it is taking on me. It's not sleep I need. It's rest. The two are not one.

I keep them all fooled, though. Voluble raconteuse. Cheerful bottoms-upper with the Boddington's on tap. Smiles a plenty. Proficience of posture. Attending to whatever exigencies might crop up with prying eyes and demanding, clutching fingers. Blistex isn't the only substance with emollient qualities.

I remember when all the summer ever meant to me was spelling bee.

Viddy Me in Christmas Colors

I got a parcel in the mail containing my first under-tree trimming. The Mary Forrest Fan Club is a fine kettle of folks.

How about some sleep for a change?

Finally. Largo.

At last, I've seen Nick Swardson in person. And Louie Anderson. And Patton Oswalt. And Dana Gould. And Liz Winstead. And Laura Kightlinger. And Sean Cullen. Quite a line-up for a $5 cover. I was glad of it.

The next few days are going to be gruesome with obligations and schedule cramming. I am already worn down to nearly the quick with the consumptive forces of this past month. I look tired. And that's not just my way of asking for a compliment. I look tired. And I can barely straighten up from the pains in my neck and shoulders and back. I picture elves sneaking into my bedroom after I've gone to sleep -- oh, say, around 6 A.M. -- and clubbing my back with tiny elf bludgeons. It's the only reasonable explanation I can surmise.

The continuity errors alone...

Fact: It is very common for me to mistype my name at the close of an email. I regularly type "Maru" instead of "Mary." In Japanese, "maru" means "zero."

The one that follows serves no purpose. It's for posterity.

"I used to be lunatic from your precious face."

It's glorious windy out tonight. A black, cold night with pools of light to wade through on quiet sidewalks. I would have loved to have had my photograph taken tonight. On the street. Outside. Anywhere.

At moments, the wind sounds like graceful sweeping. Or the opening of candy. It's an inviting whisper. I long to go out in it. Trees dancing, their limbs gone lilty but with a sort of frantic desperation. "We can't help it," they're saying. I understand. I can't help it either.

On a dark stretch of highway, you can drive one hundred miles per hour and never know the difference.

The language is leaving me.

A way with words

In the annals of unlikely words of encouragement from my mom, "Keep trucking," tops the list. I heard them this morning. I was amused.

Santa's making a list, and I couldn't give a fig.

I'm not grinchy. I'm just not inviting some fat, old guy in a sweaty red suit to rank me on the Naughty-Nice scale. For that matter, I hear Jesus is making a list, too. Same goes for him on the fig thing.

Elegant Goodnight

There have been delicate moments in today. Reminders of things that once made my heart race. Heralds of future quickening. Faint breaths of beauty. A line. An inkling. A desire for the savory over the sweet. An appreciation for certain brands of unpleasantness. An understanding of my own shortcomings and where I always manage to steer it wrong. I am almost always looking in a mirror. Not because I am enamored. But rather because I am curious. And accusatory. I am at fault for whatever was lacking. I am the reason it's never enough. I am serving out my sentence with the slightly sweet remainder of dying flowers and a bottomless glass of a very bitter drink.

Was I ever lovely? Was I ever wonderful? Was the fascination false all along? Or did it falter?

This has been a season of withholding. I wonder whether crowds will be bowled over when it's time to turn things loose again.

When my writing goes all cryptic-like, I know there are demons to contend with. It is easier to speak in poems when the ugliness is churning. There are beautiful ways of saying very ugly things.

Time to flip the sign. We're closed.

My work day is ending. Another will begin shortly. I am not free to rest. Or to consider. Or to revisit. My brain is cold with reluctance. My senses are quieted by disuse. My eyes hurt. And I am a servant to all of it.

The double digits of December already? Why does that make me so sad?

"Food! Water! Atmosphere!"

Maybe heaven is a themed restaurant. Maybe the heavenly hosts are animatronic animals who wear hats and business casual outfits. Maybe a giant aquarium and flaming drinks with more plastic decorations in them than actual beverage are the reward of the faithful for a life lived more boringly. Maybe the angels like the sound of a player piano that plays ragtime round the clock. Maybe.

The Sopranos made me cry.

But Spongebob made me smile. And it gave me fine ideas.

Dreams do come true.

Terminus.

I am still fascinated by the story of the Titanic. I watch scientific dissections of everything that is believed to have happened. I read books about it. I feel a similar fondness for other stories of tragedy at sea. There is something so desperate and isolated about the idea of encountering a catastrophe or a crisis out in the middle of the great ocean. The realization that you can scream, and no one will hear you. You can die, and no one will find you. You can press on or give up. No one will be the wiser. You can't conquer the sea. You can't even get it to take notice of you.

I'm not a child of the sea, per se. I might used to have been. I have almost always lived in port cities. And I have been in a few boats. But I'm no seafarer. I don't know the first thing about sailing. And I don't like to open my eyes in salt water. But there is a romance -- an allure -- to the endless crashing of the waves. The limitless froth. The fishy funk. The deep parts. The shallow parts. The living things. The skeletons. The way the sun sets and rises against an ocean horizon. When I can feel that salt air on my skin and in my hair, I dream of going places. For long stretches of time. I think of explorers and pirates and fancy people with their mass of trunks. I think of having a cabin to myself on a vast ship and calling it home for weeks.

But I don't think that manner of cruise is to be had anymore. Not unless boorish American people aren't allowed at all. The sea is no longer the luxurious route to take. Only honeymooners and retirees and single women in their middle age seem to flock to the harbor anymore. And I want a grand ocean voyage. Not a stint on the Love Boat. I want to look at the crew and not think to myself that their uniforms are silly and fraudulent. I want dinner to have all manner of fancy things to choose from. Not your choice of Chinese or Cajun chicken salad. I want to buy in.

I'm a fan of the journey. One day, when people are taking long trips to the moon and manmade cities on Mars or floating space stations with artificial gravity, I'll want to go and come back. Just for the journey's sake. I might stop for a postcard. And a Starbuck's. Which they're sure to have. But then I'll just go smooth my hair a bit and restock on reading fodder and get myself buckled in and ready for the in-flight safety instructions. I am such a great fan of anticipation. Long trips just offer me the chance to stretch the feeling out. Sometimes, arrival is just an inconvenience. I'll put off the arrival for as long as I can, thanks. Once you get there, you just have to set the clock back to zero and start over. Why rush to that?

I have never been far out in the middle of an inky black ocean in the dead of night. I will do that one day.

This is why I love George Foreman.

"One thing about being a power puncher, boy, when you got that power, all you gotta do is use it. But if you don't have the power, you just don't have it."

I am going to work to integrate this wisdom into my life on a daily basis. That George Foreman. He knows more than just grilling.

"That's why you should never say that big guys should be matched with big guys. Some small guys are really the big guys."

How true it is.

Also, Wladimir Klitschko is hot. I hope he mops the floor with Lennox Lewis.

And this has nothing to do with tonight's fight, but the HBO guys were talking about Evander Holyfield's career, and they showed a clip from his fight against Hasim Rahman in which a head butt left Rahman with a grapefruit-sized hematoma above the left eye. Gross. I was going to post a picture, but I don't ever want to see it again.