Make Mine Mike

I hesitated to do another post about pop culture – there’s more to Mikey than movie musings and celebrity sightings (though this week I did see Jean Reno (cool), Danny Bonaduce (creepy) and Weird Al Yankovic (weird)). But the Oscar nominations came out and I gotta say something.

Well, I actually don’t have that much to say, ‘cause I missed a lot of the nominated films. Haven’t seen Brokeback Mountain or Walk the Line or North Country or Capote. I still go to more movies than most, but it was much fewer than usual this year. I’d chalk it up to having a life, but, c’mon, who we kidding?

So for all I know, Jake and Heath and Charlize and Frances and Joaquin and Reese and Phillip Seymour all deserved their Oscar nods.

But William Hurt in A History of Violence? Are they kidding us?

This is a movie I did see. And Viggo (yeah, sure, I’m on a first name basis with all these people) was great. It was an interesting flick… the beginning seemed a little stylized at not being stylized (in other words, overly slow and seemingly “nice” before the problems started), but I enjoyed it.

Until Bill Hurt showed up. Then the movie turned into a comedy. I was disrupting the audience I was cracking up so hard at his schtick. What was he supposed to be? A tuff guy from Philly? Or a doofus with the worst accent and even worse facial hair. Ooh, Mr. Comatose with the chin whiskers is mad! I’m scared!

Really, you gotta see this film, just for the big finale w/Bill providing unintentional comic relief, kinda like Marlon Brando at the end of Apocalypse Now. But to get a nomination for such a performance? The Academy Awards are getting as frivolous as this blog. "The horror, the horror..."

Some people asked to guest-blog here. I agreed, but not because they’re famous authors (live and dead), but because they swore they’d write an ongoing story about me and my day-to-day life. I figured, what the hell, knock yourselves out.


Charles Bukowski

Michael woke up with his head pounding. He drank his coffee, wishing he had something to Irish it up. He had polished off that fifth of Chivas last night. He and that woman with the he met at Hollywood Park yesterday, the one with the big tits. Bitch couldn’t pick horses, but man could she put away the sauce. Michael kicked the empty bottle on the floor. Son of a bitch. Stubbed his fucking toe.

He’d have to go to the supermarket and get something to jumpstart himself. He only had a few bucks on him, so it’d be Early Times whiskey or Stalingrad vodka.

But Von’s wasn’t open yet. 7-11 was. They sold wine.

Michael needed to get dressed fast. He opened the door to his closet, feet bare, hands trembling. He didn’t think the shakes were that bad until he tried to lace up his boots over his sore toe. Couldn’t keep his fingers steady. And then he spotted the shoe polish at the bottom of the closet.

The polish was black, just like his coffee. The two went well together. He slurped it down in one gulp. Oh yeah, that hit the spot.


Stephen King

When he finally headed out that morning, Michael sensed something ominous. Especially as he stopped off at the bagel place. Back in Michael’s home town, when he was a kid, there had been a child murdered at the local kosher bakery. Thrown in with the bread dough and boiled alive. Reports said the killer was heard that night, cackling and yelling “Who’s your poppy?” And perhaps it was just an old wives’ tale, but legend was the lox spread was made from the poor little boy’s internal organs.

A chill came over Michael as he went to pay for his bialy with schmear. He shrugged off the feeling and took out his ATM card. The only thing that’s haunted, Michael thought, is my bank account. Just like most things that are empty.


Dan Brown

Michael scanned his card and tried to remember his PIN.

-Chapter 2-

“MakeMineMike” has 12 letters, with M and E appearing three times, I and K appearing twice. Only N and A appear once. N is the 14th letter of the alphabet, A is the first. Yet Na is the chemical symbol for sodium, which is the 11th element, but has an atomic weight of 23.

Which was it? 12? 14? 11? 23?

-Chapter 3-

The man behind the counter was waiting.

Michael reached into his wallet. “You take Visa?”


William Shakespeare

MICHAEL
Friends, Americans, Californians,
Lend me your ears.
Or, pray, make use of your confounded eyes.
Hath not a driver eyes?
If I signal, dost thou not let me in thy lane?
If I let you in mine, wherefore art thou creeping?
Deny thy cellphone and refuse thy call.
Get thee to a nunnery, or out of my way.
Out, damned SUV!


Dr. Seuss

I do not like these traffic jams
I do not like them, man oh man!

A single supplementary celebrity sighting story and I’ll stop.

My office building is home to several talent agencies and management companies. So sometimes their clients stop by, and we catch a glimpse of these somewhat famous people.

I say “somewhat” because it’s rarely A-level stars; usually I spot character actors, the kind of performers you recognize from a show, but often don’t know their name. “Hey, it’s that woman who played Janice, Chandler’s girlfriend on ‘Friends’” or “That police captain from ‘The Shield’ took my damn parking space.”

Once I rode the elevator with a pretty woman who looked familiar, but she left before I figured who she was. Which is good, ‘cause if I tried to say something it woulda come out like, “Hey, you’re on that HBO show I never watch, but, it’s got four women in New York whining about their love life and, well, you’re easily the cutest one. Wanna grab a drink?”

Too bad, ‘cause there aren’t many attractive women at my job. Well, there was one, Maria, but she was married; she’s since left to be a full-time mom with her first baby. When she was at work, there was a harmless flirty thing between us, and I think part of the allure for me was that Maria had a slight Mexican accent. She encouraged me to speak Spanish, and taught me slang so I could be an honorary Chicano. She would call me “Miguelito” or “Mini-Mijo”; I called her “Smiley”.

Smiley was a character from the movie Training Day. That’s the role that got Denzel Washington the Best Actor Oscar because he chewed up the scenery more than usual. Even Ethan friggin’ Hawke got a nomination. He was okay, I guess, but that guy’s been bugging me for nearly a decade. He played a pretentious, condescending slacker fuckwad in Reality Bites and then seemed to try to emulate that character in real life. My dislike of the dude was solidified when he impregnated Uma Thurman.

But I digress. Back to Smiley.

The best scene of Training Day was when Ethan Hawke gets set up by Denzel to be slowly then surely terrorized by a trio of cholos--Latino gangsters. These guys were fun to watch -- each one distinct. The first was a little pitbull with nothing but muscles, tattoos, and intensity. The second was the wise-ass of the group with a shaved head and goatee, who was always egging on Ethan Hawke: “Show me your cohete--your gun, homes. Come on, ése, I ain't gonna shoot nobody.” And the leader of the group, Smiley, was a badass vato. I assume his character’s name was ironic since this mustached gangleader never smiled; he was consistently stoic. Smiley had a presence that made him intriguing yet eerie.

Maria and I talked about that scene, and how the amazing part was that the actor who played Smiley wasn’t Mexican-American. He wasn’t even American.

His name is Cliff Curtis, from New Zealand. He’s part Maori, and played one in Whale Rider, but his “ethnic” look and chameleon-like acting ability helped him get cast as a Latino in Training Day and Blow, and as an Arab in Three Kings.

I admire those versatile actors from the UK or former British commonwealths who can play Americans -- even regional accents -- so perfectly you don’t even know they’re from another country. The ones who can just blend into a role without any notice.

I’m slightly less impressed with the eye-candy ones. They may be good actors, too, but their notoriety seems to be more about their looks and their high-profile starring roles than their performances. Hugh Jackman / Collin Farrell… I know one’s Australian, the other Irish, but since they’re both pretty-boys portraying American protagonists, to me they’re interchangeable and less interesting as Yanks.

Maria and I were discussing the character actors from abroad we both liked: Tim Roth, Toni Collette, Gary Oldman (though he dated Uma Thurman, too, dammit, back when she was still superhot). Yeah, Maria was cool.

But she was also the assistant to the office manager. While I wouldn’t say the office manager is mean-spirited, out to get us or anything, we lowly paper-pushers do bear the brunt of some bureaucracy… and passive-aggressiveness. Poor Maria sometimes had her allegiance caught between the warden and the inmates.

One day I came back from lunch and there was a note on my desk: “See me right away. – Maria.” Shit. I had probably wised off one time too many. I had asked for a no-foam latte, and I was gonna be given a pink slip.

I went to see her, expecting a reprimand about something… and she couldn’t wait to tell me: “I saw Smiley!”

“You’re Smiley,” I said.

“No, the Smiley!”

“The Smiley?”

“Yeah, in the elevator!”

“You mean Cliff Curtis?”

“Yes! Right, that’s his name! I couldn’t remember. I wish I did before I said something.”

“What’d you say?”

“I was like, ‘You’re that guy!’ And he just grinned and said, ‘Well, yes, I suppose I am.’ And I was like, ‘From that movie,’ and he nodded, and I was gonna say something about how he was so cool as the cholo with the shotgun to Ethan Hawke’s head in the bathtub, but then he got off on his floor, so I didn’t get a chance.”

I think she was embarrassed at being so tongue-tied, but as you can imagine, I could relate. I quoted Smiley’s line from Training Day:

“Life's a trip, qué no?”

Anyone catch the premiere of that #1 Single show with Lisa Loeb last night?

Here's the premise -- she leaves LA to find the perfect date back in New York. I tell ya, if I had known this thing was in the works, I coulda been Lisa Loeb's love in Los Angeles, and more importantly, prevent another celeb-reality dating show from polluting our airwaves.

See, couple of months ago, I was at one of my coffee-house hangouts, working on the laptop, composing a brilliant piece of fiction. Weird thing: an earlier section I had written featured a guy hooking up with this girl he really liked, but he thought to himself that she'd be even sexier -- if that was possible -- if she wore glasses. Cat's-eye ones, like Lisa Loeb wears.

I was typing away several pages past that part, when I noticed the cutie herself enter the joint. Damn, she still was as adorable as when she first appeared on the folksie indie rock scene. And she still wore those glasses.

I also noticed outside there was another somewhat famous person with glasses. Sunglasses. I wasn't sure, but I think it was Jon Favreau. It wasn't the shades that threw me off, it was that he was huge. Favreau's a big guy, at least 6 feet, with a large frame, but, well, they say the camera adds ten pounds from real life. Maybe in his case the reverse was true, five-fold.

When the heavyset dude entered the cafe and took off his Ray-Bans, I knew -- yep, it was him. He and Lisa made eye contact and expressed a mutual surprised delight to see each other. He clearly wasn't there to meet her, but I couldn't help but feel some jealousy when he hugged the little pixie. How did those two know each other? He's an actor; she's a musician.

I did a Kevin Bacon association game in my head. Lisa Loeb's video for "Stay" was directed by Ethan friggin' Hawke, who appeared in Reality Bites with Ben Stiller, who's part of what Entertainment Weekly dubbed the "Frat Pack" with such actors as Will Ferrell, Jack Black, Luke and Owen Wilson, and Vince Vaughn, who of course was in Swingers with Jon Favreau. Should I assume that's it? Should I be proud of myself for making the connection? As they said in Swingers, "Mikey, you're so money and you don't even know it."

I spent so much time watching, making sure Favreau left, that the battery on my laptop ran out. As I was packing up my computer, Lisa Loeb came over to me.

"Are you leaving?"

I had the good seat by the window. I considered inviting her to sit down with her chamomile and join me.

Or sing her hit song: "And you say... stay." I admit it -- I know all the words: "And you said that I was naive / And I thought that I was strong / I thought, hey I can leave, I can leave / But now I know that I was wrong cause I missed you. Yeah, missed you."

Nah, I wouldn't've done that. One of the dorks she dated on the show karaoked that tune and butchered it. Poor schmuck made a fool of himself.

Instead I coulda recited another quote: Men seldom make passes / At girls who wear glasses. And then tell her that Dorothy Parker simply hadn't met me. But Lisa Loeb did.

Yeah, I coulda been a smooth smoothie.

But as it turned out, I was meeting a girl there any minute now, so I simply told her, no, sorry, I wasn't leaving, and she smiled and sat at another table.

And now Lisa Loeb is going off cross-country to find happiness, when it was right there at the window table at the coffee shop on Olympic Boulevard.

Incidentally, the girl I met -- that didn't go anywhere.

Coincidentally, that girl was wearing contact lenses.

I find myself thinking about gambling a lot. I’ve written a few things that revolved around the racetrack, Vegas, or just wagering in general. Guess I find it fascinating. Not so much the actual games, but how they relate to life.

I don’t wanna get too deep with this, but sometimes it seems to me that life is a big gamble. I’m tempted to combine the idea that playing at a casino, you play long enough, you’re gonna “lose” in the end, like life. The only sure thing is death and taxes. Or the house edge.

Okay, too depressing for a Friday post. I plan to be enjoying a few Scotches in about two hours, so let’s lighten the mood, eh?

In life, like gambling… you gotta try to enjoy it while you can. You should avoid playing scared or depressed or tired. And you gotta take chances once in a while. How much of it can you predict? How much of it can be calculated by good choices and actions? That which we can’t control… is it governed by luck? Are the dice loaded by the fates? Is karma dealing from the bottom of the deck?

Your head tells you it’s completely random, but your heart tells you something else. I’ve read some books on gambling, how to win at blackjack, horseracing, craps… They all essentially say it comes down to two things: Odds and money management. And yet, any experienced gambler will tell you, there’s an X factor. A feeling. They know it’s not logical, but most of them won’t completely discount it. Even the most skillful player wouldn't mind a little mojo.

And this is how it ties into life for me these days.

Something on my mind lately is how I have too much on my mind lately. It’s been said before: I think too much. Still, what am I supposed to do? Be a friggin’ non-thinking moron? Where’s that gonna get me? I have no interest in a career in politics.

Well, I played some poker the other night -- my friend’s been inviting me for a while. But despite my gambling predilection, I held off joining this ongoing game because it was always in the middle of the week and a long schlep from home. This time I decided to try it, but I doubt it’ll be a regular thing for me -- I’m still tired from the lack of sleep I got that late night. Been walking around in a daze of Hold ‘Em terminology -- hardly a stud when I flop my river at every turn.

Perhaps I was overwhelmed at first. I don’t know what was going on with me… but I couldn’t remember what I was holding. I’d peek at my two pocketed cards and a moment later, forget entirely. It was the worst case of short-term memory. And I didn’t want to keep my cards up as a constant reminder, allowing others to see (it was a crowded table) and I was a bit embarrassed at having to check every five seconds (the table was full of friendly, but experienced poker players).

So I often played without even recalling what I had. During a tense showdown, one of the other guys suspiciously asked me, “Do you have a good hand?” I narrowed my eyes back and said, “I don’t remember.” And he thought I was just being coy.

But despite this amnesia, I was winning. I did fairly well in that first game.

Now it coulda been beginner’s luck. There was another rookie there, who actually won that first game. Yet in the second game, he came in last, and I only hung around a bit longer than that before I went all in and lost. (Maybe I’m making excuses, but I was probably purposefully playing poorly to get outta there and go home.)

But I have another theory.

As the game went on, I began to understand it all better. I started thinking about strategy, determining my chances of getting that straight versus my opponent’s probability of getting that three-of-a-kind… and trying to read his “tells”, call his bluffs, etc. And most importantly, I was remembering what cards I had.

In other words, my brain started to take over. Damn brain. You don't like me, and I don't like you, but let's get through this thing and then I can continue killing you with alcohol.

See, in the beginning, I was going on gut feelings. I remember one time, I saw there was a nine and ace in the community cards, and I thought I also had a nine and ace -- two pairs, aces high. But after raising the bet to a pretty big pot, I peeked at my cards again. I had a king-ten suited. Good cards, for sure, but I was playing my hand from the last round -- stupid. Or was it? Regardless of my hand, I had a good feeling, even if my opponent was probably going on a pair of aces… so I kept calling and raising… and sure enough, on that last card, I got a flush and won the whole enchilada.

So I’ve concluded two things: 1) I gotta let my feelings do as much talking as my thinking; and 2) I get the feeling I’m thinking and talking too much about all of this whole gambling/life metaphor.

Almost time for the Scotch.

I forgot to post this for the holiday yesterday. Even though it wasn't an official holiday back when I was in kindergarten, my elementary school still lauded the work of Martin Luther King. We celebrated the birthdays of all those historical icons of American history, and as a little kid I must’ve gotten them mixed up.

I came home from school with a cut-out silhouette of one of those guys and my mother raved at my work. (I had failed scissors in pre-school, so it was a particular accomplishment.) “That’s great,” she said. “Who is it?”

“I’m not sure,” I said. “It’s either George Washington, Abraham Lincoln or Martin Luther Columbus.”

She asked who George Washington was and I recited that whole father-of-our-country, first president, chopped-down-the-cherry-tree, I-cannot-tell-a-lie schtick (which even at that age I suspected was a myth to keep kids in line).

“Very good,” Mom said. “So who’s Abraham Lincoln?”

“He was the good president who got shot by the bad president.”

“Who’s the bad president?”

“Richard Nixon.”

“Okay,” she said. “And ‘Martin Luther Columbus’?”

“He had a dream that the world was round.”

As another work day creeps along, Steve the rock musician plays the radio, expressing his disgust for all songs with lyrics.

"What does that leave? 'Axle F' from the Beverly Hills Cop soundtrack, and Herbie Hancock's 'Rock It'?" says Michael, who's loving the 70-degrees-in-January weather and decides to stay cool by going clean-shaven again.

But the tension is heating up too and Steve pre-emptively strikes. Michael retaliates.

And the Cartoon War continues...

Convoluted Contemplations and Conclusions

People say I think too much.
I say people don’t think enough.
Others say I’m too sensitive.
I wish others would be more sensitive.
Women say I’m too hard on myself.
I’d like to be hard on more --
Well, you can see where I’m going with this.
---
My father’s parents considered themselves Hungarian, but they actually lived in what was then part of the Austro-Hungarian Empire; today that area is Slovakia. After seeing Hostel last weekend -- scary -- I’m not so inclined to go back and visit their homeland. On the other hand, I enjoyed the moment in Eurotrip, when they accidentally wound up in Bratislava with no more than a buck-fifty between ‘em, and were able to live like kings. Conclusion: I should stop making travel plans based on movies.
---
Speaking of movies, my friends had just seen The Producers and were laughing about it as we had dinner last weekend… except we couldn’t talk long, because something reeked. It was like really bad body odor. Wasn’t me -- I was late getting there ‘cause I had just showered. No, it was the people in the booth behind us. And they were young women. I thought that was strange. Women always smell so good. I mean, sometimes chicks stink in the figurative sense, but never literally. As we moved to a new booth, the woman in our group joked that the smelly sisters were probably students of the University of California at Santa Cruz. What an odd conclusion, I thought. She explained that UC Santa Cruz is a big party school. And some of these kids are so high, they forget to bathe for days, hence the awful odor. It was still a big assumption, but the fact remained: once we moved the air was breathable again. But since the girls were finishing their meal, they’d be walking past us again. My friend was facing them, so he could see when they were approaching. He came up with a signal to warn us. Conclusion: I no longer laugh at “Bialyschtock und Bloooom!”, but hold my breath and associate it with UC Stenchy Cruz.

Henry’s a movie fan -- you could even say a fanatic -- but he’s not crazy.

I determined this when I went to his place with some film geek friends to hang out, drink and watch some flicks a few days ago. I had never been to Henry’s house before, but the first moment I saw his screening room, I was amazed.

The entire area was covered -- every inch of it -- with movie memorabilia. Specifically, Clint Eastwood stuff. Actually, the collection focused largely on Clint’s Spaghetti Westerns. And to be precise: The Good, the Bad and the Ugly. There were posters in every language (the original release was in Italian: Il Buono, Il Brutto, Il Cattivo). He also had bobble-heads of the characters, coffee mugs with stills from the film, even the garbage can featured a photo of the bad guy Lee Van Cleef. The place was like a museum.

“This isn’t even all of it,” Henry said. He couldn’t fit half of his collection in the room, and has loaned some of the pieces to the Gene Autry Western museum. He’s even acquired rare extra footage of one of these movies, and donated it to MGM for the DVD’s special features -- and Henry himself introduces the clip on the disc.

I know it sounds a bit obsessive, but Henry explained all this with a calm demeanor. It’s a hobby for him, the way some people play golf or knit or, yeah, blog. And unlike most enthusiasts, Henry never bragged or acted overly excited discussing his favorite movie.

I was more animated about it than him as I recalled the first time I saw it. It was maybe ten years ago. I mentioned that as a film aficionado, an ongoing student, I had felt that I should better acquaint myself with that strong staple of American cinema: the Western. But I couldn’t get into ‘em. The handful of John Wayne/John Ford films didn’t O.K. my Corral. High Noon and The Gunslinger weren’t bad, but didn’t Wyatt my Earp. Same for even Sam Peckinpah pictures.

But then I had seen Once Upon a Time in the West, a Sergio Leone movie which featured Henry Fonda as the villain, and I was impressed. Then they re-released The Good, The Bad and The Ugly on the big screen and I was blown away. This wasn’t just an enjoyable western; this was an excellent movie, period. I love Leone’s style -- the sweeping landscape views (with the Spanish countryside doubling for the Western U.S.), intercut with extreme close-ups of the cowboys’ dirty faces, where you can see every wrinkle, every pore.

And Eli Wallach -- the Jew portraying a Mexican -- was hysterical at any angle. I thought he completely stole the movie from Clint Eastwood.

I was preaching to the choir. “Eastwood wouldn’t work with him again because of that,” Henry said. “He didn’t want to be outshined.” He proceeded to tell me how the director used recent-Oscar winner Rod Steiger for his next movie (so another Jew gave an over-the-top performance as a Mexican), even though the Eastwood wasn’t even in Duck, You Sucker! (which was also known as A Fistful of Dynamite). See, Henry knows all this stuff, but the most interesting bit of movie trivia was his encounter with the director Sergio Leone himself.

Henry must’ve been fairly young, ‘cause it took place in the ‘80s. He had heard that Leone was in LA, prepping his next movie, so Henry managed to meet the man at the Chateau Marmont. Leone didn’t speak any English, so Henry explained, through the director’s translator: “Ever since I was nine years old and saw The Good, The Bad and The Ugly, I was your biggest fan.” And to illustrate that point, Henry acted out the entire movie for him, doing every part flawlessly.

Again, I know this sounds kinda nuts, but Henry has this low-key way of doing it, even when he’s imitating Tuco’s rants: “When you have to shoot, shoot, don't talk.” Or if he warbles the famous Ennio Morricone score: “Woo-de-woo-de-wooo! Wah-wah-wahh!” Henry said Sergio Leone got a big kick out him -- this kid who clearly knew the director's work backwards and inside-out.

Henry told a friend all about it, and his friend couldn’t believe it. Well, he accepted that Henry met Leone, but since the director was going to New York to shoot Once Upon a Time in America, he was flabbergasted that Henry didn’t ask the man for a job.

Henry didn’t want to overstep his bounds, but decided what the hell, nothing ventured... So he rushed back to the hotel -- and good timing too, ‘cause Leone was packing up for his trip -- and Henry said, “Mr. Leone, sorry to bother you again, and feel free to tell me no, but please, it would be such an honor to be involved with this film… in any way… follow you around with an ashtray while you smoked, anything… just to watch you work…”

Or something like that. Leone didn’t have his translator with him, so Henry had to say all this with simple English words, hand signals and broken Italian phrases. He hoped he got it across somehow.

Leone said, “Sure, kid, I’m sure I can find something for you.”

Turned out, the director did speak English. He just used a translator to keep the crazies at a distance. So Henry got a job on the movie; I think he was Robert DeNiro’s gofer or something… Probably real grunt work, but I’m sure it was an opportunity of a lifetime.

I thought it was a fun story. I don’t know if there’s any individual filmmaker I admire as strongly (Spielberg? Scorsese? The Coen Bros.?) as he did, but I could still relate. Henry cherished the experience… and like I said -- he’s fanatical, but not crazy. Even Sergio Leone could see that.

Yesterday, I got into work bright and early… and as I was trying to leave on time, the boss did that passive-aggressive “can you just do this one more thing” bit, insisting it’ll only take a minute -- but it never does -- I left 45 minutes later.

Today, I was 15 minutes late. The office manager has gotten passive-aggressive, too. We’re supposed to sign in and out when we arrive and leave, like we’re drones with a punch card. After the last person to sign in on time this morning, the office manager had written in big letters:

I changed it to:

Did I mention one of my resolutions this year was to get outta this chicken outfit? I don’t even care if I get Dooced.

Beth asked me about my New Year’s Resolutions. Here's 3 of the big ones, and since we’re 3 days into ’06, let’s check on my progress:

1. Write more. Like a page or two a day (which is about 500 words). Well, yesterday, I brought my laptap to the coffee shop, but I met a friend and chatted the whole time instead. I should’ve transcribed our conversation just to meet my quota. But I did write 500 words on New Years Day. It wasn’t quite 50 iterations of “All work and no play makes Mike a dull boy.” But I definitely lost my momentum from before the holidays -- the 2 pages came out as if I was banging my head on the keyboard… then again, sometimes that's your best stuff. I've heard Dostoyevsky composed The Idiot that way. Today I’m at work, so, y’know, I can probably do some more -- that’s what day jobs are all about… But instead I’m blogging, which feels more like the writing equivalent of dessert to me, when I haven’t had my veggies yet…

2. Exercise more. I ran 3 miles on Sunday, and 2 this morning, and worked out yesterday. Yeah, that sounds pretty good, but let me elaborate: Sunday I cursed the fates for making it downpour on my first day of fitness training… and trudged through the rain, the water weighting down my fleece sweatshirt like a snail with a wet sponge shell on its back. To counteract my heavy haul, I worked out with the lightest weights at the gym, and between groanful reps said hi to regulars, and yes, yes, long time no see, ha-ha, you barely remember me... I get it... funny… ya insidious muscleheads… Today I prayed for rain, but alas none, so I had no excuse for running so damn slowly…

3. Be positive and not so hard on myself. How’m I doin’ so far?