topotales

So the first three days of the trip I was in New Jersey with Pnut, looking at houses.  This was a whole bunch of fun, primarily because we stumbled upon the most kick-ass real estate agent, ever!  I highly, highly recommend Jo Ann Hesse if you are looking for a home or rental property in Jersey.  Not only is she incredibly committed, smart and frank, but she’s absolutely hilarious and knows how to enjoy life!  We found about a million great homes, and fell in love with Dover, which is apparently called “Dover Rico” by the locals and has a reputation for being unsafe.  As far as I could tell, though, this is solely because white people don’t like to be surrounded by hispanics because… you know… Spanish is SCARY.  I walked up and down the street where we fell in love with “our” house (fingers crossed) and spoke to a bunch of neighbors.  They were all incredibly friendly and thrilled to have Spanish-speakers potentially moving in, because the previous occupants of the house “only said hello, goodbye, but in this neighborhood we all know each other and look after each other”.  There were plenty of folks out on the streets with their small kids, wash hanging from the lines in the back yards, music playing, and… yep, I did not meet a single person who did not speak Spanish.  I couldn’t have MADE UP a neighborhood where I felt more at home.

After house-hunting, I headed to Chicago for the memorial service of a family member.  Like most Indians, my family ties are far-reaching and incredibly tight.  It’s hard to describe to Americans how I am related to some people, because technically I am not.  But culturally and emotionally, I am.  So, I spent four days with my fairy godmother, shopping for decorations and watching her bake for the memorial service for her mother, Claire Rose.  Claire was like a grandmother to me, though I could never apply that word to the incredible, fearless bad-ass who once made out with Jack Kerouak and drove cross-country in her seventies to start a whole new career.  It was her blessing, as my eldest family member in Chicago, that I sought before my wedding in June.  Her absence in the world will continue to be felt acutely by anyone who ever entered her non-stop energetic orbit.  Even from her hospital bed, she would rather talk about YOUR life and how YOU were than anything else.

I also had the opportunity to visit the cardiology ward at the University of Chicago hospital and shadow the nurses in the ICU there for a day.  Let me tell you, I would have just stayed in there listening and learning if I could have.  There is no doubt in my mind now that I absolutely belong in a hospital environment.  After living in the gilded corporate towers for so long where the chant is “money money money” it was incredible to be in an environment where the chant is “people people people”.  Sure, I saw egos and drama there.  But guess what - it’s worth it to me put up with that shit if I’m busy saving lives; it is not worth it to me to put up with it when I’m busy making money for shareholders.  Oh - and the best part?  I got to see a guy whose face was eaten up by herpes.  And I did not freak out; I was just disappointed they wouldn’t let me get close enough to see better.  Pnut finds this hilarious, because when he called me later in the week I was crying over the dog with the broken leg on some Animal Planet show.  Damn that Animal Planet for making me cry over every fucking show, but rendering me unable to change the channel.  I’m glad we don’t have a tv here!  Seriously, when I see injured people I just want to roll up my sleeves and get busy fixing it but when I see an injured animal I throw my hands in the air and cry hysterically.

The last week of the trip I went down to Nashville an spent a week with my folks.  Alarmingly, my mother and I made it through almost the whole week without a major blow-out fight.  We did manage to get at each other’s throats on my last night there, but considering it took us longer than 24 hours together, I’ll mark this up to progress made.  I also spent a day building walls for Habitat for Humanity with her.  This was my second Habitat build, and it was as rewarding as I remember.  If you’re looking for a tangible way to contribute to your community, you may want to check into Habitat.  Despite all the Christian hooboo jooboo surrounding the organization (I LOATHE that crap - I’d rather spend those extra ten minutes building shit than feeling uncomfortable while everyone around me prays), it’s a good time and you’ll learn some great skills - especially if you’re doing any work on your own home.

Okay, well, them’s the news, folks.  It’s Wednesday morning and I’ve written all of this from a bar up the street from Pnut’s office.  God, I love being laid off!

GUESTPOST BY HANSOSAN

I don’t remember when I first tasted grappa.  I must have been just twenty, when a bunch of my high school friends travelled to Italy, all squashed into a white Nissan belonging to  Koen’s mom.  I remember my clothes slowly getting wet driving home as the soaked tent dripped through the back seat cushion from the trunk, after breaking up from a flooded Austrian campsite.  That poor car took quite a beating on that trip, but Koen’s mom, who still had a fish store at the time, was very nice and forgiving.  We all came from families where eating and drinking well was very appreciated, and you can see how we took those traditions into our own lives.  At the time I was experimenting with cocktails, and I still see me drinking my first sidecar, on a metal terrace table near Pisa.  Courageous as we were, we also ordered octopus.  A big plate filled with soft, big, pink chunks of fibrous meat with the round feet still attached arrived.  All garlic oil and wine, it was delicious.   I have ordered a lot of disappointing or even horrible octopus dishes since, knowing that somehow, it can be fantastic.  Did we finish that meal with espresso, and a grappa ?  I’ll have to ask the others.

Koen later married a lively girl from Rosheim in Alsace – also a fine cook and a great source of delicious wines from some small viticulteurs like Maetz from the same village.  But as after-dinner drink, the huge bottle of Italian grappa was always on offer too.  After their divorce, we tried to stay friends with both of them, but I now wonder whether that isn’t the most likely course to lose them both.  When we helped her move out, back to her family in France, she left us a whole box of bottles – also the grappa.  I felt embarrassed – I could hardly put that bottle back on the table next time friends would be eating with us.  So I brought the whole box to the small cabin my parents had in the forests of the Ardens.  That cabin had no electricity, so the dark evening by candle light were a great place to sample nice drinks, and the freeze proof  grappa wouldn’t mind overwintering in a place without heating.

A couple years after I started work, I ended up spending a lot of time in Tokyo, fixing one of those impossible  joint-ventures that were en vogue then.  The Australian head of the office, left it up to his secretary and a friend of her to rescue us occasionally from the obligatory under the bridge after-work drinking, and take us to something more sophisticated.  That often translated into very expensive but fantastic Italian cuisine, way above the low end of the market standards I was used to with my friends and family.  One funny difference was that although the dishes were traditional, the eating style was very Asian communal, everyone reaching with their chopsticks into each other plates, sampling all the fare and ordering more of the ones liked best.  And I still think that, as long as you’re not eating in one of those places where every dish becomes a piece of art, that is a lot more enjoyable.  In one of those places, where the girls were clearly familiar with the staff, we got a special grappa at the end.  It made such and impression that ever since I have been trying to find it back – a quest not really helped by my only recollection being the scrambled up name “lepertone torte”.  For long I wasn’t entirely sure it even existed in Italy – Japanese are notorious for relabeling drinks – and probably the memory of that evening is better than whatever I could find.  But I now think it must have been a grappa from “Le Pergole Torte”, from Tuscany.

When Paolo & topo started to show up at our place, it didn’t take much to find out Paolo likes a good grappa.  As with anything remotely Italian, he is also convinced that the only really good ones can only be found in Italy, preferably somewhere close to Venice.    Mussels, pasta, fish, whatever… the Belgian variety just isn’t up to standard – and who are we to argue with his memories ?  But it is certainly fun to take up the challenge – especially the time when we battled in the kitchen during the great Carbonara Contest !  (I almost creamed him there…)  I did find a very good grappa di moscato from Alba locally – but it has one drawback : the cork must be deficient because the bottle is always emptier each time I check… .   It’s good competition for that fantastic Grappa Ruta - rue flavoured - he brought along. He did not give us the full background though - here is what I found on the net : “In homeopathy, rue is sometimes used as a fever suppressant, but according to Italian folk-lore it not only increases male potency but assists women to relax. A fairly useful combination.”  I couldn’t have said it any better.

Yesterday we were back at my parents cabin.  We had come in early, driving in breakfast for the 20-ish relatives my Mom annually invited, and it had been a full day with a little bit of hiking and an awful lot of barbecuing.  After surviving war famine, my Mom doesn’t believe there is such a thing as too much food.  Most people had left before dark fell and I was sitting with my dad outside as the day cooled off, chatting about work, spilling my guts about all the crap that I was going through lately.  Somehow these conversations occur so much easier there, amid the quiet of the trees.  Still stuffed, I didn’t care for the usual evening tea and chocolate, but when that old brown grappa bottle surfaced, I couldn’t refuse.  My dad claimed the taste remained as great as when we brought it years ago, but of course there is no way to prove that.  But the memories that come with it, apparently have gotten richer over the years too.

In other news today, I’m not sure that my Venetian husband is quite ready for life in New Jersey.  Or anywhere civilized, for that matter.  As we are headed to the US next week for real-estate hunting, etc., his new boss sent him an email that said (approximately): “You will be picked up by a limo.  A driver with your name on a sign will meet you”.

About .00003 seconds after receiving that email Pnut forwarded it to me, and this exchange followed:

P: Limo….?

Me:  Could be.  In this case, ‘limo” just means car with a driver, but that doesn’t rule out a real one… they’re sometimes cheaper to rent by the hour than taxi long-distance.

P:  Cool.  Even if it’s a Fiat 500… I don’t care.  I always dreamt to be one of those guys that are waited at airports by people with signs and funny/exotic looking names…

MR PNUT

KING OF VENICE

EMPEROR OF THE LAGOON

 

This would do.

 

Sigh.  At least I’ll have plenty to blog about when we get to the US.

The Pnut and I are, technically, already married.  That is, we have a certificate saying we are married, and we spent some time in front of a judge and four family members last June.  But this October 3, when all of our close friends and family meet up in Val di Mello, is the day that we look forward to.  We know that marriage isn’t easy.  We know that life isn’t easy.  And we are looking forward to the love and support of all of our friends and family on the day that they witness us commit our lives to each other, and during the years to come.  And we look forward to doing this in a place that is holy to us.

Pnut and I have shared some of the most wonderful moments of our time together in Val di Mello.  

That includes the epic when we were caught in the dark on the descent from Luna Nascente, sleeping in a cave on our ropes for warmth and sporking with Heikino. 

Last year, Amy and Filippo celebrated their wedding there.  We have spent so many evenings (and mornings, and rainy days) with our friends at the campsite bar that the owners are like family (which means that -yes- that is where dinner (sans donkey sauce) shall be gobbled down and -yes- there shall be Italian karaoke… again).

Basically, Val di Mello is the most beautiful, most glorious valley imaginable.  The kind of place that brings you to your knees in awe of its inspirational beauty, its kind residents, its sparkling waterfalls, granite peaks and science-friction climbing and bouldering. 

Even if you’re not coming to our ceremony in October, if you’re ever in Italy this is a valley well worth a visit, any time of year.  Be sure to stop by the campsite for an amazing home-cooked meal… and karaoke.

So it’s been made officially official that I’m laid off.  I won’t get into the details of how I took it up the ass from The Corporation, but let me make something clear: our HR department is full of a bunch of back-stabbing hypocrites.  I couldn’t be more pleased to be leaving that place as it falls apart at the seams.  Everybody left who cares about quality and people are drowning with their fingers in the dam.  And that’s from somebody HAPPY to be laid off (reasons coming up!).

Before I tell you WHY I’m so happy to be laid off, let me just add one more little piece of corporate irony.  One of the other departments is looking for a new CSR.  All the other managers are on holiday.  Guess who HR asked to interview the incomers?  Yep, that’s right - yours truly.  Smart move guys, fire somebody and then ask them to interview incoming candidates.  If I were anybody but me, I might do some serious damage.  Idiots!

So now the GOOD NEWS!  P has accepted a transfer within his company and we will be moving to New Jersey this November.  Just outside of New York.  A house in the country, hopefully.  Plenty of fly-fishing, climbing, room for the doggies to run around, and (well, for me anyway) skeet shooting (P is NOT pleased that we will have firearms in the house)!  Me?  Yioupieeeee!!!

Now anybody who knows me is wondering why the HELL I would want to move back to US.  Good question.  You see, I’m going back to school!  Something that is next to impossible to do in Europe.  I will hopefully start this coming spring on pre-medical pre-requisites, and then start applying to nursing schools!  That’s right bitches, better get your ER visits out of the way in the next couple of years unless you want me to be the one putting that needle in your butt.  Needless to say, I am SO HAPPY to be going back to school.  Especially into medicine.  Why not go for an MD you ask?  Because I want to actually spend time with patients.  It’s not the diagnostics that get my blood flowing, but the laying on of hands - both physically and emotionally.  I am interested in being the smart person who can translate doctor-speak for patients, advocate for patients and doctors as necessary, and hold hands all around.  Communication is the one thing I do well.  Plus, my languages will come in handy I’m sure.  I already know I’m a good teacher.  If I add nursing to that there won’t be a single international experience I cannot have.

So far, I’m pretty sure it’s trauma nursing that I want to do.  And just to let you know I am not totally glittery-eyed about what it will be like- I’ve been reading every ER, trauma nurse, trauma doc blog on the web.  As well as quite a few others.  So far, this one thoughtsfromthenightshift is my favorite for taking you into that world/atmosphere - I think it gives a real feeling about what it’s actually like to be a nurse day in, day out, for years.  It covers administration politics, boredom, adrenaline, good doctors vs. bad doctors, peer politics and disputes, patient madness, a few moments of divine clarity, and the usual share of plain old hilarity/nastiness that is caring for the human race.  If any nurses or non-nurses out there can suggest other nursing/medical blogs I should be reading, or any other advice please don’t hesitate to comment or email me; I need all the advice I can get right now!

Coming soon, my experiences as an “alternative” (over thirty, old-ass) student trying to get into school.  So far, just talking to the admissions folks has been a trip.  I guess that’s what happens when you deal with 18-year-olds’ whingey phone calls all day?

In the meantime, wish me luck!  Who knows, maybe someday topotales will be a traumatic… I mean trauma-nursing blog, too.

OH- HAPPY BIRTHDAY FROM P & I TIFFANY!!!!  WE LOVE YOU!!!!

Apparently there are some things about me you should know. The Pnut would like to provide you with the following information before we continue our relationship lest it be all in vain. That is, … before you and I, dear reader, continue our relationship, not P and I. It’s too late for him, he’s gone and married me now.

Clean!  And Garlanded!

1.) She is the most annoying person to fly with. First of all she claims the window seat as if it was some sort of right, and just to sleep the whole time. If you want to have a glance outside or just go to the bathroom you’d get in trouble because you are moving, and since she’s laying on you to be more comfy and sleep better, you are waking her up. After she eats she drops all her wastes on your little table-tray and keeps on sleeping; She only wakes up if there’s a Bollywood movie or during landing or turbulence when she almost dismembers your arms.

(In my defense, more airlines should offer Bollywood films for viewing!)

2.) She believes she’s the great bastard granddaughter of some Portuguese king ruling Goa in India back in the days. Therefore she claims she’s a princess.

(Because it’s true! My mother’s parents were from Goa, India. It is well known family lore that one of my great-great (and maybe one or two more greats) grandfathers was the bastard son of a Portuguese king!!!  Now where’s my fucking crown?).

3.) She snores and talks on sleep. Like big conversations. When we started dating I though she wanted to talk so I was used to reply. Now I know better…

(I don’t snore. The rest is true though. I have also been known to walk around in my sleep from time to time.)

4.) She hates horror/ thriller movies or books. If, after hours of bitching and moaning, I manage to watch a ‘”scary” movie with her usually she has to have total control of the Dvd remote control…to fast forwards the scary parts (so that she knows what happens and she won’t be scared to watch them at normal speed…) or to mute the audio.

5.) She is a talented climber. When we stay off climbing a while and we go back to the wall I feel like a jelly tight to a rope, she climbs even better then when we stopped. That’s super annoying.

(This from the guy for whom any pile of Dolomite choss is “good rock”. I’m not sure I want to know what ”jelly tight to a rope” looks like!)

6.) She doesn’t like to be called “rospo”: toad. I use this nickname to call her when she’s been naughty or when she did something bad (happens pretty often…).

(”rospo” is NOT A NICKNAME. It’s an insult. I refuse to respond!)

7.) She’s as delicate as a little elephant. With her around gravity is a dreadful enemy for any of your belongings. It’s a strange effect, really…

(Yeah, I’m Chunk from The Goonies. And the more expensive the item, the less time you have to wait before I smash it. Three… two…)

8.) She loves t-shirts with weird messages (I think her favorite ones are “I scare my family” and ” I’m like a f*cking ray of sunshine, aren’t I?!?”. There was also one about a d*ck, but I forgot what it says…)

(It says “Suck my dick”. But my favorite all time t-shirt I ever owned says “Your mullet just winked at me” - you know, for the lesbian bars - but it didn’t fit so I gave it to Paolo.)

9) When we have to go out, and for some reasons we want to dress up, she changes idea 558738758564 times about what dress or combination of clothes she’s gonna wear. Eventually she chooses the same old pair of jeans…

(The jeans are super comfy! Plus, they make my butt look cute)

10) Once, when she was a teenager, she ran away from home with a friend to be caught some time after on the same moment and place by the cops and the Mafia…

(whachyagonnadoabowdit?)

11) She is food jealous. Let me explain: you are there, enjoying your meal (you prepared it yourself after checking 10 times if Topo was hungry, “no thanks” is usually the answer). All the sudden you don’t hear any Topo-noises anymore, you look at her and see that she’s cross-armed, crooked-lipped and looking enviously at your meal. At this point here’s the typical conversation:

P: “what? Want some?”

T: (with the sweeeeeetest voice) “yes pleeeeeeese” (big smile);

P:”but…you said you weren’t hungry. If I knew I would have cooked for you!!!”,;

T:”I know, I wasn’t hungry. Now I am. Can I have some of the EXACT same kind? Otherwise I get jealous and I won’t love you no more”.

12. She has funny looking pinky toes.

They do look slightly like boiled shrimp, but I swear it’s from the climbing shoes!)

As you can see, we have embarked upon married life with our usual mix of very high expectations and dirtbaggery. Coming soon… a list of things you should know about the Pnut.

‘Sup, we’re married!

(Photos are courtesy of this wonderful photographer who popped by for a whole five minutes and took about 100 amazing photographs.  I’ll link her in as soon as I find her back!)

 

Paolo: You know we’re getting married soon?

me: Yep, only two weeks left [before we sign the papers in Chicago].  You know, you’re the pain in my ass.

Paolo: I’m the pain in your ass!?

me: Like a machine, always needing to move, move, run, climb, go.

Paolo: The stone that rolls doesn’t grow mold.  I’m keeping your ass from growing mold.

me: HA!

Paolo: Well, you did grow a tick…

Yeah, so remember that tick-bite I got on SATURDAY?  Well, by Wednesday it looked like this (don’t worry, I kinda exaggerated about how close it was to the goodies (kinda):

And then the doc told me I have Lyme disease.  Yeah… you can rejoice now - YAY!!!  The joys of this year are seemingly endless.

I’ve spent plenty of time in North Africa, India, Mexico and loads of other places where you think twice about brushing your teeth with the water.  [Paolo just asked me to insert Italy into that list... not sure what that means... please come to our wedding].  Anywho, I’ve had plenty of grody diseases that have made me crap and puke and expunge… things that humans shouldn’t have to imagine expunging, and usually in embarrassing or less than comfortable places at that.  But this takes the fucking cake.  I GET A GRODY DISEASE IN FRANCE??  LESS THAN 30 km FROM PARIS???  FUCK!!!

Besides this, Paolo has been in bed sick with the flu the last couple of days.  And the hansosan came back with more than bursitis… something about his colon and intestines exploding… I dunno, I forget what it’s called.  But, you know, nothing as bad as LYME DISEASE.   FROM A FUCKING BLOOD-SUCKING INSECT!!  DID I MENTION IT WAS A FRENCH INSECT????

Seriously people, if you get bitten by a tick and anything feels funny… or looks like this, or like a bullseye?  You’d better get it checked out.  Because if you don’t catch it right away, lyme disease can stay pretty quiet in your system for years and years… like until it creeps into your heart and spinal cord and maybe even your brain.  Fifty bucks at the doc is better than a lifetime of TICKBITE IN YOUR FUCKING BRAIN.

PS- (DID I MENTION I HATE TICKS???)

Friday night:

Hansosan, his daughter and I head down to Fontainebleau to catch up with P.  The hansosan has decided to come along despite an extremely painful bursitis of the elbow.  About a half hour past Paris I ask him to pull over so I can vomit copiously at a gas station.  I’d forgotten my meds.  Ten minutes back on the road, and his daughter faints in the car.  This is not something unexpected, as she has spent the last year battling unexplained fainting fits that look a lot like epilepsy but haven’t been properly diagnosed.  We finally roll into the campground around midnight, and the gates are locked.  I call P and he helps us chuck all our packs and bags to the tents.

Saturday:

It is now day two without my meds.  This was a bad idea.  A very bad idea.  It rains most of the day.  P, of course, manages to climb anyhow.  I spend the better part of the afternoon making moss-fairy boats.

The fairy’s name is Esmerelda, by the way, and if you can’t see her then you don’t believe.

I curl up with the dogs and pass out.  I should have brought my meds. 

When we get back to the campsite I notice a few ticks on Charlie.  I pull them out.  Then I notice a few ticks on Scapi.  I pull them out.  Then I realise that the lovely afternoon nap was had in a tickbed.  I rush to the tent and call P in to do what true love requires.  Luckily, no ticks in my ass.  Unfortunately, one has embedded itself close enough to my hoo-ha to make me scream and yank it out before P can reach the tweezers.  I burn the sonofabitch.

Saturday night:

I’m twitching and jerking all over the place.  My brain feels something like fireworks if they could make them into a yo-yo.  I hold myself together reasonably well and we have a lovely birthday dinner for the hansosan.  His daughter faints again on the way home.  This time, it’s a long episode.  We sit up with her for an hour or so, until she feels well enough to go to the tent.  We all go to bed.

I wake up in the tent and smell shit.  I mean- I smell SHIT.  Like somebody rubbed my nose in it.  Since I feel a bit like a crackhead in withdrawal, I sense that smelling shit could just be another side effect.  So I wake Paolo.  He is blind without his glasses but finally finds a pile of puke in the tent and cleans it up.  To Charlie’s credit, he actually tried to wake Paolo up several times before depositing the little pile of grass and bile neatly next to our heads.

About an hour later, I wake up in the tent and smell shit.  Paolo’s glasses come out again, but we don’t see anything.  Back to sleep. 

You can repeat that last paragraph two more times.

Sunday:

I wake up in the morning to find that Charlie has projectile-liquid-shit all over my sleeping bag.  And my backpack.  And my clothes.  And my side of the tent.  Everything on Paolo’s side of the tent is perfectly clean.  But I have been sleeping in diarrhea.  I run out of the tent and vomit copiously.  This is not the way to start day three without meds.  Lovely P cleans everything while I writhe and moan in the car.

So, to sum up the weekend: bursitis, vomiting, fainting, tick near hoo-ha, projectile diarrhea, and no meds.  Oh… and we may have climbed a wee bit as well, but I’ll have to let you know once I’m properly medicated again.

Okay, I know this may be cheating a bit, but I have loads of writing tucked away and it’s always fun (in a self-humiliating, masochistic kind of way) to go back and rediscover the past.  So I’m going to try and do these two (years) and one (month) specials every now and then.

Two years and a month ago I wrote:

Today is reflective, romantic, melancholy, and hopeful.  Watched Henry and June, finally.  Had been on my list for a long time.  But was reading up on Anais Nin a couple of months ago - led there by a surrealist/erotica search for an abstract painting I loved but can’t remember the name of, nor the artist.  Saw it today and picked it up.  The Left Bank in that time period is an obsession for me.  I missed my time, you see - I should have been there!  I should have been young there!  I should have made love there!  Henry Miller, strangely enough, I have never read.  Started Tropic of Cancer once, quite a while ago, but couldn’t get through it.  Maybe I should try it again now that I’m older.

–

What did I do this afternoon?  First, the dentist.  Yuck.  He didn’t wear gloves.  Is that normal?  Freaked me out.  But decent guy, explained before he touched, which I like.  Of course I marched in with my records from my last dentist, knowing what I wanted, ready to fight.  But it was okay.  Medicine is much more human here.  I like it more.  Then again, you’re walking into somebody’s house, which is always a little strange.  Paolo had part 1 of a root canal long over-due (I saw that tooth a couple of years ago and said so).  Yes, I know everything.

Then what?  Bank, to take care of some things.  Unusually hot in the lobby with the sun shining through.  Sweating and grimacing while transferring “large” amounts of money.  Then inside to set up some automatic transfers.  Charmed the guy behind the desk; had him laughing. Good-looking black guy, young, gave me some free stuff and a new password for my CD-banking thing.  Funny conversation about why I’ve had it for two years and not used it… basically, week 2 after arriving here, I understood “vous… madame… banque…transferer… ” and they handed me the CD.  “Oui, oui”.  That was the end of that.  Not to mention, I didn’t have a computer until this past September.

–

SO, after the bank, to the climbing shop.  Was supposed to be a brief walk-through.  Couldn’t resist, bought a new crashpad.  My other one is so small it starts to look like a postage stamp from just a couple of feet off the ground.  Good for extra padding, but not for motivation.  Also got new pants - on sale, “the ugliest things I”ve ever seen” according to Paolo.  But I like ugly.

After that, haircut.  Got the weird gay guy.  But I’ll look for him again next year - put my head in the little tank and he washed my hair.  I love my hair touched, and my head.  He scratched my scalp a bit under the warm water; I closed my eyes, it felt so good.  He did it for a couple of minutes.  I almost fell asleep right there.  He was very gentle the whole time, but never too gentle - knew also when to pull, and how to dry my hair so my scalp felt good.  Heaven in 6 minutes.  Then groceries, then home.  Long afternoon.  Hair smells nice - he sprayed some stuff in it, sweet, like smelling the wind come off an orchard of fruit… apples and lemons and peaches together?

–

I need to break the awful habit of using smiley-face emoticons, non-words like ”lol’ and “imho”.  If I can’t express those emotions creatively in words, then I shouldn’t be trying to write at all.  It’s bad for writing well, and writing expressively.  At least to an audience who you know is intelligent and capable of subtlety.

–

I’m enjoying the Venice book immensely, but it’s incredibly distracting.  I need to look up and explore every character I come across.  So I’m only half way through.  Finished the Missouri Review in one night.  Still shitting myself over the quality of work, and the (lack of) quantity.  Interview in there with David Sedaris, one of my heroes of pulp literature.  Oxymoron in that phrase, I know, but you know what I mean if you’ve ever read Sedaris.