Only We and the Librarian Showed

In a modest room off the entrance of the James I. Gibson Library, four middle-sized long tables made a square that suggested more of a less intimate AA meeting than speed dating. On a table near some empty book racks were a few bottles of water and a few books selected by the librarian in charge of the program to show off. And there was the librarian, 23 years old, one of many librarians here surely, but the one who spearheaded this program in hopes of bringing some of the community together, having done this once before.

23 years old. It made me wonder what the hell I did with my 20s, for a few seconds until I remembered that I wrote my first book and saw it published. She did remind me by just a recap of her life in Henderson (since she was 2 years old), that I need to haul ass on the rest of my writing projects, make them happen.

"We" was Meridith and I, Meridith having gone with me out of curiosity and bringing the Bobby Flay Mesa Cookbook to tell people about her favorite chef, if there were people who would come to this. There wasn't. There was only me, Meridith, and the librarian, whose name, incidentally, I forgot to ask.

The librarian told us that she put on this event once before, but the few people who came all knew each other, and it works better if people come who don't know each other. That would have been true if there had been more people there than just us three. And I know the librarian would have made sure that Meridith and I obviously don't get paired up to chat.

When I wrote on Facebook about no one showing up to this, I got one comment that was incredulous that I was looking for love in Las Vegas. Well, no, it wasn't that at all. I wanted to see if there were other bibliophiles in Southern Nevada who are as devoted as I am. I wanted to see who else called the local libraries home or a temple or a place of worship like I do. I wanted to get to know others who are just as content as I am sometimes reading two or three books in a day. Logic would dictate that I shouldn't have expected it in a state with a total population of 2.7 million, the majority living in Clark County. But then, I should, since the majority is here. And I know Las Vegas is a transient city and all that, even though this was in Henderson, but I do get a sense that those who live in Henderson are here for a long, long time. So I would have also hoped to meet those who call this city home.

I liked the aim of the program. I still believe in it. In fact, the librarian said that the next time she puts on this program, she'll call us ahead of time to let us know if anyone else has signed up. I'll be there again because this one librarian is trying to gather members of the community, to make the community stronger. I believe in it. I believe Henderson needs that more than ever, to fashion a stronger community, and this is one way to do it.

I'm not disappointed. I have my books. I have my ideas for future projects. I'm not going to start haunting Barnes & Noble in the hopes of finding another voracious reader. Mom says that I may find that person when I least expect it. Well, I don't expect it. If the chance comes along, it might be nice, but if not, I've got this enormous region to get to know intimately by visits to all kinds of places I still haven't been to and places I want to go back to (I desperately want to walk around Boulder City again, visit the library there, which I love because of its respect for old books, and to walk around the UNLV campus), and to study by way of the books that have striven to define it, both historically and by personal feelings. And all the stories around me every day, all the interesting people to see! What better city to spark creativity?

One night last weekend, I saw a Virgin Atlantic 747 sitting on a taxiway, waiting to be cleared to taxi to the runway and to takeoff. I saw Air Force One in the daylight, sitting at a far end of McCarran, back when Obama was preparing for his first debate in Henderson, and I'd seen a Virgin Atlantic 747 fly over me to land at McCarran, but I'd never heard one with its engines idling. I love that sound.

One day this past week, after we picked up the Michael Buble CD and the $25 gift certificate to the Ravella spa in Lake Las Vegas that Mom had won on KSNE, and after we went to two Barnes & Noble to find the connect-the-dots daily calendar Mom wanted for the new year, we went to dinner at The Hush Puppy, which has the weirdest rules, such as if you order one of their all-you-can-eat specials, you can't take home what you don't finish. I didn't get it either.

Anyway, at the table behind us, one guy was speaking loudly and I learned a bit about some of the trees we have in Las Vegas, including mesquite, and that guy being impressed by the crew that came to cut branches off of one. It was actually pretty interesting to listen to.

So I have all this. And I'm going to the library later today to pick up 15 books on hold, including The Casual Vacancy by J.K. Rowling (I like to wait for hype to pass), and Sanctuary, the seventh novel in the Decker/Lazarus series by Faye Kellerman (I've read the previous six). There's so much to do that if that person happens to come along, and I'm taken enough by her, I'll ask her to come along with me. Ideally, I'd like her to be of this area, of Henderson or Las Vegas and to have lived here for enough years that she knows so much that I don't, even with how much I know so far.

But if she doesn't, well, I'm ok with that. I'm not searching, I'm not going to search, and there's so much to do as it is! It's a good life here, a worthwhile life, far more than I've ever had before and more depth than ever.

Speed Dating with Books in Hand

I wake up very late Tuesday morning, leading into the opening minutes of the afternoon, not expecting to see Skyfall later that afternoon at Regal Boulder Station 11 (one of the best Bond movies, but On Her Majesty's Secret Service is still the best), not expecting to double my money on Coyote Moon, my favorite slot machine, at Boulder Station, after the movie, not expecting to go to Wing Stop for dinner that evening, and certainly not expecting to hear from my mother what I hear after I've dressed and walked into the living room:

"You're going speed dating!"

What? Me? Speed dating? Hola. Mi nombre es Rory Aronsky.

Let me back up to 3 a.m. Tuesday morning. I went to bed in the bed that I know is my bed, with all those books on the floor from the library and those which are my permanent collection. I know all those books.

I woke up in the bed that I know is my bed, in the room that I know is my room, pulling clothes that I know are my clothes from the closet that I know is my closet. Everything seems the same. When did speed dating decide to stroll on in?

After I shrug off the shock that feels like five minutes more than the two seconds it took to do so, Mom tells me that she found it in the View section, which is expressly written and printed for all the different areas of Las Vegas. We live in the Sunrise/Whitney area, so we get that section every Tuesday inside our regular Las Vegas Review-Journal.

She tells me to pick up that section of the paper, which is already on top of the rest of the paper, folded out to show the "Arts & Leisure" page, the bottom of which has the "Book Briefs" section. And here is the blurb that I read:

"DATE MY BOOK TO RETURN
Find love among the shelves at the Date My Book event scheduled from 4:30 to 6 p.m. Friday at the Gibson Library, 100 W. Lake Mead Parkway. Singles are invited to bring a favorite book and chat with other readers in five-minute sessions. For more information, visit mypubliclibrary.com or call 702-565-8402."

I wasn't sure how to react. I'm still not sure how to react. As Mom put it, "It's better than a bar or any other place like that," and that's true. It's in a library, my place of worship, and I'd like to meet other bibliophiles like me. Mom wasn't pushy about it, not hinting that I should find a date, just that I could talk books with people for a while. She doesn't read a great deal, not finding a comfortable spot to do it in yet, Dad picks one or two books a week from the new books section of the Whitney Library, and Meridith reads steadily, but not to the extent I do. Three, four, five books a week, maybe more? I've done it countless times. I'm still writing, I still want to write the books and novels that are always swirling about in my head, but there are just some weeks that I want to chuck all those plans and just read. Perhaps this event would be good for me. I follow Mom's viewpoint about this, and I stick to this about the other possibility: If it happens, then I'll work from there. If not, that's fine. I don't discount the possibility, but I'm not actively searching for a relationship. I've got an enormous city and region, and eventually state, and other states, to explore, I've got books I want to read, and books I want to write, and that's enough for me.

Right now, my library card is at its limit. 50 items. All books. My holds are at the limit of 25. I hope to meet those who do the same as me, who keep the library system running. At the Whitney Library, every Saturday or Sunday, or sometimes Monday, I walk past the other shelves full of holds to get to mine, and I look for the first four letters of those last names that appear as often as mine do, wondering about that person, how many books they read in a week, what their interests are that keep them coming to the library. This may be my chance to know more about them, no matter that this is under the jurisdiction of the Henderson Libraries system and not the Las Vegas-Clark County Library system. In fact, reading the blurb, I thought I could return the then-three, now-five books that I'm done with, before realizing that I'll have to wait until Saturday or Sunday to do that because neither the Gibson Library, nor any other Henderson branch for that matter, will accept my books because Henderson and Las Vegas are separate systems.

They say to bring a favorite book. I know exactly what I'm bringing: The Memory of Running by Ron McLarty and The Remains of the Day by Kazuo Ishiguro. These two novels are always locked in a Battle Royale to become my favorite novel. I've read each one nearly ten times, with more re-readings to come. I'm sure I can talk about a lot in five minutes, so I want to include that. Other topics I have in mind are my love of presidential history, my lifetime goal to read all the Star Trek novels ever published (not as a Trekkie, but as a science fiction wanderer), my other favorite books (Naturally, I don't have just one, and a favorite novel, if that battle is ever won by either of those two novels, would not be my overall favorite book, since I'll never have one), those times I just have to pre-order or order a book from Amazon because I don't want to wait for the library to hopefully get it in, and whatever else might pop up. My side of the conversation will not be pre-planned. I will not have an outline in my head.

I know exactly what I'm wearing: Jeans, both pairs of which I'll put in the laundry today to determine whether I want to wear the lighter-colored jeans (they're not that bright blue, and I could never see myself wearing that kind of brightness) or the darker-colored, and this shirt, called Lose Yourself. After I agreed to this speed dating excursion, I determined which of my four book-related t-shirts would be most appropriate, not only for this event, but also because I'll be wearing it to see Christopher Cross at 8 p.m. that night at Sunset Station. No going home to change. "Lose Yourself" would be best because it's more detailed than my other shirts (save for the rainbow in this shirt) and is suitably low-key for the other outings of the evening, which also includes Fazoli's for dinner (across from Sunset Station), and then the 10 p.m. Spazmatics show also at Sunset Station, inside Club Madrid, where Christopher Cross will just have finished performing before they come on.

I still feel a bit weird about this, not in a resorting-to-meeting-people-like-this way, but because I have my city, I have my state, I have my books, I have my favorite movies, so what else do I need? But you know what? For nine years in Santa Clarita, there was really nothing to do. To even do one interesting thing in a day, you had to leave the valley, but because of the enormous stretch of freeways to get to Ventura or Burbank or Anaheim, you had to make a day of it. Now that I'm living in Nevada, in Las Vegas, I want to do many different things! I want to experience all there is to experience! I want to see if there are any female bibliophiles who are as passionate about books as I am.

And if I do feel a twinge of something upon talking with one of those bibliophiles, well, what better place for it to happen?

Always an open mind. That's how I've lived for two months here, and it's going to stay that way. So I'm going to enjoy myself and let go. No expectations. Just the joy of talking books with those who hopefully flood the holds shelves like I do, who come to the library with big canvas bags to stock up for the week. They're my kind of people, and I should meet them! And so I will.

Be Open to Everything

The smaller double-decker cart filled with what we needed, Dad, Meridith and I went to the emptiest checkout lane at the usual Sprouts in Valencia. Only one person ahead of us, and the last of their items were being scanned. Dad took up his post at the check-writing counter, watching the prices, Meridith stood next to him, and I wheeled the cart next to the bagging area, next to a bagger named Alex. I found that out from her nametag.

The employees at Sprouts range from indifferent (stockers) to friendly but guarded (those behind the vast meat counter) to they'd-move-in-with-you-if-you'd-let-them (checkers and baggers). It's not a disturbing friendliness, like they've been watching you for all the months you've been shopping there and know exactly what you're getting, just the kind of friendliness you know from those you're friends with.

After I stopped the cart, Alex asked "Paper or plastic?", and I immediately answered "Paper," before Dad started in on his well-worn question to Meridith and me: "Kill a tree or choke a pelican?" I usually don't have a reason to decide what the groceries should be bagged in since we have enough plastic bags for the garbage pails around the house, and enough paper bags to collect the full bags from those pails every Friday. But I knew we were getting low on the paper bags, so I got there before Dad.

What happened next, I'm not entirely sure. She first held up Dad's bag of pretzel nuggets, saying, "These look good," directed at me. I could only smile the smile of a guy who doesn't know what the hell is happening. Then she saw the book in my hand ("The Loop" by Joe Coomer, which I'm loving enough to cart around with me in places I don't usually carry books, including Sprouts. I brought it in on the off chance I'd have a minute to read a few lines), asked what it was and I showed it to her. She asked if it I liked it, and I said I did. Then she said she loves to read, and I should have chimed in, should have asked what she liked to read, who her favorite authors are, what her favorite novels are. Not really as an "in," since we're moving, but just to find out what kind of reader she is.

I didn't ask any of that, though. All I could manage was "I'm a speed reading nut," and I don't think she even heard that. I felt awkward. Her comment about the pretzel nuggets, looking at my book, the question about what I was reading and if I liked it, were not at all part of the usual bagger service. Other female baggers at that store just bag and move on. Was she flirting with me? Did I miss my chance by not following up immediately by asking her what her favorite books are?

I mulled this over after we left and went to Pavilions, and spent an hour there, then when we went home and all throughout this evening. I may have been flirted with, but I'm not sure, since my only experience has been in 11th grade when I know for sure that Stefanie Markham flirted with me while we were at the South Florida Sun-Sentinel's school newspaper awards at an auditorium in the Fort Lauderdale Museum of Art. She had the best pair of legs I'd ever seen, and put them against my pant legs. I was just joking around with her, didn't think that I was flirting, but I was wondering then what the heck was going on.

I still can't tell if Alex was flirting with me. But I do know that I don't know how to flirt back. Does it just happen? Is there a rhythm to it to be established from the start? I figure that if you happen upon a person that attracts you, then it comes easily. But I've had minute experience with that, and that's not really the focal point for me anyway.

If she was flirting, and even if she wasn't, Alex indirectly reminded me to always be open to everything. In Santa Clarita, you become set in your ways as a matter of survival. You have to go to work, you have to go food shopping, you have a set of chores to do on this particular day, and you only go to this movie theater in the afternoon because it's less crowded than the other one, and more pleasant. It's the only way to combat the ennui before it overwhelms you.

Alex showed me that in being able to reinvent myself when I move to Las Vegas, I need to open wide my heart and mind. There are books to read, those that will come from my new home library, books to write, states to travel to, experiences to have in my home city. What has always worked here in Santa Clarita as a matter of survival won't work there, and I'm ecstatic about that. I can become the person I was never able to be here. I need to go wider, be fully open to anything and everything that will happen in my life. I have my plans, but those plans should also be flexible. What I'm so sure of now, I might not be so sure of later depending on what happens there. Just go with it. I thank her for that because I needed that reminder. It's going to happen soon, we're going to move, and I need to be ready right at the start of what I've wanted again ever since we left Casselberry in 1992, when I was 7.

Besides all that, Alex was strikingly beautiful, sporting dirty blonde hair. If she was flirting with me, I was really lucky.

If She Does, Then I Will

The thought of another relationship is so far in the back of my mind that it has to fight its way through the loads of research I'm doing for my book, the movies I want to see again on DVD, the episodes of Red Dwarf I want to watch, the movies I want to see in 2012, the upcoming two Knicks games this week, future blog topics, the leftover pumpkin pie in the fridge (Not ideal, but I'll take what I can get for now), my search for the person who made, or created the recipe for, the perfect Sysco pumpkin pie I had at Six Flags Magic Mountain, the books I want to read in the next couple of weeks, the movies I still have on the Tivo in the living room, the books I want to write after I'm done writing my second book (hopefully with a publishing contract attached), ransacking the Nevada history sections in the libraries of Las Vegas and Henderson once I'm a resident, etc., etc., etc. and still etc.

Yet once in a while, the thought protrudes a little. If I seek out someone for me, she has to be a voracious reader, has to know intimately the feeling of a great book, how it can do so much for you, make you feel like you can fly throughout the world, inspire you endlessly. No one who reads only for information.

At Ralphs yesterday with Dad, picking up a few groceries, including ice cream, more Silk soymilk, and two bottles of Arrowhead sparkling water for me, there was a big waist-height bargain book box in the middle of the frozen food aisles. I started digging through the books, not specifically looking for anything, but hoping for one or two grab-worthy titles, particularly because these books were selling for 3 for $10.

The paperback edition of Home by Julie Andrews was in there, but it stops before Mary Poppins and therefore includes nothing about Victor/Victoria, so I didn't want that. One day I'll read it, most likely when I check it out from the Henderson library. I hope she writes a second memoir that features those movies, and that's one memoir I'll buy, though I'll probably check it out of the library too since I won't have to buy so many books by then.

I came upon Nanny Returns by Emma McLaughlin and Nicola Kraus, the sequel to The Nanny Diaries. I vaguely remember reading The Nanny Diaries years ago, but I liked the description on the inside flap of this part of the plot of Nanny Returns: "To compound the mounting construction and marital chaos, her former charge, Grayer X, now sixteen years old, makes a drunken, late-night visit, wanting to know why she abandoned him all those years ago. But how can she explain to Grayer what she still hasn't come to terms with herself?" I want to see how that plays out.

Digging past multiple copies of a book that wasn't notable enough for me to remember, I found My Stroke of Insight: A Brain Scientist's Personal Journey by Jill Bolte Taylor, Ph.D., about how her knowledge of the brain saved her from a stroke she was having. I've got to know more about this.

Both books were $1.99 each, coming out to $4.29 with tax. I love finding cheap books that interest me. I don't know if Smith's or Vons in Henderson and Las Vegas have bargain book boxes like that one, but if they do, and if I spot a woman digging through those, as absorbed in the task as I was (I forgot I was in the frozen food aisle and only realized it when I looked up after finding those two books), I'm boldly walking over to her and striking up a conversation and hopefully getting her phone number. That's the kind of woman I want.

Three Dreams about Women

I went to bed at 2:17 this morning and woke up at 10:39. In between, I marveled yet again at what goes on in my head during sleep. I have entire theme parks in there, Walt Disney World in a far different incarnation, rollercoasters, pinball machines, huge school campuses with ornate marble staircases, math classes that I prefer to skip, movie theaters to haunt, and, of course, women. Not often anymore, but when those dreams happen, I always lay in bed after I wake up, thinking, "How in the heck did THAT happen?"

The first dream involved a relationship-ending argument with Kirsten Dunst. I don't know why it was Kirsten Dunst, but I'm relieved it wasn't Drew Barrymore or Renee Zellweger. It was most apparent that I wasn't interested in saving the relationship, and perhaps I had lost interest a long time ago. In trying to argue my side, I mistakenly called her "Lisa" at one point, which I don't read anything into because I could never date anyone who reads books only for information. I told Kirsten that I had liked her since Bring It On, and had wanted her even then, so why would she think things had changed? Again, just arguing without feeling, without meaning, which isn't my style. Arguing isn't either, but when I'm passionate about something or someone, I show it.

The second dream took place at a variation of Walt Disney World, not the incarnation that I know so well, even though I live on the other side of the country. There was a holiday version of the Jungle Cruise being tested, and this one was indoors. A woman came up to me, asking if I'd like to take part in it, and she had a twinkle in her eyes when she asked me this, which made me play it low-key, since it was clear that she wanted to lead and impress herself upon me. I didn't mind at all. I went on the ride, but nothing else happened with the woman, because the dream ended while I was on the ride.

In the third dream, this particular woman appeared only in an e-mail. I had been to a restaurant months ago and had scribbled my name and e-mail address on a scrap of a postcard in order to be informed about some event that was happening at the restaurant. I received this e-mail and it was the woman who worked there to whom I had given that scrap of postcard for the future information, who just wanted to say hi, wondering why I hadn't been back lately, heavily hinting her interest.

Those latter two dreams were nice, but it doesn't make me move faster in pursuing a relationship. I've got a nonfiction book list that's growing longer by the day (Last night, I added to the list a late actor I've always admired, who I believe never got the biography he deserves), a future home city that I want to know intimately from one end to the other, a glittering city beyond that whose entire history I want to know, a small library branch inside a mall that I really want to see, the Pinball Hall of Fame that I would be happy spending a lot of time in (I think there was a Galaga arcade game there), and so much else to do and experience in my new home state, when that finally happens, as well as my desires to visit New Mexico and all the presidential libraries in the nation. My interests alone keep me pretty well occupied and very happy. Now if only Matchbox would sell its cars individually instead of just five-packs, I could get the tow truck I really want for my working vehicles collection.

Regaining My Equilibrium, But Still Lopsided

Nine hours of sleep through the night, and I was back to my old self after a long day yesterday of walking nearly constantly, partly for my job, but mostly for exercise. Because having the opportunity to be a substitute campus supervisor, and have all that time when the kids are in class, I want to get as much weight off as I can. It doesn't help when I don't have work the following day, though. John, the head campus supervisor was back today, a little worse for wear as I heard (He had been out sick), and so I was home. I was hoping for more days this month as the holidays approached, and maybe that will happen on Friday. I'll get the call Thursday night, get my lunch ready, my books, and happily head off to La Mesa with my dad, in pursuit of another most welcome paycheck. And if not, hopefully what's left of next week before the holiday.

Getting my equilibrium back entailed two unusual dreams. One was walking around this massive candy store and finding this container that was filled with what looked like Oreos with part of their tops broken off and various other chocolate and candy crumbles. I thought it was what might have been deemed unusuable by whoever had made the candy, but it turned out to have been what had been chewed on and spit out by people sampling the candy. Yeah. Disgusting.

The second dream involved this narrow bookstore in which Senator John Kerry was there, for what reason I don't know. I was excited to see all the books available and saw a darkened part of the bookstore further away and snuck over there to see what was there that no one else looked at since they were so busy looking at the accessible shelves. I also wanted to ask Kerry who he thought would win the next presidential election, but I didn't get the chance. Too much of a swarm of people around, though not necessarily for Kerry.

I spent the day devouring The Nasty Bits by Anthony Bourdain, with brief stops to have lunch and get the mail. In one piece, Bourdain gushes over chef Gabrielle Hamilton, imploring her to write a book, saying that she'd make him look like a manicurist. This was 2006, her Blood, Bones & Butter came out this past March, and because of what I had read, I ordered it, $13 price be damned. I don't normally order books that are $13, but this seemed like an important exception to make.

I also had a long think, not entirely about Nina, the girl from yesterday behind the returns and exchanges counter at Walmart Supercenter (Meridith told me earlier tonight that she texted her, but hasn't heard back yet). I've been going back and forth on whether I really want someone in my life.

My favorite Supreme Court justice is David Souter, who retired in June 2009. He always struck me as a fair jurist, and not long after he retired and rushed right back home to his beloved New Hampshire, he moved out of his family farm and into a house that could stand the weight of the thousands of books he owns, which the farmhouse couldn't. He retired because he wanted to get back to his reading. He's always been a bachelor.

Is that me? Do I want what Souter has? I don't intend to emulate Souter throughout my life and certainly I have a personality far different from his. For example, he's a reserved soul, whereas I'm slightly more outgoing. Get me into a good conversation about books and my enthusiasm can be stunning.

Today was not only a good day because of The Nasty Bits. The mail came and I found one of two packages I was waiting for from Amazon, this one containing Mrs. Nixon: A Novelist Imagines a Life by Ann Beattie. Beattie researched the life of First Lady Pat Nixon through many sources, and imagined what she might have said at various events from which she could find no records, and what she might have felt. There was an excerpt of this in an issue of "The New Yorker" in which the final Nixon family photo was being taken in the White House before Nixon left office, and it was all from Pat Nixon's perspective. This is not only what made me pre-order this book, but also what made me seek out more about Ann Beattie, ordering her first novel, Chilly Scenes of Winter, and the paperback edition of The New Yorker Stories, a vast collection of the stories she's written for "The New Yorker" for 30+ years.

I will never run out of books to read. I will never run out of books to be excited about. For this month, there's also the second volume of Stephen Sondheim's lyrics from 1981-2011, with observations by him on his career and the people he worked with and his thoughts while creating these many masterpieces. I have the first volume, of course, and am psyched about this one, especially to read about what he contributed to Dick Tracy.

And I'm also excited about Best Friends, Occasional Enemies: The Lighter Side of Life as a Mother and Daughter by Lisa Scottoline and Francesca Serritella. I'd read Scottoline's previous two books of very funny essays and I love her and her daughter's easygoing style. I wasn't going to wait until eventually reaching a library in Henderson to read this one.

Then I have to wait until April for new novels from Sarah Pekkanen and Barbara O'Neal, whose The Secret of Everything made me want to know so much more about New Mexico, and want to go there one day.

While The X Factor was on tonight and I ignored it like I always do, I kept sneaking glances at Mrs. Nixon: A Novelist Imagines a Life. Finally, I had a book I'd been waiting for, that I looked up on Amazon at least every other day, always checking the release date, always wishing for it to come faster. Here it was. The possibilities that I had felt after reading that excerpt could become a much grander form with this book. All I have to do is open it and find out.

Then before I logged on to write all this, I spotted Maps and Legends by Michael Chabon in a stack on the dining room table, and decided it was finally time to read it. Once I start Mrs. Nixon, no other book will matter, but I'll save this one for after.

My reading list keeps growing every day. I know I'll never read every single book that was ever published, and probably won't accomplish all of my reading list, but I have books I want to read and that's what gets me out of bed every day, well, that and working to be published again and again. Is that enough for me?

I go back and forth on this all the time, and maybe it's just where I am right now, sitting here in Saugus, not yet in Nevada, not able to be aware yet of all there is to do there, all there is to see. Maybe there'll be someone for me there, someone who meets my non-negotiable requirement of being a bibliophile, loving books so deeply that they could not imagine a day without them. But again, my reading list. Having someone in my life means less time for books. Or I could be looking at it wrong. Having a female bibliophile in my life could enrich my reading list and my life, could steer me toward books I'd never even heard of. I'd hopefully have the discussions I'd like to have, because I am the only bibliophile in this house. My sister reads, and so does my dad, but not often because of work, and then, not as many books as I read.

Souter or not? I don't know. I think it's best to not have a fixed view about this. Las Vegas is not the kind of city to be so sure about something. To live behind that glimmering gold of the desert would remind me every day to stay open to whatever may come. Plus, I did like that burst-of-light feeling in my heart when Nina smiled slightly at me. I'm secure enough with myself not to take every glance from a woman as a sign that there may be something more. Other glances I've received, I know it wasn't that. But it felt like that this time, felt like something more. For a moment at least, before falling back into the pushme-pullyou line of thought about this, I wanted that kind of smile all the time.

That's the thing: I don't feel that great pull that other people do in wanting to find someone. It's a slight tug, and it only happens once in a while. It seems like if I find someone, ok, but if not, that's ok too.

I'll just let this keep flowing as I always have. Everything else in my life, job, writing, reading, has a plan, including when I write here (Whenever I'm in the mood), so there should be one part without one.

Getting It Back?

Work is always a little difficult when not having been at it for a stretch of a week, as it was today. The extensive walking took a bit of time to get used to, my feet hurt a bit from standing in one spot for 20 minutes straight (Keeping watch on the kids buying snacks at brunch from the kitchen staff), but it wasn't from weight. Just getting reaccustomed.

The highlight of my day wasn't being paid for what I love to do or a day without any calls to pick up kids from classrooms. It was at Walmart, when Meridith exchanged a shirt she had bought for one of the same design, a smaller size.

The girl who was helping her at the returns and exchanges counter had gone to high school with Meridith, and I had seen her when we got in line. She looked like the kind who always plans something mischievous, a playful look about her. I was entranced. And then, when Meridith was signing whatever's necessary for an exchange, the girl looked at me and gave a slight smile. But it didn't seem like a polite smile. It looked like there was something else in it, something that told me that she noticed that I was looking and she liked it, and my heart felt like it had turned into a starburst and was radiating so much light.

Meridith told me that she texts this girl occasionally, and I asked her to text her for me, not necessarily asking if she's single, but to express my interest of talking to her. But the impenetrable problem is that we're eventually moving. Why is it that the nice things only come when we're getting ready to leave? The same thing happened in Florida many times over. Where we lived was nice, such as Casselberry when I was a tyke, but things got even better when we were leaving.

The funny thing is that in theory, I always thought that I'd be satisfied with books and writing. I thought that'd be enough, especially considering how much I read in a week. But looking at this girl, feeling like my heart had become a new source of electricity that could lower our monthly bill, I guess I'm getting back my interest. Not that I lost it entirely after breaking up with Lisa, but it was muted. And now it's back. I didn't feel uncertain when I asked Meridith to text her. And I was distracted at the checkout line when Meridith was handing me a bag to put in the cart and I didn't even notice because I was looking at the return and exchanges counter, hoping to spot her again.

Nothing may result from this, and I don't want to lead this girl on, but I do want to get to know her in some fashion. She looked fascinating. I wonder if she's an avid reader. She kind of looked it.

(Update at 9:27 p.m.: Meridith told me that the girl's name is Nina. Seems like I'm a fan of short names and I never knew it.)

A Perfect Day

I hear about how love can be found when you least expect it, and it's time for me to believe that. I want someone, but at the same time, I'm waiting until my family and I move to Henderson to begin again. But at the same time, I'm also realizing what I truly want, and enjoying how I've found it.

I want someone who feels such happiness when they read a book that they want to jump up, stay there, and fly through wherever they are. For me, yesterday, it was at the Walmart Supercenter on Carl Boyer Drive, part of a long, but utterly satisfying day that included a proper haircut by a tiny, fascinating woman named Kim at her 36-year-long store next to Caruso's II, the second Italian restaurant of the same name in this valley (Mom and Meridith got their hair cut too, and it happened yet again like it did all the other times, that the good things only come along when we're preparing to move. That has to stop, and thank god for Henderson for that, because the good things are always all around).

At one point there, walking with Mom and Meridith through the air freshener aisle on the food side of that massive elephant of a store, I was so deep into reading How to Bake a Perfect Life by Barbara O'Neal, and I got to the part where Ramona and Jonah are spending an evening at his house, rediscovering each other, and it felt like tears were going to come to my eyes. My heart was swelling so fast, I thought I was going to be pulled up into the air, high above those air fresheners and looking across at the soy milk, wondering briefly if we needed any more of the Silk Very Vanilla milk or the dark chocolate almond milk we get from the same brand.

I loved that feeling. I have it again today as I finish this wonderful, lovely gem of a novel, and look ahead to starting Major Pettigrew's Last Stand by Helen Simonson. I want this for all time. I want someone who knows that feeling in books, who lets it overtake them completely.

What is Satisfaction? It is This.

I spent the late morning and the entire afternoon reading the rest of The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman, and I felt such deep satisfaction, such calm happiness from having become so absorbed in this story about a failing newspaper in Rome and all its inhabitants, editors, writers, reader and publisher alike. Rachman's quiet genius is in each chapter telling the story of each character, while sprinkling the others in as cameos, bringing it all together with what feels like a proper epilogue. And I loved it. I loved the book, I loved that feeling I got from having read something so good that afterward, I went to my priority reading stack and pulled out How to Bake a Perfect Life by Barbara O'Neal. So far, it's good, direct in its approach in this story about a woman taking in her daughter's stepdaughter while she goes to Germany to attend to her severely burned soldier husband in Afghanistan. There's lots of breadmaking involved, and though anything food-related always holds my attention, and I feel so involved again, I want this more often than I had it before. More reading. Lots more. Now if this same, lasting feeling can be found in a relationship, I'm all set.

The Ghosts Have Disappeared

I had a dream during the night that released Lisa completely from my heart and soul. She had vacated my heart early yesterday evening, but I still had brief thoughts of hope that she would eventually find whoever it would be that would make her happy.

In this dream, I was involved in a production of Sweeney Todd that starred Angela Lansbury, and one part of the dream, though not crucial to what happened, was that I wanted to ask Lansbury what she thought about Tim Burton's film of the musical.

The backstage area was this huge, opulent mansion, with deep tile hallways, gold trim on the ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows with cloudy sunshine pouring in, partitioned beds, and very nice buffet spreads. In one part of the mansion, I was running through a tile hallway for some unknown reason, and I spotted three women far ahead of me, two my height, one slightly smaller. They leaped into the air and disappeared.

Who were they? Did they represent what I had liked about Lisa, that she was a voracious reader, a writer, a lover of old movies? Did one of them represent her voice, which had made me melt the first time I heard it on the phone and lasted all the way through to the end? Was one of them representative of how attractive I thought she was? I don't know, and I'll never know, and it doesn't haunt me, because the ghosts have disappeared. That's what they were. I think they did represent her in some way, and that's it. Today, I'm myself again. I'm happy. I've been reading The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman and I had forgotten in those two-and-a-half months how much I enjoy just sitting for hours and reading, especially when the story is as absorbing as this one. I have missed this so much. I'm loving recovering all these parts of myself that I will never abandon again.

I knew I was back to myself when I woke up at about 10:10 this morning and heard "Singin' in the Rain" streaming in from my sister's room across the hall, and wondered if she had Turner Classic Movies on. So I went to her room, found she was still sleeping, but earlier, she had put on a Paddington Bear DVD for our dog Tigger, and Paddington was dancing around in the rain in a raincoat and black galoshes. I have returned.

Final Boarding Call - "Welcome, Have a Seat and Read a Book"

Before 6, when I let the dogs out, a fly buzzed in, swooping about the kitchen, zooming to the ceiling, lingering near the blinds that cover the window behind the sink, and dashing in front of the oven. It was frantic, didn't know where it was, but clearly didn't want to be in here. And I didn't want to deal with trying to squash a fly throughout the house. The fly got close to the patio door, I opened it, and out it went, clearly more satisfied with being out there. And I realized that now I am that fly. I wasn't frantically buzzing when I first might have been unhappy with Lisa, and it took the end of that final blow-up to realize that I was unhappy, but I know now that I am happier, that I couldn't do with her what I wanted in a relationship. I spent so much time trying to change myself to fit in this relationship that I didn't think of myself, didn't stick to what I wanted, what I had been looking for. She met much of what I hoped for, but as I saw, not the important things.

I bring this up because in the late afternoon, while I read the rest of The Statistical Probability of Love at First Sight, I felt her packing up and beginning to leave my heart. Any regrets I had had before, of something I thought I should have done, had faded. I wondered briefly if I could go back to her, see if maybe she was still open. It wasn't something I had considered the first time, but I wanted to test myself in thought, and definitely not. No reason. What you see is what you get. And I eventually didn't like what I had gotten, so there was no point.

Now I sit here, and she's briefly in my thoughts as I write this, but she's vacated my heart. There's plenty of room for whoever might be next, though I'll take my time, give little by little and see how it's received before I do more. I can't give so much again. I want to take chances in love, but that was just far too much.

Along with getting More Notes of a Dirty Old Man from City Lights Books via UPS, there were a few papers with the book, such as a small catalog of what else City Lights has published so far this year. And there was a City Lights bookmark, the front of which has a rocking chair with "poet's chair" painted in yellow at the top of the chair and a poster above it with "Welcome, Have a Seat and Read a Book" in blue. That's what I have come back to, that rocking chair (though it's a couch here), and that sentiment. I started reading The Imperfectionists by Tom Rachman, I'm considering what writing projects I should pursue next, and I'm going to write a lot more in this blog than I have in the past two-and-a-half months. I feel comfortable here. My space (sponsored by Blogger). My thoughts. All here.

Now to whatever's next.

Feeling Better

I feel like today will be my final day of recovery before I return to myself. After I woke up late this morning (It seems like I've been sleeping longer and later, after 11 a.m. instead of 10 or 10:30 over the past two days, as if my body is recovering from all of this too), I continued reading The Statistical Probability of Falling in Love by Jennifer E. Smith, which is coming out in February 2012, and which I managed to snag an advance copy of off of abebooks.com, half-motivated by having been in love at the time, and also because it takes place over 24 hours, and I have a notion of writing a novel like that one day, but am not sure yet in what way. I like it so far, and even through the pains I have felt in heart and head (A headache brought on by the stress of trying to tell Lisa that what I felt should have mattered more than comparison to general other people, "most people," as she put it, lasted through yesterday and last night and finally dulled after I took an aspirin and now it's gone. Much like her), I have not given up on finding love. I will just go about it more slowly, more cautiously, and remember never to abandon myself, to find someone that appreciates me for me, everything that I am. I bear no ill will toward Lisa. I learned from this experience and I will carry it with me when I look to date again, which will be after my family and I move to Henderson. But I will not let it color my view of other women. I want to give them as big of a chance as I gave Lisa, and see what fits, what truly fits.

Also, UPS dropped off a package containing More Notes of a Dirty Old Man: The Uncollected Columns by Charles Bukowski, which City Lights Books just published. My Bukowski collection grows, also because the other day, I ordered off of abebooks.com War All the Time: Poems - 1981-1984, as it contains my favorite writings ever about Bukowski's experience at a racetrack, in a section called "Horsemeat." I like having this new book in front of me, the new insights never known as widely about Bukowski until now, and one of the very few things I'm grateful to Southern California for having introduced to me, because I don't think I would have even thought about Bukowski had I still lived in Florida, though I may have been happier. Even so, Henderson will make me happier, I know that, because of all the opportunity to come, including the JCC there, and it'll be nice to have a kind of community again, especially in the apartment complex that we'll be living in. Pool table in the main office, swimming pool, jacuzzi, sauna, basketball court (I'll be shooting hoops there often), tennis court (For Meridith), easy access to the Review-Journal (drop in a few coins, open that door, and you've got it), and a free weekly newspaper called Henderson Press, which I read two issues of that Mom and Dad had brought home with me along with a slew of other publications from their most recent trip to Las Vegas back in June, and I really felt like I was reading a paper that belonged to a place, that felt like it came from somewhere. The Signal here in the Santa Clarita Valley doesn't even have 1/10th that kind of connection.

I think by the end of today, my heart will be open again, but I will give little by little and see how it's received before I give more. And once in Henderson, I'll be ready again. I'll be ready to date, to have fun, to see who might be there who could be the one I want, the one who can give so much to me as I would to her. And maybe that headache receding was the sign that my body and soul are ready to move on. I think so. I feel it today. I feel better. I'll make it.

Things That Mend a Broken Heart

- Finding that the blue cheese dip at Wing Stop wasn't properly mixed, and discovering a huge chunk of blue cheese in my plastic Solo cup, dipping a wing in, seeing that it's tightly-packed and only a bit breaks off, and deciding to save the rest for the fries. I showed Mom this, and she said, "Someone's looking out for you."

- At the Wal-Mart Supercenter on Carl Boyer Drive, reading a profile of Jeff Bridges in Malibu Magazine, and relishing his sense of humor, because in The Big Lebowski, the Chief of Police in Malibu screams at The Dude (Bridges), "Stay out of Malibu, Lebowski! Stay out of Malibu, deadbeat!" And putting Bridges in my list of personal heroes because I was reminded that not only is he a musician and singer and actor, but he also paints, writes, makes ceramic heads to sell at Zen retreats, and takes photographs, most of which happen on the sets of his films and which he gathers together in a book at the end of the shoot, including notations and anecdotes, to give to the cast and crew as a kind of yearbook of the experience. The most endearing part of the profile was the final sentence in which he was trying to answer the interviewer's question, then said, "What were we talking about again?" It's not that he's scatterbrained, but he just CRUISES! He moseys on through life.

- Receiving an entirely coincidental e-mail from a good friend (I had a crush on her in 9th grade, and she didn't want to pursue it because she was in a long-distance relationship with a guy at the time, but her zeal for life, her passion for what she wants to do as a lawyer, her vast interest in reading and writing make her a wonderful friend), telling me that during her law school orientation in Tallahassee, she was told that it's important to "keep your hobbies during the madness that is the first year of law school," and wants to keep writing, so she started a story she's had in her head for a few years. I needed a friend the most when I ended things with Lisa last night. The reasons will remain private. But I appreciate that this dear Florida friend was right there, and hadn't even known right then what was going on with me. She knew who I was, as a person, and an author, and wanted to know what I thought about the rough draft of the first page of her story. That meant so much to me.

I'm feeling better, and I will recover. I now know that I can't give myself full force, with such full devotion, as I seem to when I really want something. I need to give little by little, see how it's received, and then go from there. Not right now again, no searching, but after my family and I move to Henderson. Then I will begin again, and more cautiously.

I'm Returning

It's taken me a few days to get back to a routine that now includes being in love. I've been floating on landscapes I'd never seen before in my life. Did you know that some clouds aren't just air and atmosphere? You can actually jump on them, and they get softer with every jump.

I've spent the past few days re-learning how to go out, and I miss her every time, but yesterday was easier than the day before. The day before, I couldn't gauge when we would be home, and we were out all day, and I began to get testy in Wal-Mart because I really missed her. Then yesterday, we became Metro PCS customers, the same phone she has, so it's much easier than the Verizon customers we used to be (We've had so many fights with Verizon over the years, and when she mentioned Metro PCS, with unlimited plans and no annual contract, we looked into it), because then we would be charged. So now that I have text messaging, too, I will still miss her when I'm out during the day, but it won't feel like torture when the day gets later and later. I lasted longer yesterday because I had called her before my family and I left for Burbank for the day, and I only began to get slightly testy at CarMax towards 8 p.m.

This new and oh-so-wonderful experience has affected my family in many ways. They're all incredibly happy for me, but for my mom, it's especially important because she wants to see me do well, to be the man she knows that I have been as I grew up, the one who when he cares, he cares so deeply. The one who has endless patience when his mother and sister have to pop into a restroom while we're out (It turns out that all these years have been excellent training for me). The one who makes sure others are taken care of before he gets to his own needs.

Meridith is excited, because she has a potential new sister. When she was young, she hocked Mom for another kid. "Maybe it'll be a girl this time," she always said. But she was also greatly affected by this, worried that she would lose me. She won't. I'm always available for her, no matter where I am, and the wonderful girl who has taken my entire heart agrees.

I've got books to write, a full-time job to seek, all the things that were in my life before, but now I've also got her, the one I want to do everything for. Every writer needs a muse, but you know what else? She's also a writer! Heaven is indeed a place on Earth.

So I'm here again, and I'll be writing like I always did, whenever an idea pops up. But most importantly, I'm also the happiest I've ever been!

Dancing on Clouds Previously Unimagined

The Writer Currently Known as Rory can't come to the blog right now. He's in love (and hopes to stay that way), but plans to come down soon to write whatever comes to mind (as usual), and then float back up into love.

Please leave a message at the sound of Barbra Streisand singing "Somewhere" (His potential One is a huge fan, just like he is). If it's urgent, sorry, you're out of luck.

"Some daaaayyyyyyy.....somewherreeeee....we'll find a new way of living...."

This Girl

This girl plays Keno and video poker at Aliante in North Las Vegas. I've never been interested in poker.

She told me that her grandmother taught her to play when she was 4.

I'm interested.

This girl was born in North Miami. I was born in Plantation. We each spent a very short amount of time in our birth cities as infants. As native Floridians, we connected immediately.

This girl is obsessed with the Casey Anthony murder trial, from a psychological point of view. What she explained to me about the personality of Anthony was more insightful than anything you could get off of Headline News, CNN, and any other talking heads that are just there for the sensationalism rather than real insight.

This girl is a huge Barbra Streisand fan, as I am. I told her that when Barbra Streisand finally directs another film (It's been too long since The Mirror Has Two Faces), I'm waiting like the Star Wars and Harry Potter fans have waited, sleeping bags and all. She said, "My kind of guy....I'll wait with you."

We flirted a little last night online, and my god, I have never felt breathless from flirting until now. I never imagined you could.

This girl is a voracious reader, like I am, but I love the difference between us. I can go between many books. It's like with Medium Raw. I stopped at page 253 at Target the other day, and I'll finish it when we go back to Target. In the meantime, I finished reading On the Boulevard: The Best of John L. Smith yesterday, and also got three-quarters of the way through The Inner Circle by Brad Meltzer. On a stack on the right-side arm of the couch is The Simpsons: An Uncensored, Unauthorized History by John Ortved, Kitchen Confidential by Anthony Bourdain, and Harold: The Boy Who Became Mark Twain by Hal Holbrook, the three books I intend to read next.

She doesn't like to start another book until she's finished what she's reading. She's nearly through Her Name is Barbra, a biography of Barbra Streisand by Randall Riese. I could see haunting used bookstores with her.

She's so much fun. We get into a rhythm in our conversations that feels like we've always known each other.

As I've said before, I'm not in 6th grade anymore. I don't ask out girls I barely know but like right away to the December Dance with me (Annie Librach, and I had asked her in September, not even a few weeks after school started. She turned me down on the same day). I'm a lot more patient now, and I want this to work however it might work.

We've seen photos of each other, and we still have to meet in person (Which will come after my family and I move to Las Vegas), though we agree that our strong intellectual connection will make that easier. But, honestly, I think I'm falling in love with this girl.

A Day Away from Wal-Mart and Target Is Its Own Spiritual Cleanse

I couldn't do it yesterday. On Monday, we'd gone to two Targets, the only two in this valley. On Tuesday, Wal-Mart Supercenter, and since we headed out there after 1 p.m., I realized while we were out that I had forgotten to Tivo Jeopardy!. I'd had enough.

Mom had to go to Wal-Mart yesterday to get a watch she wanted. Yes, the same Wal-Mart.

No. Not again. I'd seen enough of the inside of that place already, plus, they didn't have a copy of Medium Raw by Anthony Bourdain, which I had been reading at both Targets. I don't mind bringing in my own books to read, but it's still a little disheartening to find the differences in demographics and reading preferences between Target and Wal-Mart. Ok, yes, Target does have a bigger space for books, so that must be part of it, but come on, more paperbacks than anything else?

So Mom, Dad and Meridith went out and in celebration of a day away from all of that, I turned on the air conditioning since it was pretty uncomfortable in the house. Yeah, I'm simple when it comes to good times. And I loved it. I read more of Hunger of Memory: The Education of Richard Rodriguez by Richard Rodriguez, which I'll probably finish today (The nice thing about not having a library in the area for a while is that reading becomes a calmer venture. You're not bound by due dates and the risk that you might not be able to renew some books. All the books in my room are available to me, whenever I want, and after this one, do I want to read The Sportswriter by Richard Ford or The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman by Ernest J. Gaines? My choice. No due date), and had yet another fascinating conversation with someone online. All I'll say right now, since I don't want to be presumptuous, is that she's incredibly nice, bright, a lot of fun, and we have so much in common that it's scary, but a good scary, including being native Floridians, having the same favorite tea (Lady Grey), loving old movies, always wary of new movies, equal love of Barbra Streisand, voracious readers, she's a third-generation Days of Our Lives fan (I was a huge fan in 6th grade and a little bit after, and when she caught me up on what had happened with my favorite characters, it was like I had never stopped being one), and whenever we talk, there's always a comfortable rhythm. It just fits. It'll still be some time before we meet in person, since I've still got to move to Las Vegas (she's been there for six months), and I'm just going to take it day by day. I'm not in 6th grade anymore. There's no need to try to rush anything like I used to do. I'm older, and at least a little bit wiser.

Oh yeah, today! My day off from all the errand running was a kind of spiritual cleanse. I truly felt renewed, and I'm ok with going back out to the usual places today. I can get through more of Medium Raw if we go to Target, I can finish Hunger of Memory, and I still have the "Sandwich Issue" of Saveur, and the "Barbecue Nation Issue" came yesterday. And I've got my mp3 player like always, so I'm set. Plus, I could use more spinach, and I'm not sure when Meridith's going to use the baby spinach we got for her masterpiece of a pasta dish that includes chicken breast and sprinkle cheese from Trader Joe's. The way she makes it, no sauce is needed. So whenever she uses it, there'll probably be some left for me, but I want to be sure that I have some when I need it again.

Also, the bananas I have became ripe unusually fast. I'm thinking that maybe it was because I placed so many in that big plastic blue bowl at once, and the pressure of all of it caused it. I don't know, but I'll be more cautious just in case. Nevertheless, I'd like some newer ones because I like them just as the green is about to disappear from the peel, when it's firm and sweet enough without starting to turn mushy.

Today's going to be a nice day.

And a P.S. to whatever forces of fate oversee human matters: Please go easy on me this time. I've been presumptuous before about women, but I've been very cautious this time. I wrote about her now only because she amazes me every day with her personality and what we have in common. That's all. Please, please, please, please, please, please don't take that as a sign to mess with me yet again.

I've Been Waiting/For a Girl Like You....No, Not Her.

We got home last night from our hair stylist (I could say "barber," but he does my sister and my mom's hair too in his garage), and from Ralph's where I loaded up on broccoli florets, carrot chips, mushrooms, two bananas, two gala apples, and a Bartlett pear, and I got to work on the Freelance Daily newsletter, with "Jeopardy!" on next to me, paying some attention to it but mostly waiting for "The Big Bang Theory" to come on.

After three days, Meridith and my mom were STILL talking extensively, much more than they do on any other normal given day. I thought it strange, but didn't think anything else of it. Then, Mom told Meridith to tell me what was going on, concerned that I might not approve.

You see, either the first or second Sunday in December, we're going to Six Flags Magic Mountain because they're having a toy drive where you bring in a $15 toy, and you get in free. The day before yesterday, I was excited to go with Meridith, to have my partner-in-crime with me at the park. I didn't mind that she doesn't want to go on many rollercoasters. I only want to go on Viper, since it's my favorite, and the rest of the time, I can really get the exercise I've been sorely lacking these past few weeks, despite at least two days over those past few weeks spent at my dad's school as a substitute campus supervisor, and I walked that campus extensively. Plus, to go from ground level to Samurai Summit where the temporarly closed "Superman: The Escape" ride is along with "Ninja," you have to hike nearly horizontally, and that's exactly the kind of walking I've wanted for so long already.

Last night, Meridith told me that she invited Ivan to go with us.

I've known Ivan for a few years now, though not fully. And that's been ok with me, because he's a great guy. My favorite time spent with him was during Grad Nite for Valencia High at Disneyland, for which I was a chaperone, when we walked what must have been two miles from the parking lot to the entrance of Disneyland (since they weren't running the parking lot trams), and we amiably traded insults along the way. Ivan can give as good as he gets, and that impressed me the most. I always like someone who can match me mentally and he's outstanding at it.

Last Saturday, we met him again at the library, after seeing him a few times briefly last year when he worked at Office Depot. When I saw him, Meridith was already talking to him, and I told her not to let him go. After I had my books scanned back into the system, and I picked up what I had on hold, we three went to a table right at the edge of the entrance to the children's section, and we talked for a good half an hour. Find me any other conversation that can tie in anxiety (he had a few panic attacks in the previous year and told me what he went through with those), our mutual love for "Married with Children," (he owns many of the season sets, though I said I couldn't because Sinatra's "Love and Marriage" was replaced by a completely dumbass instrumental opening theme that ruins what made the show partly what it was), comments about diet (he gave up junk food completely, but can't go as far as I do in sticking to only fruit for dessert), and a whole host of other topics that had me glowing after Meridith, my dad and I got home from our errands that day.

Last night, Mom told me that there was one detail I didn't notice in that moment after we came home. I walked in the house, enamored with the fruit I got from Sprouts, including the bananas, which were incredible to look at there because nearly the whole crop in that section was green and would need time to ripen, which is exactly what I prefer. Add to that the "Simpsons World" book, 1,200 pages profiling each and every episode from the first to the 20th season, and "Finishing the Hat" by Stephen Sondheim, besides other books, and you could see how my attention could be diverted from what was going on with my sister. She was just standing at the open door, in the garage, dazed. But a happy daze.

Apparently, Ivan's liked her for 7 years now, but she went ahead (unknowingly) and dated a complete schmuck named Brian. I won't go into complete details, but he was not good for her at all, I pegged him as such right from the start, and I was eventually right, as Meridith saw when Brian continued to be jealous of the people Meridith spoke to and the friends Meridith had, and didn't want her talking to anyone else. That's as much of the mess as I'll broach.

Through all that time, Ivan was there. When Meridith didn't have lunch on some days, he made sure to buy a bigger portion and tell her that he couldn't finish the rest. This guy is an ultimate mensch that I wouldn't mind having as a brother-in-law some day. I know that it's up to Meridith what she wants to do, and I respect that, and I will not interfere, but if she hadn't acted and considered, as she's doing now, I might have overshot the runway.

Getting back to Six Flags Magic Mountain, Mom wasn't sure how I would take it that Meridith had invited Ivan to go with us. I was completely enthused. To some extent, thus far, I consider this guy a friend. He has such a good soul and a good heart, that I'm relieved Meridith will finally get what she deserves in a guy, if she decides to date him. We all went through hell with the whole Brian debacle, but it's not because of that that I say this. With any other guy, I would check out the area gun shops to see what kind of weapon fits my grip. I'm protective of my sister. But with Ivan, I've no need. I trust him absolutely. Most of all, for me at least, it's rare to find a delightful conversationalist in this valley like he is. It's just remarkable.

After I approved of Ivan going with us, Mom told me not to monopolize him when we're there. I won't. I understand the gravity of this, and I will hang back often and they can talk and do whatever they'd like. The only thing I'll probably be bothersome about is the corn cart at the Gotham City Backlot area. I haven't had roasted corn in years, and I really want that.

Which reminds me. In order to enjoy that, I'm sticking strictly to my diet until that day. No deviations. Last night, I had a SmartOnes lasagna florentine along with newly-bought baby spinach, carrot chips, and broccoli. This morning, I had Cheerios and the other half of an orange. Lunch will probably be toast with a little bit of peanut butter on it, carrot chips, baby spinach, and maybe one or two broccoli florets. I'm not sure what's for dinner, but with all of that consumed before then, I'll go a little riskier, but not by much. The point is that even with Thanksgiving dinner coming up, I'm not going overboard. I want that roast corn at the park, I may want a turkey leg, or sausage or something, and I also find out that at Goliath Goodies in the Colossus County Fair area, they have fruit there. Or I might have my sister put an apple in her purse for me. Either way, I'm going to be good about my diet up to that day. I'm not going to go wild at Six Flags either, but I want to enjoy myself without nagging thoughts.

Now, everything I wrote above was not the reason for this entry. I had another residual dream this morning. And boy, was it good.

I was at an ATM machine with a brunette I apparently liked. At one point, as we were talking, I put my arm around her waist, and she didn't shake it off or tell me to get off. I wanted to go on a date with her and I asked her, and she thought I was more into purusing a neighbor of hers, Stefanie or Stephanie. I'm not sure of the spelling, but I'm going to say it was the latter, because the one Stefanie I did know, Stefanie Markham in 11th grade, had knockout legs and could wear a dress very, very well, and is part of the standards I'm developing for the kind of girl I want. And I know for sure it probably wasn't that Stefanie this girl thought I was pursuing.

Anyway, we talked for a bit after we left the ATM machine, though I forgot about what, and then I fully woke up.

I liked this dream. And believe me, it felt good to be that close to a woman. And she seemed receptive to me. Plus, she matched a bit of what I'm looking for, with that partner-in-crime aspect. So far, so good with the standards list.

The 16-Word Woman

16 words from her, earlier tonight on Facebook. The chat looks different from what you'd see in a chat window on Facebook because it's a bitch to paste anything here, so I had to copy and paste everything from the particular page I was on and then delete what I didn't need. The letter "u" in place of the word "you" counts as a word since this is the Internet and I don't have time to nitpick. I know "lol" would count as three words, but again, the Internet. Let it count as one:

"Sheena - 9:06 p.m.
hey u

Rory - 9:06 p.m.
what's up?

Sheena - 9:06 p.m.
what u doing up so late

Rory - 9:06 p.m.
It's only 9:06 here on the west coast.

Sheena - 9:07 p.m.
wish u could be here lol....good nite

Rory - 9:07 p.m.
question: did you go to Hollywood Hills or Flanagan?

Sheena is offline. - 9:14 p.m."

I don't know Sheena. Yes, she's a Facebook friend, and her profile states that she graduated Hollywood Hills High School in 2002, the same year as me (the only reason she's in my friends list). Except I never expected anyone to notice or remember me in any of my classes (I don't think she does specifically, just that we went to the same school). I moved to different schools pretty regularly, except for a long stretch at Riverside Elementary from the second half of second grade to fifth grade after my family and I had moved from Casselberry (near Orlando) to Coral Springs, Florida. I went to Hollywood Hills in 11th and 12th grade, moving with my mom, who worked at Flanagan when I was in 9th and 10th grade, and who decided to take a position at HH as a library assistant/clerk. In 11th grade, I basked in the joy that was my English teacher, Roberta Little, who wasn't an extroverted type, but she exuded pure love for stories. She had us read A Rose for Emily by William Faulkner, we talked about Julius Caesar and The Great Gatsby and also saw the films based on them, the former with a robotic Jason Robards as Brutus (entirely lacking the passion and fiery anger that Brutus needs), the latter so slow and so plain with Robert Redford as Gatsby and Sam Waterston as Nick, even with its lush production design, with billowy curtains and white, white sofas. It seems more emphasis was placed on that than the performances, than the need to try to make the film feel like the experience of reading the book, which is much more significant.

I also fondly remember two class periods spent watching A Raisin in the Sun, starring Sidney Poitier, and how riveted I was watching John Fiedler as Mark Lindner, trying to dissuade the family from moving into their rightful new home, because of that neighborhood he represented not wanting black people to move in. I loved silently observing how I knew that Fiedler voiced Piglet over the years in the Winnie the Pooh films, yet that's what consumed my classmates. The drama didn't matter to them as much as excitedly pointing out that that was Piglet, and that was fine. At least I noticed the dramatic tension.

I also had two outstanding history teachers, one being Craig Forgatsch in 11th grade. To the other students, he was out-and-out crazy, but he made history vivid. The other history teacher, whose name I unfortunately forgot, stuck to the hard facts in history, definitely not as manic as Forgatsch sometimes acted, but she clearly loved what she taught. There were days when the lectures truly dragged, when I just wanted to get out of there, but I understood it all. Nothing about the American Revolution was lost to disinterest in her class. Between her, Forgatsch, and Mrs. Little, I think that's how I developed a fierce love for plays, literature and history. I read a little of all in middle school, checking out Gone with the Wind from the library at Pompano Beach Middle in 6th grade and a host of other books, but never to the degree that I do now. I think without Mrs. Little, I probably wouldn't have latched on to the great and grand works of Noel Coward and Neil Simon with such devoted fervor. And without Forgatsch and that other history teacher, I wouldn't be as fascinated with the American presidency.

So I have absolutely no idea if I had any classes with Sheena, or if I talked to her at lunch (I always kept to myself, only occasionally talking to others). The only girl I remember well from Hollywood Hills is Stefanie Markham, who had the best pair of legs I'd ever seen in high school and still today, especially when she flirted with me at a school newspaper awards ceremony sponsored by the South Florida Sun-Sentinel at the Museum of Art in Fort Lauderdale, and leaned them against my pant leg.

Looking at Sheena's photos on Facebook, in a bikini, wearing a black bra shown from behind, looking over her shoulder while probably standing on a bed, showing off a wonderfully ample ass clad in a pink thong, wearing a nearly-gauzy short pink nightgown, I see that she loves a steady stable of men when she's not working at Miller's Ale House. The photos don't only suggest that. So do Facebook status updates indicating that she wants some "play time" and doesn't like men who are still little boys. And so on.

"wish u could be here lol....good night." That bothers me the most. 16 words and that's all she was leading to. I asked one question, because I'd forgotten where she went to high school, and she couldn't even answer that. I like whole words, always have. I don't mind "you" shortened to "u" online, or "lol," but I hate when they're overused, as they are here. To me, there was only pure shallowness in thiat conversation. I wanted to know what classes we might have been in, what made her think of me after all this time. But I won't even know that. I wish I did, just out of curiosity. I wouldn't pursue anything further. I don't want to. I like women who have time for more than 16 words.

Jesus. What the Hell's Going On, Brain?

A suicide? In my dream? The near-heartsickness of yesterday's dream was harrowing enough, but I think this topped it. I had become enamored of a girl I met in a high-end bookstore, full of rare editions and tables filled with people talking about all kinds of literature. I spotted her at one of the tables, but it's still strange to me how I can't remember any pertinent details about her. I think the most I remember is that she was a brunette. She was also apparently a criminal, the crime unknown to me, yet totally familiar to the heavily-armed law enforcement tracking her that I encountered later on.

She kept eluding my grasp and my attempt at a conversation. I don't know exactly what I liked about her, but I wanted her, and so I followed her, running when she attempted to flee the law enforcement that had caught up to her at an apartment complex. She ran to the roof, I was on the third floor in a hallway, and I saw her jump from there, quickly passing from the roof, right by my eyes on the third, then the second, first, and blammo. Right on top of a car, smashing the roof, killing her. I remember running to the car, totally devastated at this tragic outcome, seeing only black pants and high-heel boots splayed out.

What the hell has my subconscious been taking in lately? This is the saddest any of my dreams have ever been. Mostly, I'm at some variation on Walt Disney World. It's not WDW as you know it, but I know it is, despite different rides and merchandise. Or else my dreams are about mutual attraction and the killer internal buzzing from that, as it was with yesterday's dream. This dream is totally unfamiliar to me, and I hope not to have it again. I don't even have nightmares, but I think this is as close as I'll get.