3:59 a.m. newspaper delivery

From inside, on this computer, doing preliminary research for "What If They Lived?" (i.e., Wikipedia before I check out from the library on Sunday the first hundred books I need on four silent film actors), I hear a car (or maybe it's a van) pull up to my next-door neighbor's garage door to throw today's L.A. Times at it. In my head, I'm already at the door, at the car, just desperate to talk to this person for a minute or so, just to know their take on the night hours, how early they have to get up, if they notice certain details of the night that no one in my neighborhood sees. Or maybe it's just a job for them, as I'd expect.

I Want Ainsley Hayes.....and Muriel Pritchett...and Celine

I'm tempted to state that I don't know what I was thinking. Looking through the personals on Craigslist, that might well be true. But at the time, I had found the barren Facebook listing of a girl who had deeply impressed me when I was 7 years old, whom I knew throughout all the years I had lived in Casselberry, Florida (so close to Orlando that my parents and I (and later my sister) had annual passes to Walt Disney World that we used every weekend and sometimes during the week just for dinner), and who I think might have been the perfect one had I remained in Casselberry, instead of moving to South Florida and then Southern California (not my choice, though, at a young age). But I wonder if I might be idealizing her today based on a few experiences where I couldn't believe that a girl, any girl, could be this playful, this daring, this fun. I admit to being a relatively reserved person. I'm not uptight, I'm not repressed, but I'm usually quiet, sometimes introverted. Not so introverted as to be shy or self-centered, but if it's just me, I'm ok with that. Anyone who has great personality, flamboyancy, playfulness as Kelli did back then, always makes an impression. I want to get to know that person more. I don't know if it's a matter of wanting that person's energy to rub off on me because in conversation, I'm a sociable talker. With Kelli, it might have been yin-and-yang. I found aspects of her personality that I wanted in my life and I might have hoped that she found things in my personality that she would want in her life.

So what happened? Well, moving puts a damper on a lot of that. There was at least one time she and her parents visited my family and I in South Florida. I remember spilled soda at a table at a buffet restaurant that I didn't dare help clean up, and I don't know why back then. Today I still don't know. But as I recall, she still had that gleam. Not only in her eye, but it was all around her, like Tinkerbell had gotten drunk and went on a pixie-dust bender. I don't mean like that scene in "Wayne's World" where Wayne sees sparkles all around Cassandra, but that energy Kelli had was still there.

Comes the end of 12th grade and the approach of Grad Nite at the Magic Kingdom at Walt Disney World and for some reason, my dad was on the phone with Kelli's mom and somehow, I got word that she liked me. Liked me. I'd never known that any girl might like me. But apparently, she did. We talked on the phone, and I expressed my hope that she might be able to spend time with me at Grad Nite, since her dad worked at the theme parks, and there must have been a way that he could have gotten her there, even though she wasn't with any of the schools that would be at the park.

The day of Grad Nite, while standing near the buses, I called Kelli and her mom answered, saying that Kelli didn't feel well and wouldn't be able to join me there. Disappointment? You bet. Questions? A few, but none that bother a writer with many theories. The one that stands out the most is that maybe she didn't want to go through with it for whatever reason. But I'd prefer to believe that she was genuinely ill. Nothing further after that, no contact, but imagine yourself 7 years old and this bold, vivacious girl comes into your life. I was never one of those boys who, when young, believed that girls were icky. I knew there were lots of things different between the sexes and I was interested. But her, well, I've never forgotten her, not even up to the past few weeks where I've come upon that Facebook profile that isn't even a profile. More like links to send her a message if so inclined, or add her as a friend. No profile to be found after sending a message because she hasn't built one yet, and seems not to have logged into her account in so long. Yet I've sent 5 messages over the past two-and-a-half weeks. Hope, I suppose. Maybe she'll log into her account one day and find me again. I'm always on Facebook. I've built up my profile enough that I could never leave. Everything in it is me.

I'm not quite sure what I'm looking for. For now, just to re-connect, to page through our separate lives over the years if she wants. Maybe to get a different vantage point of me when I was 7. I know what I was like, but I do wonder how I looked to someone else.

So why the personal ads on Craigslist? Stupid to begin with, since 80% of them are crap, but that wasn't my intention. Especially since my family and I hope to leave the Santa Clarita Valley of Southern California and move to Las Vegas. That is, if the Clark County School District begins to hire teachers again, most importantly my dad, who teaches business education, and being that Las Vegas is a cluster of service industries, it seems natural.

After I had sent my latest collection of thoughts to Kelli (just stories about what's been happening in Southern California, and observations about the time spent here), I was curious about what stood for personal ads around the Internet. Now, I haven't dated since the 7th grade. I can sense lots of adjectives being pulled out right now: "Pathetic" comes to mind, followed by "male spinster," but I've never really had the taste or skill for it. I looked through these ads and it didn't feel right. Not that I was cheating on my past, but, I don't know, maybe it's that I've never really opened up. I even found two ads that looked interesting and wrote to them, but even when I was writing them, I felt foreign to the experience, like I shouldn't be doing it. I never got an answer from either of those women, but that's just as well.

Do I really want to do this? Do I really want to date and go through all that's necessary in relationships? To be honest, I hear about it requiring effort and more effort, and patience, and lots of other kinds of work to make a go of it (and I've lived through 23 years of my parents' 26-year marriage), and I blanch at the thought of all of that. I've already got enough work. I'm planning to take online courses soon from Embry-Riddle Aeronautical University in pursuit of a bachelor's degree in professional aeronautics. I don't know what I want to do yet for a career, but I know so far that I want to work at an airport. I'm also co-writing a book with a good friend and fellow film critic, one that's guaranteed to be published because of this friend's contract with a publishing company that specializes in Hollywood biographies and other books about movies and television. There's already enough work to be had from those.

But, I'm looking in from the outside, from the fog of inexperience. What do I know anyway? And I also tend to overthink things. When I was taking driving lessons, the instructor told me that I overthink what I have to do while driving. When my friend asked if I'd like to be the co-author of his book, I freaked out about the research and overthought how to do it. Once I got into it properly, and began deciding which actors I wanted to write about, then it became more clear. Not necessarily easier, but easier to handle.

I don't know if I want a relationship. I feel better as myself, with myself, working for myself. When I was in 7th and 8th grade at Silver Trail Middle School in Pembroke Pines, Florida, I hated when teachers wanted us students to work in groups on something. I always felt I could do it better and get it done faster by myself. In fact, my favorite hours for writing are 11 p.m. to 5 a.m., when there's no one awake, when I have the entire world to myself, when I can claim ownership of the trees in my neighborhood or the clouds in the sky and no one objects. I can play connect-the-dots with the stars with no regard for constellations. I can listen to the loud snoring of my portly neighbor next door and wonder what he could be dreaming about. For the past few weeks, I've also watched a pair of ducks sleeping in the community pool, which is not yet open to residents for the season (our large patio faces the community pool). I love all this. I live for all this. I don't know if I'd want to share this with anyone else. My eyes, my brain, are trained on all that's around me in the dark. Isn't that enough?

I don't wonder that based on society's trends. I wonder that for myself. Even though it sounds like I'm fairly confident that I make a perfect couple on my own, I do wonder. It stems from my genes. My mother is a romantic, even though my father has tried that aspect of her for decades. I've always thought my father to be indifferent to such things. So my genes have it out on these matters.

But if I did want to date, if I didn't feel strange about it, what would I want?

I would want someone like Kelli, if not Kelli.

And that still stands today. On "The West Wing," there was Ainsley Hayes, a Republican lawyer played by Emily Procter. But in the episode "Bartlet's Third State of the Union," she's seen dancing to "Blame it On the Bossa Nova" in a white bathrobe in her office in the basement of the White House (in the Steam Pipe Trunk Distribution Venue, as it's called), since she accidentally sat on a wet-paint bench and is awaiting a new set of clothes. Just how she dances, how she's so free about it, how, when Sam Seaborn asks her, "Why are you moving like that?", she answers, "I'm blaming it on the bossa nova," and how she says that is what catches me completely.

I would want someone like Ainsley Hayes.

There's also Muriel Pritchett, which Geena Davis won an Oscar for in "The Accidental Tourist." She also isn't concerned about how her sense of fashion might be perceived. She wears comically long nails, and she's not averse to looking at pictures in houses or rooting through things, even though someone's standing right nearby. I love her curiosity, I love her look, I love how she remains so strong even with the illness that plagues her son.

I would want someone like Muriel Pritchett.

And Celine in "Before Sunrise" and, to a degree, "Before Sunset." Passionate, uninhibited in talking about what she believes, and plainly beautiful. In the scene next to the end of "Before Sunrise," when she hugs Jesse tightly, I've lost count of how many times I've rewatched that scene on DVD. But the one scene that gets me is after they've had sex, when the sun is gradually rising and they're walking together, holding hands, and she has her hair in long pigtails. They spot, through a window, a man playing the harpsichord, and they dance slowly, not wanting that moment, or the moments that have already happened, to ever end. In "Before Sunset," it's how she fervently holds onto her beliefs, how she describes her experiences over the past nine years, and that ending that makes me want another sequel, which I hope Ethan Hawke, Julie Delpy, and writer/director Richard Linklater are gradually working on. It's needed.

I would want someone like Celine.

In fact, I would want a girl that's all three of these women. Now, I know this is all television and movies, but I've never forgotten Kelli. I know vivacity exists. My heart knows it too. It flutters whenever I watch Ainsley tell Sam why she's moving like that, and when Muriel waggles her gloved fingers goodbye at Macon (William Hurt) after the weekly dog-training lesson, and when Jesse and Celine are dancing briefly.

But I don't know if I want it. Maybe there's no concrete answer. I actually debated whether to write this entry, and my memories of Kelli won out.

Or maybe it's just how dating is looked upon today. All those websites for people to find the right person. I can't stand going through ads like a menu. It feels so impersonal to me. If anything, I'd love just to bump into that special woman, and for once, be confident enough to say hello. I think I'd like to count on her energy to carry the introduction. I wouldn't mind the woman saying hello first.

I'll give it more time. I'll write my half of that book, I'll take those aviation-centered courses, and then I'll see if I am where I want to be and if there's anything else I want for my life. For as long as I'm alive, I've got time.

A Love for San Juan Capistrano That Will Never Be Fulfilled

Oh San Juan, San Juan
Footsteps next to the train tracks,
A petting zoo with unexpected ostriches and llamas.
But what makes it Capistrano,
The historical houses,
The quiet downtown area,
I can never have.
For though I have fallen hard for the charms to be had from undisturbed composure,
I can never have you.
I am beholden to another,
Ironically where lights and billboards and loudness are pervasive,
And as crucial as oxygen.
I love what you have offered me,
That chain-locked movie theater with the lone popcorn machine amidst torn-up walls,
The antique store selling envelopes with "Burt Lancaster" mimeographed in blue.
But Las Vegas is my home.
It is what makes each breath of my day worthwhile.
It is not at all peaceful,
But it offers what I have sought all my life:
People in search of immediate pleasures and unashamed of their quest.
Hedonism in unexpected places.
But I will remember you.
In my mind, those streets, those gravel roads, those sidewalks wide enough only for those who intend to stay will be some of my fondest memories.
Thank you for giving me part of your life.
I will hold it close, always.

(An amateurish attempt at the format of a poem, but a start)

News as Big as the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man

I should write soon about what I did on my 25th birthday (I'd place it among the few flawless days I've had in the little over five years I've lived in Southern California), but the changes that have come are far more important right now.

I ran for re-election to the Governing Committee of the Online Film Critics Society, which would have made it my fourth year had I won. I think it might have been my fourth year. I don't know, and towards the end of the campaigning and the start of the voting, I felt like I wouldn't be broken up if I lost. I sent out my campaign e-mails individually, never as one e-mail to all the members, as I'd done it in past years. But there was all that fiery vitriol and what I sensed was a bit of hatred, even though those who gave it tried to play it down. And that was from two of the candidates and what appeared to be their supporters. It was a vicious forum fight and I didn't participate in it because it's not in my nature and not good for my gut. If I did, I would have spent hours online waiting for replies, worried that I sullied my reputation, and wondering how the targets would react. I don't have the time for that.

So I lost with 33 votes. I like that because I could just slip out quietly, find where my private trench was before I went a little bit public, crack it open again, throw out the dirt that landed on the floor, and dig a little bit deeper. There, I could write again, uninterrupted and at peace. If there had been another year on the Governing Committee, I think I would have done it. But having lost, well, why think about it anymore?

This led to something huge in my life, something that came up after good friend and fellow film critic Phil Hall also lost re-election with 44 votes, the second-lowest total. He asked if I wanted to be co-author of his book "What If They Lived?" The core of it is speculation on what various actors might have done in their careers had they not died. Publication is guaranteed since it's the second book in his contract with a company called BearManor Media, which specializes in Hollywood biographies and other books about movies and television. I thought about it for a day, and then accepted, because it would have been royally stupid for me not to, because the opportunity is right there. My first book. A dry run in research for the biographies I hope to write in the coming years. And the opportunity to dig into the lives of Fatty Arbuckle, Marilyn Monroe, Montgomery Clift, and 17 others, since Phil and I split the list he made. My gut felt troubled over the past few days because I could easily handle the biographical/career overview that begins each essay, but how was I supposed to write the speculation aspect? On my own, based on what I had found out in my research? Fortunately, no. Phil said it would be ok for me to contact experts and historians about their opinions on what these actors might have done. And many authors have accepted my request, which is a relief. I feel a lot better about this project than I did before. But being that this is my first book, I want to make it a decent debut. Plus, it gives me an excuse to see a few Marilyn Monroe movies, a few from generally-forgotten actress Carole Landis, and some others as well. Always good for me.

For the past two days, I've been diligently gathering research material, making lists of websites, articles, and books from which glean information, and it's been a slog. I never thought I could loathe Amazon.com, even with having a folder of 400 links to a varied collection of books, but I do, at least until I'm done with this part of the research. And my local library had better be prepared. If they thought I was obsessed with reserving books before, they don't know what's coming when I get back on the 26th. It's closed on the 12th for Easter, and on the 19th I'm going to the Cinerama Dome in Hollywood for the Paley Center screening of the final three episodes of "Pushing Daisies," introduced by creator Bryan Fuller, whose return to "Heroes" has been loudly cheered. I just hope he stays long enough for me to ask him to autograph my copy of the season 1 DVDs of "Pushing Daisies." But after that, my library had better just construct a chute and aim it where my box is. Yes, they have a box at the check-out desk under the far-right counter with my name written in black marker on a sheet of paper, taped to the box. I'm that revered.

Earlier last night, my dad was wondering what my name would look like on the book. I already know how I want to be credited, but I need to write it all first. I've got 20 essays ahead. It's daunting, but I'm where I want to be in my life right now. Screenwriter Steve Kloves, known for his adaptations of the Harry Potter books, wrote "The Fabulous Baker Boys" at 24, my sixth favorite film in that ranked list, and I think he directed it at 28. Roger Ebert began reviewing movies at 28. I'm right where I want to be. I'm still a bit nervous about this project, but I'm happy because of all that I get to do with it.

2:03 a.m.

Sitting here at the dining room table in near-darkness, on my dad's laptop, listening to Charles Bukowski reading his poems from a CD set called "Charles Bukowski Uncensored" which I ripped to the computer and transferred to my mp3 player long ago, but because of the home computer going to the tech guy at my dad's school to be stripped completely and built up again, I transferred these and a lot of other tracks to my jump drive to hold me over until we get that computer back. I'm listening to Bukowski talk about "Vegas and pussy and victory," and I'm thinking, in the glow of this laptop screen, looking into a dark tunnel of a kitchen, that there's nothing else that could be as great as this at this time of the night. I am listening to a master wordsmith, continually reminded of why he was a master wordsmith. I don't want to be him, I don't want to ever try to imitate his style, but I like to genuflect often at his rundown, well-worn temple of words. God forever bless the man, and maybe have a few beers with him too.

Where is the Night?

The night is in this living room-cum-dining room, in the three low light bulbs above me at the dining room table, its depressed light barely making an effort to be bolder than the darkness. The light reaches as far as the bird cage nearest to the TV in the living room portion of this long room and then it gives up. It's about right for this hour, getting near 1 a.m.

The night is also at the community pool across from the patio, not yet open to the residents for the season. It's not quite that temperature that merits late-night hours for teenagers by the pool, in the pool, and in the spa. I wish the mallard duck that I've seen at the pool the past few nights was there tonight, but it's too cool out there for it. The water looks green now, from nature's sediment, leaves, dirt from duck feet, and certainly duck droppings as well. Whomever takes care of the pool will inevitably have to clean it again. It makes no sense that the lights inside the pool are on when no one's there. Well, no one physically, but mentally, since I'm thinking about it right now.

I know without doubt the night is at the houses I've seen near the foothills across from La Mesa Jr. High, where my dad works. It has always amazed me that people would want to live that far away from everyone else, in a cul-de-sac pushed up against a foothill, one that looks like the same as every other suburban tract in the Santa Clarita Valley. What one finds in Stevenson Ranch suburbia is the same anywhere else here. It's disappointing, considering the landscape, which should demand more from those that live in the shadows of mountains and hills and golden yellow flowers on hillsides. Even some of the trees seem to have given up.

I know it seems I'm rambling, but that's what this night feels like. I wonder what it would be like to look into the doors of the Pavilion's supermarket in Valencia, if not for living in Saugus. We lived in Valencia for a year, in one of the apartment complexes behind the Pavilion's shopping center, but I never thought to wander out at night and see what the inside of a darkened supermarket looks like. I think it's because I would have riled our dog Tigger, and our apartment door didn't have anything that could block him from going out. Not that he ever would, but to me, it was best not to disturb him late at night by doing something like that.

The parking lot in this neighborhood, and the one across the street, I like to think that during these hours, I own the cars and trucks parked there. I can't get into them, nor would I want to, but Toyotas and Hondas and Mazdas and Fords, and F-150s and every other kind of vehicle a formerly $400,000 homeowner can get, they're mine. The tires are mine, the windshields, the tailpipes, the colors. I'm not fond of cars anyway, but I just like that I can have them if I want. I don't want to drive them, but I like looking at them, imagining. It may seem strange to be proud of that when I don't like cars, but they're the first available things I can think of.

I wish my neighbors were more well-read. I wish I could find old issues of The New Yorker in their recycling bins. I wish boxes of books sat beside their garbage bins. There was one night while living in the apartment in Valencia where I was taking garbage out to the dumpster, and there was an abandoned chest of drawers against a wall of the dumpster area, in between the two dumpsters. I opened one of the drawers and found a wealth of books left in there, including one called "Little Green Men" by Christopher Buckley, which I still haven't read, despite moving with it to Saugus. There were others I picked up as well, such as "Closers: Great American Writers on the Art of Selling," which contains an excerpt from the novel "The Competitor" by Thomas Bontly. I've read that excerpt more times than anything else in the book so far, and it impressed me so that I bought the book from Amazon Marketplace. I still haven't read that one either, though I lean toward my literary priorities catapulting me elsewhere rather than harboring the thought that the book might not live up to the high standards set in that excerpt, which I don't.

Loving the night is a complete reversal between me and my sister. When I was little, I was always the one put to bed at an early hour. My dad kept my sister up well into the late hours when she was little and when she was growing up, it was hard to get her to go to bed because of that. Now she's the one who's in bed well before 11 and here I am at 1 a.m., writing this. It's not an unconscious rebellion against having been put to bed that early during those years. But I suppose to me, there's more life at night than there is during the day. There's the expected routines, not just with work, but in errands, food shopping, pumping gas into the car, trying to beat the light at the intersection before it turns red, sighing with a little bit of defeat as the garage door comes down on another day after you've parked inside. Not that I have any experience with the latter, but I imagine it may be commonplace among many. At night, there are shadows all over. The colors of tree leaves and bushes and curbs and streetlight poles during the day, become as dark as the blacktop of the street. There is a hint of what there was during the day, but now it's a landscape for the imagination. People can think sinister of their co-workers to loved ones and friends. People can imagine what they might say to those co-workers if they were witty enough and confident enough. I live in the night because that's where I believe the human soul truly lives. During the day, we try to live up to expectations we've set for ourselves for that day, and that others have set for us too. At night, we are by ourselves as we lay in bed, mulling over the day's events and thinking about what might happen the next day. We may talk to others about the day, but we are thinking only as one person. We may think of ourselves in those hours in relation to others, how certain actions we may plan to undertake might affect ones we care about, such as a car purchase or a possible new job, or anything that "responsibility" calls for. I don't have contempt for responsibility. I know there are elements of that which are crucial to our lives. I just have contempt for the vacuum bag that some keep themselves in because of that. Not all people, mind you, just those, say, in my neighborhood, maybe in your neighborhood. My next-door neighbor for example looks like he's been married for decades, and I know exactly what he does as soon as he gets home. Well, I don't know what he does when he's inside, but after a while, he and his wife go out to dinner, then they come home, then the TV goes on in the living room, at least until 11, and then lights out. I walk the dogs on the patio because of a boxed-in man-made landscape that's a decent simulation of Las Vegas terrain (where we plan to eventually move if the Clark County School District begins hiring teachers again), and they need to learn how to go on that terrain. From the patio, I can see the light on in my neighbor's living room and I know that that's when the TV is on. Almost exactly before 11, the light's off. Routine that can kill.

But I'm not one to embark on a crusade to try to break people out of their routines. So be it if they want to live their lives that way. I have my own and that's the only one that matters within my body. As would be appropriate at 1:22 a.m., I've lost the point I was rumored to be making. In fact, I'm not even sure there was one within the confines of the previous paragraph.

My favorite view of the night is from the side parking lot at the Wal-Mart on Kelly Johnson Parkway in this valley. Don't ask me to say where exactly that is because I don't know. I've not known for five years. I have a theory on how to get there, but not certainty. It's what comes from living where you don't care much about what's here. There hasn't been much reason to chance that. But anyway, the view is unfortunately blocked pretty well by a few tall trees which I don't think were there last year. Without them, you could get a totally clear view of Six Flags Magic Mountain, all the lights of the rollercoasters on. Of course if you're looking for a full, not-totally-straight-on view, then you'd have to walk down the parking lot a bit. My favorite view is not that, though, but all the buildings with lights on the sides, lights shining down on other parking lots, traffic lights seen far up mountains, clusters of houses, all kinds of stories that strike me with wonder. Anything interesting happening at one of the intersection? Any suitably crazy people crossing the street? Any new residents sitting stock-still in their apartments, trying to remember what brought them here? Anyone just standing outside wondering the same thing I'm thinking about?

When I was at The Signal, the exclusive newspaper of the Santa Clarita Valley, I thought about writing a column for the weekend Escape section about wanting to make chalk drawings on the long stretch of street that passes my neighborhood on the way to higher ground and higher elevation neighborhoods. Well, not chalk drawings. That's too small-scale. Alien planet landscapes, portraits, city scenes, a chalk drawing of a better street than ours, whatever. I can't actually draw, but just imagining it was always fun. I didn't write it because I was caught up in working on many other things at the paper, but I think it was more of a column than an actual desire. I sometimes stand on that street at night and just marvel at how quiet it is, how my neighbors and other parts of this suburban hick population (we are far enough away from the hub of this valley that I call where I am the backwoods of Santa Clarita, just like Santa Clarita is essentially the backwoods of Los Angeles, since most of the residents live here only because they don't want to live in L.A., but don't mind commuting every day) drive out in the morning, drive home in the afternoon, like pre-ordained permanent choreography. There are some good neighbors, the few that I've seen. One woman I talked to has lived in my neighborhood for 26 years and that's a relief since I'm always worried whenever the winds get heavy enough, especially the Santa Ana winds. It's one of the reasons I can't wait to move to Las Vegas where, despite the winds at times, at least I'd be living on flatlands, and looking at mountains, not living in them.

There was a big black guy I passed by once on the way back to the house after walking Kitty, and we said hello to one another, and I was pleased at his voice. A relaxed tone, almost like you could imagine him as a trumpeter in a jazz band or even as a soloist. He just had that air about him, like he also lived for these hours, where his inspiration was. No doubt he has a job far different from that, but his presence is one of the rare pleasures of the neighborhood, inspiration found that can help create a character for something. A play, maybe a novel, I don't know yet. I need to start writing more often first. That I know.

Maybe that's what the night is. Jumbled moments and jumbled souls, like this blog entry. It's not meant to always make sense. That's what the daytime is for. It's where Oprah reigns and so does traffic frustration. At night, there's the choice of late-night hosts, rustling through leftovers in the fridge, and sometimes just sitting in the living room, thinking. Or, like me, looking up again at the three dining room fan lights on low and wondering. Just wondering. Wondering about the happiness of my next-door neighbor just because he's next door. I doubt he thinks of me the same way, but it doesn't matter. Nothing will ever hinge on that. For me, these kinds of thoughts just happen. They're better at night.

The Night Series: Finally, THE Night

I don't know yet where to put this day among my small collection of perfect days. Do I put it behind the Saturday about two or three years ago where my family and I, and my sister's friend, went to Boomer's Amusement Center in Fountain Valley, then to the Southern-style Po Folks restaurant in Burbank, and capped it all off with an inching-toward-late-night visit to Downtown Disney in Anaheim? Or does it go in front of December 7, 2007 when my mom, my sister and her friend went to the Spice Girls concert at the Staples Center in L.A.? On that day, I woke up at 3 p.m., which I used to not do, finding my Amazon.com order of "I'm a Lebowski, You're a Lebowski: Life, The Big Lebowski, and What-Have-You" on the dining room table. Then, in the mailbox, my order from playscripts.com containing a collection of plays by Nina Shengold, who gives lively voice to weary waitresses and even bags and suitcases at a warehouse full of other luggage either abandoned by their owners or lost by various airlines. Following that, after my dad got home from work, we went to Boston Market for dinner, and finally into the mayhem that was two lanes of traffic approaching the Staples Center, also because Enrique Iglesias was performing next door at the Nokia Theatre. And then, the traffic seemed to disappear as if some invisible force had either chanted something or snapped unseen fingers. My dad and I went to a Staples nearby because he had to look for something, and then we drove around L.A., through Koreatown, and various other parts.

This day, which is rapidly becoming yesterday at three minutes to midnight, had in common the feeling of one activity gliding into another without any conflict with anything else. Strange, because there really wasn't as much going on as there was on the days just mentioned. What made this day perfect from the start was the weather. I went outside with Tigger, one of our dogs, to get the mail and the warmth outside seemed casual, like it was in no rush and didn't have any point to prove. Compare that to summer heat where it's blazing and one wonders what made it pissed off. I know it's science and the seasons and weather patterns, but it's also when you spent very brief foot time on concrete if you're near a pool. If you get out of the pool, you're quick about not dawdling. In that case, you just jump right back in.

I've also used this description in my Facebook profile: "Pleasantly warm." That's how it was. Not too warm to be stifling, not too hot to make you remain in your house until autumn. Plus, there was an omnipresent thin layer of cold that was like a put-upon kid in school asking a bully if he could move so the kid could get through, but soon giving up and just waiting. The cold during the day was never as demanding as it is now, where it feels like the freezer cases of a supermarket. Consider it then the easygoing meshing of two kinds of weather, which I hadn't seen until today. Usually when the sun was out on days before, the cold was the dominant force. But this time, both existed in tandem, though the sun had the slight edge today. And that was fine.

I went online after I got up, checked the usual websites such as Drudge Report, and my e-mail, and then, what else was there to do? I know I should have watched at least one movie today to review, but it didn't feel like that kind of day. Felt like a reading day, and that's what I did, with The School of Essential Ingredients by Erica Bauermeister, a novel that I wish didn't have to end. There have been many times where I lose a little bit of faith in the English language, not because of anything that passes for reading online, but because of not feeling any confidence in my writing, which happens often. I opened this book and I found new meaning. That's not to say that I'll suddenly gain permanent confidence in my work, but at least I know the words are there and aren't always that imposing.

I love the end of daylight savings time, because it gets darker later and allows the evening to gradually come forth. The sun seems to go down a bit slower, looking out on a vast stretch of land, regretting the decision, but knowing it has to happen. The evening gets a bigger introduction that way. Silent fanfare.

My evening was rife with the usual business: Job listings to compile for that freelance writing newsletter, listening to the usual and always welcome Disney theme park music on Utilidors Audio Broadcasting (http://www.uabmagic.com/), and then more reading. Now, at 12:31 a.m., it's probably time for a movie. Definitely one to review, to follow a perfect day.