Night 1: Tea. Just Tea.

Dodged my cravings earlier. I went right to the fridge to see what was inside, but closed it and went back to the computer. I've got an empty tea mug here, and I think based on that, I should make more soon. I've lasted longer than I did last night. It's 10:31 p.m. now. I think it was around 9:20 or so last night when I gave up. I won't give up tonight.

Night 1: Failed Again

I've got to find the trigger in my head that leads me to the fridge and shut it down. It's possibly in front of the function that allows me to see the TV at the same time I'm working on the computer and still know what's going on. Or it might be behind the space where my book addiction lies.

This cannot go on. And it's bad enough that every time I fail and fall, I think to myself that I'll get it right tomorrow night. But tomorrow night might become last night all over again. And the cycle would continue. I hate the cycle.

More tea. One mugful isn't going to do it. If I think of what I know is in the fridge, then I need to think of the tea I could make. Cheez-Its, tea. Deli, tea. Almond cookies, tea. I broke that monotonous cycle many months ago. I have to break it into even more pieces this time, bury it where it can't possibly crawl back, and move on.

Right now, I'm not sure that writing is harder than dieting. Writing might actually be easier now.

Bug Guts and Glory

Where the hell else am I supposed to spray? This half-house, as I call it (though it probably fits the definition of an apartment more) is small enough that I have to be careful about where I spray so that the dogs aren't sniffing around out of curiosity. They've been with us long enough to know that this is the time of year when it's necessary to spray for bugs because of the heat, but I prefer to be extra-cautious.

And yet, even after having totally bombed the length of the patio with Raid Ant & Roach when I knew that it wouldn't be the time for the dogs to pee out there (for those just joining us, the patio, with its pebble ground, is a suitable simulation of the Las Vegas landscape, which would be visited upon by my dogs every day after we move there, which is not now, but soon, I hope), I'm getting reminders of where I haven't sprayed and wondering how I should handle this.

That poured out because a few minutes ago, I saw a spider crawling past on the wall behind the computer monitor. Having no other whacking device handy, I used the back of the black computer mouse and slammed it once against the wall, transferring dead spider and dead spider guts onto the mouse. I'm wondering where this thing came from. Is there some kind of small hole at the bottom of the window next to me? Should I also spray there during my next Raid Rampage? All the windows have been closed for about two weeks, so nothing should have gotten in. Maybe it got in through the window in my parents' bedroom, the one next to the front-door walkway.

Bigger defenses are a given. I have to. I only sprayed the patio ground because of the clusters of fast-crawling ants I sometimes find when I'm picking up dog poop. Yes, they do that there too. And last night was one of those times, which prompted me to throw the poop and the plastic bag covering over the side into the grass at the back of a neighbor's apartment, because at that moment, I didn't want to bring in yet another plastic bag with a few crawling ants inside. I've done that twice before and I don't like it.

I think I'll spray more thoroughly today. Most likely after I get back from the library and wherever else my mom and/or dad have to go, just as the sun sets. I think the garage needs another bug spray coating, and certainly the front-door walkway. I hate these battles, but then I think of La Mesa Jr. High, where my dad works. That school was built on an ant hill.

Night 1: Back to Night 1 Tomorrow Night

Was good for nearly the entire evening. Had an in-head craving for Cheez-Its that didn't extend to any other body part, then the body got up and headed to the kitchen a little after the 11 p.m. news on ABC 7. Out came the box from the kitchen to the living room, then it led to a slice of swiss cheese from a plastic Kraft Deli Fresh package, and a bunch of other things I won't list here because personal shame has taken over now.

By the way, ham off the bone has a lot of noticeable sodium.

I'm almost tempted to return "The Omnivore's Dilemma" by Michael Pollan because of its food theme, but the book isn't the problem. The pages can't be eaten anyway. I've just got to get on this properly. Tomorrow night, I go back to compiling job listings for an online freelance writing newsletter, as I do every Sunday night through Thursday night for the following days, and tea is always helpful to break the occasional tedium. I used to think of the work as very tedious, but with research for that book sometimes even more tedious, I make sure to appreciate certain aspects of the newsletter, like how with each listing I find, I might be helping a freelance writer find a job they can do and make some decent money. I don't think of any of the subscribers to that newsletter as competition, since I don't do any copywriting, or technical writing, or translations or transcriptions. I want to work at an airport one day. That's all. So I consider every listing found to be a mini-mitzvah that contributes to a bigger mitzvah when the newsletter is done and there's sometimes 80+ listings. Even on the days when there's only 28-30 listings, I still feel good.

I didn't go for those Cheez-Its because I didn't have anything to do. I'm trying to finish reading "To Your Scattered Bodies Go" by Philip Jose Farmer, and of course, there's the book. There's a lot to do. It just happened. Now I have to stop it from happening again. The newsletter is work to do. I'll be sitting here for a few hours putting it together. I've been at this so long that I know what listings should go into the newsletter and I sometimes turn the "focused attention" part of my brain off, and think of other things. And I usually have headphones on, so I'm listening to either jazz or NPR programs or using Pandora at the same time I'm working.

Night by night again. I just have to take it night by night. I failed tonight, but tomorrow night's a chance to succeed. The motivation should be set like cement into my mind: This body is getting older, not staying young, and I can make my right knee feel better and shrink that around-the-world (or "love handles" or "Goodyear tire design" if you'd like) fat. For the benefit of my health, why should this be so hard? I can be healthier.

When I went to see Star Trek at the Edwards Valencia 12 the Saturday before last (May 16th), the people at the ticket counters were taking so long and it was nearly 1:30 p.m., which was when the next showing of Star Trek was to start. I knew I probably wouldn't get my favorite seat (first row before the floor, where you can put your feet up on that quarter-wall), but I still wanted to get in before the movie started.

Once my sister got the tickets, I tore them apart, separating Star Trek from "The Soloist," and giving her those tickets. The guy ripping tickets took mine, did, and I ran faster than I had in months. I deftly avoided clusters of people by planning a few seconds ahead on what I was going to do, and I veered at just the right second. I got into the theater, and was a little winded (which is yet another motivation to lose weight), but I was euphoric! I loved that feeling of going so fast, of speeding past the movie posters and video game machines like I had a thinner, much more flexible body. I wanted more of that. I could almost say that I don't know how in the hell I lost touch with that feeling, but it's when you're out of your daily routine, like seeing a movie, that you forget some of your habits. I just fell back into those which are not good for me. But to have that feeling again, to one day run that fast and not feel winded, to exercise more and feel really good not just in body but also in spirit, I'd like that.

Night by night this time. Tomorrow night, the first night again.

In Moderation

I'm trying to remember: Food in moderation. It's why I treat lunch at Philippe's in downtown Los Angeles like it's the holiest Jewish synagogue on Earth. It's why I never take any food home. No further lamb sandwiches, no slices of pie, no macaroni salad. After an exalted lunch there on Thursday, I bought only an impressively thick coffee mug with Philippe's printed on it and "1908-2008" below the name, heralding 100 years of business so far and hopefully forever.

That's forced moderation, though. We don't go to downtown Los Angeles often. We haven't been to Las Vegas in a while either. We haven't been back yet to that Asian buffet off the Strip that we all like, nor the Carnival World Buffet at the Rio, nor one of the Blueberry Hill family restaurants, one in a high-quality chain. They make everything with care.

The refrigerator is the major problem. Get enough deli in there, American, Muenster and string cheese, the occasional cake, some fruit (once in a while), leftovers (preferably spaghetti, because fettucine alfredo, my favorite, is always gone in one sitting at dinner), whatever my sister's brought home from working in the kitchen at my dad's school (sometimes small subs from Subway, ham or roast beef), and peanut butter (for the occasional sandwich), and gradually, day by day, there won't be a whole lot left in the fridge. Add yogurt to that list. I almost forgot yogurt, but I don't blast through that as often as I do the rest because cheap as yogurt is, it feels awkward to have at 1 or 2 a.m.

I know what I am: An overeater. Not a binger, so much. Ok, maybe a slow binger. A box of Cheez-Its doesn't become a flat box to put into the recycling bin in one night. There's a one-and-a-half quart container of Dreyer's Summer Peach Pie ice cream in the freezer. I wish it was at the supermarket for longer than the summer because Breyer's peach ice cream has peach pieces in the ice cream that taste more like ice than peach. The Summer Peach Pie flavor actually respects the peach pieces. They must adhere to some method that Breyer's doesn't know. That container won't be gone by tomorrow night, but I've already shaved off the top layer.

I don't know why I overeat, but I have a clear motivation for why I shouldn't, and I'd better start quick, lest I land in my father's territory. There's a history of diabetes in our family, but only if there's enough weight gained. My father got to that weight easily. He worked in the bakery his father managed when he got older and the overeating stuck. I don't want to end up with diabetes.

It's hard to scale my eating habits way back. I did it once a few months ago. It actually lasted for a long stretch of time, my right knee stopped hurting, and I could swing my arms at my sides without hitting flesh. The right side of me was more stubborn than the left, but there was very little there.

Now the knee's back to its occasional pain regimen and I hate the term "love handles," so I'll say that I'd better knock my weight down soon or Goodyear's going to examine me front and back for inspiration for a new tire design. It's not that bad yet, but I know it could get worse from this point.

I need to do this for another reason: I savor every visit to Philippe's. Even though Claim Jumper is overpriced now (even in this recession), I love getting a table at the right side of the restaurant where I can have a view of the freeway and the back of the major Stevenson Ranch shopping center. It's high up enough where you can see both, side by side. I sometimes see a security car driving at the back of the shopping center, near a dumpster and the loading docks, and I like to think about what the driver's like, if he likes the job, what he does on his days off. As for the freeway, where is everyone going? Are the big rigs only traveling within the state or are there a few from the east coast? I haven't thought of a short story or essay yet from watching all that, but I like letting my mind work out.

I love those experiences because I don't have them often. I mentioned this point early on in the entry, but I wanted to repeat it because of those visits to Claim Jumper.

I don't get the same feeling from the refrigerator anymore. I know there's cheese in there. Sometimes there's pie and I'm crazy for pie. Ginger ale, iced tea, sometimes root beer, I know where those are on the shelves inside the door.

I don't like it. Muenster cheese with tuna spread on it isn't as pleasureable as it might be if I wasn't going for it so often. I might even like deli even more if I wasn't so familiar with honey-baked ham versus ham off the bone. I want to enjoy all this again as much as when I go to Philippe's. I do have tea every day, going between Bigelow's Lemon Lift and Twining's Lady Grey, but it's a daily pleasure that's not the same as everyday binging. The Lemon Lift tea is comforting and the constant question I keep in mind when I drink the Lady Grey Tea is, "Will I catch that hint of orange in my mouth this time?" It's especially wonderful when the orange and lemon flavors intermingle.

The tea is part of my lifestyle, just like my near-obsessive reading habit, just like my obsessive movie habit. I wouldn't give that up. It's part of me. But the overeating shouldn't be. I need to stop now before I end up with a handheld device that tells me if my blood sugar is normal, and the fingerpricks to make that happen. I'm 25 now. Immortality isn't as assured as it was when I was a teenager. Back then, I didn't believe all of me was immortal, but maybe my body. It isn't. That mindset has to disappear. Today and in the following days and months, I need to gauge what I eat, when I eat, and how much I eat. I should eat only at lunch and dinner (I don't get up in time for breakfast), and when those daily cravings take over and constantly command my brain, only water and tea should prevail. For a few weeks now, I've been thinking that I should pay more attention to tea, drink more of it, read more about it. This would be a good time for that.

I need to make it work permanently this time.

An Khe

Fortunately, though it was a sad shock to be leaving Florida and moving to Southern California in early August of 2003, I didn't miss the start of the 5th season of "The West Wing." This was a major season, at least when it aired, because Aaron Sorkin had been fired and chief director Thomas Schlamme had left with him. How would the show fare now without its main big brain in charge? Would any other writer be able to write dialogue that would at least sound as smart and informative as Sorkin's?

The first episode of the 5th season, "7A WF 83429" was dramatic enough that there wasn't much time to think about that, save for the immediate changes, such as whipsaw camerawork that was merely "ER" producer John Wells' way of establishing his full command of the show, which was not to the benefit of devoted fans of "The West Wing," like me. In the second episode, which saw President Bartlet (not president at the time) and his wife Abigail on what looked like a set out of Star Wars, even though it was in the White House residence. The lighting made it seem like it was.

This was all terribly wrong. The characters didn't speak at all like they did, but mouthed whatever the writers had to bitch about when it came to world affairs. Sorkin never fashioned it that way. He had things to say about the world, but always made sure that it sounded right coming from whatever character he was writing, seeing that it hewed to their individual personalities. I couldn't believe I was hearing Chief of Staff Leo McGarry so roughly cynical, or Toby so angry at....nothing. Nothing that could possibly matter to the fabric of his personality.

But I hung on. I watched every episode straight through, no matter how bad it was, hoping that even without Sorkin, "The West Wing" might have a chance of reclaiming at least 10-20% of the Sorkin spark. That happened later, with "The Supremes," which saw Glenn Close and William Fichtner as eventual Supreme Court nominees and genial sparring partners. It was because of Debora Cahn, who understood what Sorkin was after. She knew that these characters were important people in the context of this fictional White House. It was also important to show the effects of their decisions, both personally and in policy. The other writers on the show just seemed to be jazzed about writing for a show set in the White House, forgetting all that had come before.

I've been watching season 5 reruns on "Bravo," to see if my original instincts were correct. Before this, I Netflixed season 5 discs containing "The Stormy Present" (because it guest-starred James Cromwell as a former president and had John Goodman again as Glenallen Walken, former acting president and former Speaker of the House) and "The Supremes," but that's as far as my toleration went for season 5 episodes. Now, having seen over half of the fifth season again, there still are shockingly bad scenes that make one wonder how writers and producers could abuse characters like this, but in later episodes, there does seem to be a drive for improvement. I can understand the writers in season 5 trying to get used to being the ones in charge of shepherding the show, but there was no excuse when seven episodes in, there was still no sign of improvement. I suspect the gradual improvement came from Debora Cahn even before "The Supremes" because at the start of the end credits for the episode "The Warfare of Genghis Khan," I noticed she was the story editor, which most likely means "head writer" in different words. I hope that's what it meant.

Now I'm at "An Khe," and I remember parts of this episode well, but I remember the experience of it even more. The night it aired, February 18, 2004, was when I finally got used to living in Southern California. I didn't have that "Holy crap! I live in Southern California, near enough to Los Angeles and Hollywood!" moment, and still haven't. I don't think I ever will because as mentioned over and over again in previous blog entries, California has never felt like home.

Before this, I had been impressed with how unattached the Santa Clarita Valley seemed to be to anything (before I found out about the various groups that make up this valley, such as the "glamorous" soccer moms of Stevenson Ranch and the valley boosters that are a small number of those who are involved with any activities the City of Santa Clarita puts on). In our apartment complex in Valencia, which took up a year, there was a neighbor on the second floor of our building who kept a fishtank on the ledge of his tiny patio. One night at College of the Canyons, I typed a paper for a man who looked like he wouldn't be at the school much longer. His constant companion seemed to be his backpack and though he promised to pay me for my work, and never did, I got my payment from the conversation we had while walking to the bus transfer station because there were no more buses from College of the Canyons to the transfer station.

He talked about recently being in Las Vegas, and hanging out at the University of Nevada Las Vegas campus, mentioning one professor who allowed him to sit in on some classes. He didn't look like he'd stay in the Santa Clarita Valley much longer. A traveling man he was. I don't think he would ever be comfortable in one place, though having visited Vegas a few times, I don't understand why he left. I think he's probably either in San Francisco or somewhere in Arizona. There's no way he could still be here. That's the only example of impermanence I've seen here. After five years, I still admire that.

Anyway, the night that "An Khe" aired, I decided not to watch it in the apartment living room. I was attempting to understand what was so great about exercise, and with one of four keycards in one of the kitchen drawers, I went off to the apartment complex's small gym, where I found myself to be the only one there. I turned on all three TVs, changed the channels to NBC, and watched the episode on three screens. There may have been a little burn I felt, but I mostly remember sweat. I tried the weights, tried pushing black bars together in front of my face, used the stair-stepper, but preferred the stationary bike. I'm not organized in my exercise pursuits, and so had no method or order for it. I still don't. I haven't done much of it since we left the apartment and moved to Saugus and this half-house. I guess it would be considered an apartment or condominium too, except it looks like a house, though a house looks far bigger than this, and you're on your own for yardwork.

Wow, look at that. Not much about the episode, which I'm going to watch again in about two minutes on my Tivo after not having seen it since it originally aired. I don't think any of these season 5 episodes are going to make me go out and get that DVD set, as seasons 1, 2, 3, 4 and 7 are the only worthwhile seasons. Season 6 was pretty bland until Congressman Matthew Santos (Jimmy Smits) agreed to seek the Democratic presidential nomination at Josh's (Bradley Whitford) behest. I consider this more of a last look, to see if I'm still right about some of the bad writing, and also to see these episodes again after five years.

Sorry if you were seeking coherency in this. Some days I rock it, other days I drop it.

Fante on Top of Bukowski

Just came back from the library, with a big load of hardbacks to organize into stacks. Two of the paperbacks that look small amidst the hardbacks are an edition of "Ask the Dust" by John Fante, from 2006, at the time of the movie adaptation with Colin Firth and Salma Hayek, and Charles Bukowski's "Pleasures of the Damned." This Harper Perennial Classics edition has the introduction Bukowski wrote for the novel and on the back is a quote from him from the introduction: "Fante was my God." In one of those book stacks, I placed it on top of "The Pleasures of the Damned: Poems, 1951-1993" by Bukowski. Seems appropriate.