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.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, August 22, 2011
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.
- 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.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Things Recede Here
Today I was thinking about Po Folks in Buena Park. It closed last September. It probably wasn't doing the business it used to because things had changed that I didn't even notice. The country-fried steak was still good, and so were the sides, but Mom had noticed that the portions had gotten slightly smaller and the sweet tea was, well, not as sweet. I think the last time we were there, there weren't as many people, and this was in the evening.
Things recede here. You find what you love, you live happily with it for what turns out to be a finite amount of time, and then there it goes. But that's another thing: There's more "like" in Southern California than "love", at least from my perspective. I loved Po Folks because I grew up with it in Florida and therefore, by extension, I loved it here. I've liked Six Flags Magic Mountain and a few times, I thought about getting a yearly pass so I could go every weekend. That feeling passed every single time. I liked the Valencia library before the City of Santa Clarita took control because that's where all the books were. I could check out whatever I wanted and put on hold from other libraries what I was looking for that the Valencia library didn't have. And now the City's in charge of it to some extent (They've ceded most of their control to the corporate outfit LSSI which runs libraries so the city governments involved don't have to) and I don't go there anymore. I don't feel that same connection, the same love for reading that I got from those shelves, even though most of the books remained there for months at a time, riffled through, but still untouched, unchecked out, unloved.
Dad, Meridith and I went to Pavilions yesterday, which is right near our old apartment in Valencia. The woman at the bakery told Dad that this store is operating so far in the red that it's likely to close in December. I like Pavilions. It's better lit than Vons, its counterpart nearer to our place in Saugus. I like to actually see clearly what I'm buying. Obviously it's not my ideal shopping experience (That would be Smith's in Las Vegas), but I work with what I have for now, and that's my favorite for the occasional pick-up and also for $5 Fridays, where they have many items on sale for $5, and not old stuff either. Fresh roasted chickens yesterday were $5 and we had that for dinner last night. But, yet again, something else recedes. Something that I liked. Not loved.
The Santa Clarita Valley is never good at maintaining tangible connections. You get to where you want to be at times, but it's always tenuous. What you like, what you live with, can be gone not long after. But at the same time, who cares? It's always a mild feeling. I need more passion. I need stronger connections. Yes, this would be about the time that I mention Lisa, so there you go. But for places to go, experiences to have, I also need a city that I know can keep up the feeling for me, that always has something I can latch on to and know it will be there for a good amount of time. The Pinball Hall of Fame in Las Vegas has been around since 2006. 5 years, but it's still there. It still has its character, its aim, its reason for being. This is what I want. I want to feel so many connections with one city on any given day. And that city is Las Vegas. Things don't recede there.
Things recede here. You find what you love, you live happily with it for what turns out to be a finite amount of time, and then there it goes. But that's another thing: There's more "like" in Southern California than "love", at least from my perspective. I loved Po Folks because I grew up with it in Florida and therefore, by extension, I loved it here. I've liked Six Flags Magic Mountain and a few times, I thought about getting a yearly pass so I could go every weekend. That feeling passed every single time. I liked the Valencia library before the City of Santa Clarita took control because that's where all the books were. I could check out whatever I wanted and put on hold from other libraries what I was looking for that the Valencia library didn't have. And now the City's in charge of it to some extent (They've ceded most of their control to the corporate outfit LSSI which runs libraries so the city governments involved don't have to) and I don't go there anymore. I don't feel that same connection, the same love for reading that I got from those shelves, even though most of the books remained there for months at a time, riffled through, but still untouched, unchecked out, unloved.
Dad, Meridith and I went to Pavilions yesterday, which is right near our old apartment in Valencia. The woman at the bakery told Dad that this store is operating so far in the red that it's likely to close in December. I like Pavilions. It's better lit than Vons, its counterpart nearer to our place in Saugus. I like to actually see clearly what I'm buying. Obviously it's not my ideal shopping experience (That would be Smith's in Las Vegas), but I work with what I have for now, and that's my favorite for the occasional pick-up and also for $5 Fridays, where they have many items on sale for $5, and not old stuff either. Fresh roasted chickens yesterday were $5 and we had that for dinner last night. But, yet again, something else recedes. Something that I liked. Not loved.
The Santa Clarita Valley is never good at maintaining tangible connections. You get to where you want to be at times, but it's always tenuous. What you like, what you live with, can be gone not long after. But at the same time, who cares? It's always a mild feeling. I need more passion. I need stronger connections. Yes, this would be about the time that I mention Lisa, so there you go. But for places to go, experiences to have, I also need a city that I know can keep up the feeling for me, that always has something I can latch on to and know it will be there for a good amount of time. The Pinball Hall of Fame in Las Vegas has been around since 2006. 5 years, but it's still there. It still has its character, its aim, its reason for being. This is what I want. I want to feel so many connections with one city on any given day. And that city is Las Vegas. Things don't recede there.
Tuesday, August 2, 2011
McNugget Mountain
The reason I haven't written in these past couple of weeks is not because I realized that this would be my 300th entry and therefore freaked out into a night in Las Vegas that is so legendary, no one can remember it. I wish I was in Las Vegas. I want my Lisa as badly as she wants me. But a bit more time to wait until Dad gets a job interview and we go out there for that purpose and to choose the apartment we want in Henderson, and I'm not leaving until I see Lisa.
The reason I haven't written is because I'm very much in love, and given the choice between writing in my blog and talking to Lisa either by phone or text message or AOL Instant Messenger, well, I love you readers, but you're not Lisa. However, I am adjusting, putting back into my life what I did before Lisa, such as this blog all the time, but now I have the added benefit of my life being brighter because of her. Plus, my next book isn't going to get written by just sitting around. And that my muse is also a writer is, I'm certain, a dream very few writers enjoy. So what better person to show what I'm working on and get valuable opinions?
I decided to write today because Mom, Meridith and I were at McDonald's inside the Wal-Mart Supercenter on Carl Boyer Drive, and from my vantage point in that booth, I was facing the poster advertising 20 McNuggets for $4.99. Mount McNugget looked organized. It wasn't total chaos, no nuggets precariously perched on the edge, no nuggets spilling as the photo was taken. But I looked at that mountain, and I thought about a lot of things. I thought about what I had received from nearly eight years in the Santa Clarita Valley. My feelings now about this valley is that I want to get the hell out of here already and never return for any reason. There is no sense of history here. There is a shallow grasp of the meaning of things, and then what was learned one day might not even be all that important to build upon on another day. The most you can find in history here is that the smaller Wal-Mart on Kelly Johnson Parkway has been remodeled to such an extent that I absolutely cannot remember what it had looked like before the remodel. But that's what history is here. What did things look like, if you can even remember them, before they changed? What did the Valencia Town Center Mall look like before the outdoor shopping area was added? Maybe this valley doesn't want you to know what came before. The future, only the future. Because the present is pretty shitty, and the past, well, what happened in the past again? I can't remember.
I've got a new mountain to scale: My future. The peak will be wedded and family bliss with Lisa, along with more books published. That's all I want. I want a good job that makes me comfortable enough financially, and I want all the time in the world with Lisa and our future children. It may be a hard mountain at times, but I have the oasis of Lisa and everything else to come.
So, 300 posts. May there be 300 more and then 400 more and still thousands more. Because I can't wait to see what happens.
The reason I haven't written is because I'm very much in love, and given the choice between writing in my blog and talking to Lisa either by phone or text message or AOL Instant Messenger, well, I love you readers, but you're not Lisa. However, I am adjusting, putting back into my life what I did before Lisa, such as this blog all the time, but now I have the added benefit of my life being brighter because of her. Plus, my next book isn't going to get written by just sitting around. And that my muse is also a writer is, I'm certain, a dream very few writers enjoy. So what better person to show what I'm working on and get valuable opinions?
I decided to write today because Mom, Meridith and I were at McDonald's inside the Wal-Mart Supercenter on Carl Boyer Drive, and from my vantage point in that booth, I was facing the poster advertising 20 McNuggets for $4.99. Mount McNugget looked organized. It wasn't total chaos, no nuggets precariously perched on the edge, no nuggets spilling as the photo was taken. But I looked at that mountain, and I thought about a lot of things. I thought about what I had received from nearly eight years in the Santa Clarita Valley. My feelings now about this valley is that I want to get the hell out of here already and never return for any reason. There is no sense of history here. There is a shallow grasp of the meaning of things, and then what was learned one day might not even be all that important to build upon on another day. The most you can find in history here is that the smaller Wal-Mart on Kelly Johnson Parkway has been remodeled to such an extent that I absolutely cannot remember what it had looked like before the remodel. But that's what history is here. What did things look like, if you can even remember them, before they changed? What did the Valencia Town Center Mall look like before the outdoor shopping area was added? Maybe this valley doesn't want you to know what came before. The future, only the future. Because the present is pretty shitty, and the past, well, what happened in the past again? I can't remember.
I've got a new mountain to scale: My future. The peak will be wedded and family bliss with Lisa, along with more books published. That's all I want. I want a good job that makes me comfortable enough financially, and I want all the time in the world with Lisa and our future children. It may be a hard mountain at times, but I have the oasis of Lisa and everything else to come.
So, 300 posts. May there be 300 more and then 400 more and still thousands more. Because I can't wait to see what happens.
Thursday, July 21, 2011
Where's the History? There's the History.
At Ralphs a few days ago, I found a glass bottle of Hubert's Lemonade. Mango. I decided to try it not because of the lemonade, but because mango is Lisa's favorite fruit, and I should see what it's like in many different combinations.
I had it tonight, and I liked it. I don't drink lemonade often, but that tasted fresher than most lemonades usually do. But what struck me wasn't so much the taste, but the story of Hubert's Lemonade on the back of the bottle, starting with the headline "WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS, YOU GET A BIG TRUCK.":
"In 1935 Hubert Hansen did just that. Armed with a truck full of his homemade natural juices, he drove around studio lots sharing his delicious goodness with rising stars."
1935. I read a lot about 1935 Hollywood when I was in middle and high school. I read about the stars, the directors, the screenwriters, and costume designers like Edith Head. There may have been a few editors too, and I was always fascinated and awed by the power that such studio heads as Louis B. Mayer held. Whenever we went to Fort Lauderdale, to the Main library branch of the Broward County Library system, I looked at those long shelves fairly sagging with movie books on the second floor, wanting to take them home.
Having backed away from movies considerably after I ceased to be a film critic, and finished writing What If They Lived?, I'm still interested in directors, but not so much the details that I used to crave. I do want to read that biography of Louis B. Mayer that I heard about, to see what MGM was like from his perspective, but the fights on the sets, the rush to get scripts done and movies produced, I just like to watch the movies now. I don't need to know everything. But I do want to know about Hubert Hansen. Was he on the MGM lot in 1935? Did Clark Gable try his lemonade, if it existed back then too? Hansen is the type of person I want to know about in Hollywood at that time. What about the cooks at the commissaries? How about the secretaries in all those front offices? What was the daily work schedule like for the carpenters, the cameramen that weren't the directors of photography, the accountants in the payroll department? I'm sure there are some paragraphs given over to them in books about the studios, but I want more. There should be more. The industry may have run on star power, but it didn't successfully exist because of that. I want to know of those who weren't as well known as even director Victor Fleming or screenwriter Robert Riskin, who wrote It Happened One Night and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, among many others.
It sounds like a possible writing project for me. But my three presidential books come first. That's what I'm more passionate about right now. But it could be something to find out about. I don't think the far less famous names of those that helped Hollywood run as well as it did back in the '30s should disappear entirely.
I had it tonight, and I liked it. I don't drink lemonade often, but that tasted fresher than most lemonades usually do. But what struck me wasn't so much the taste, but the story of Hubert's Lemonade on the back of the bottle, starting with the headline "WHEN LIFE GIVES YOU LEMONS, YOU GET A BIG TRUCK.":
"In 1935 Hubert Hansen did just that. Armed with a truck full of his homemade natural juices, he drove around studio lots sharing his delicious goodness with rising stars."
1935. I read a lot about 1935 Hollywood when I was in middle and high school. I read about the stars, the directors, the screenwriters, and costume designers like Edith Head. There may have been a few editors too, and I was always fascinated and awed by the power that such studio heads as Louis B. Mayer held. Whenever we went to Fort Lauderdale, to the Main library branch of the Broward County Library system, I looked at those long shelves fairly sagging with movie books on the second floor, wanting to take them home.
Having backed away from movies considerably after I ceased to be a film critic, and finished writing What If They Lived?, I'm still interested in directors, but not so much the details that I used to crave. I do want to read that biography of Louis B. Mayer that I heard about, to see what MGM was like from his perspective, but the fights on the sets, the rush to get scripts done and movies produced, I just like to watch the movies now. I don't need to know everything. But I do want to know about Hubert Hansen. Was he on the MGM lot in 1935? Did Clark Gable try his lemonade, if it existed back then too? Hansen is the type of person I want to know about in Hollywood at that time. What about the cooks at the commissaries? How about the secretaries in all those front offices? What was the daily work schedule like for the carpenters, the cameramen that weren't the directors of photography, the accountants in the payroll department? I'm sure there are some paragraphs given over to them in books about the studios, but I want more. There should be more. The industry may have run on star power, but it didn't successfully exist because of that. I want to know of those who weren't as well known as even director Victor Fleming or screenwriter Robert Riskin, who wrote It Happened One Night and Mr. Deeds Goes to Town, among many others.
It sounds like a possible writing project for me. But my three presidential books come first. That's what I'm more passionate about right now. But it could be something to find out about. I don't think the far less famous names of those that helped Hollywood run as well as it did back in the '30s should disappear entirely.
Saturday, July 9, 2011
The Quiet California
Despite my total, years-long distaste for the Santa Clarita Valley, there are parts of Southern California I will remember fondly. Not enough to visit them again some time after I leave, but I think they kept me sane enough as this valley was slowly driving me crazy.
I remember the South Coast Plaza mall in Costa Mesa, the bridge between buildings. If you wanted to get to Borders or Paul Frank or McDonald's, you walked that covered bridge, that pause and peaceful silence before more purchases. There are conversations on that bridge between others as they pass by you, and you might be having your own while walking that bridge, but it's enough just to watch the cars pass under the bridge, to see all the other buildings in what looks like a consumer district. You look out as far as you can, and you can sense the ocean somewhere nearby, the ultimate peace in this state, which I never visited often, but the times I did remain memorable, such as that Santa Monica sunset near the pier after an awful advance screening of The Producers in 2005, and being on the pier itself, on that ferris wheel as the sun set further.
The most recent complete peace happened while Mom and Dad were in Las Vegas and Meridith and I eventually had 10 days at home. On one of those days, we took the bus to the nearby Ralphs, had lunch at McDonalds, and then walked to where the Italian sub shop was, which took us past Meridith's old high school, Valencia High. But before that, we came upon what is usually considered cookie-cutter housing, a development with row upon row of houses of varying design in the front, but generally with the same purpose: Porches. No matter how small the porches seemed on those houses, there was always room for a chair, a sense of relaxation, a thought that the world could stop right here and rest for a while. I loved those houses. I wanted the designs of a few of them for myself. I'm getting all of that in a different way with the apartment we're going to be moving into in Henderson, but then, I just needed to know that the world still cherished calm, and it did there. It was the kind of place where dog crap on the sidewalk doesn't seem so bothersome. Inconvenient if you step in it, but you only have to look and be careful. This was the kind of development that encourages you to slow down and look closer at the lives around you through the houses, the cars, the moments that tell you that life should not always be a race for something that could very well be unachievable after years of straining so hard for whatever it might be. That's not to say one should not take risks, but care should be taken in what's pursued, as it relates to you, as it might satisfy you.
While we walked closer to the Italian sub shop, I saw Valencia Ice Station, which contains two ice rinks. I had to go in because it had been years since I'd been there. I never skated there, but I remember going in with either Mom or Dad (or both) to pick up Meridith when she was there. I had to go in to see what it was like this time.
The large right-side rink had skaters on it, and the left-side rink had hockey players practicing. To stand there and watch the skaters and then go across the way and watch the hockey players, they're interesting contrasting microcosms. There we were, it was almost noon, and here they were, skating and hoping to win the next game. And that was enough. That's all that was needed in those lives at that moment.
All I needed in my life came when we went to the arcade on the second floor (We were in the second floor, watching the skaters and hockey players from long balcony seating) and Meridith and I found not only a working air hockey table, but also a Galaga arcade machine for myself. I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and after ducking into the restroom for necessary action, Meridith and I played air hockey on a surface that was much smoother than what we usually have at other arcades, such as the one at Ventura Harbor Village. It's not slick enough, and the thin puck sometimes just stops and drifts in the middle. This puck moved across that surface as if it instinctively knew the surface, that it would be the fastest puck ever made. It was a more intense game than I'd had in years, and every time Meridith scored every goal to an eventual win, a cluster of multi-colored lights on the top would spin around. She liked that a lot.
When I played the Galaga machine, I played it as intensely as I did the one at Ventura Harbor Village, weaving and ducking as if the aliens were firing directly at me. When I get into that game, I'm gone. I am that ship, banging on the buttons to fire fast and often. I've gotten as far as level 12, but no further. I aim to change that when I find another Galaga machine somewhere in Las Vegas, possibly even at the Pinball Hall of Fame, the next time I go, this time with Lisa, who's game for it, since it'll be the first time in years she's played pinball, and her favorite video games are all arcade machines there, such as Mario Bros. and Centipede. See? I've finally figured out the secret to a happy life: My beloved pinball games and the most beautiful woman in the world. I wouldn't be surprised if all this makes me live to 150 years old. And I'd be happy with that, because it means more time with her.
I don't think I ever got used to Southern California because it never felt like it offered constant, wide-ranging pleasures. I need that in my life. That's how I live. I don't believe errands should feel like errands. There should be fun in everything. And I never felt that here, not with grim-looking freeways, not with some supermarkets lit so dimly as if to hide the prices inevitably encountered. I feel that constant pleasure in Vegas, and it's where I belong now. I've always wanted to live somewhere that thrives on hedonism. This is it. But at least I found pieces of it here, enough to help during long stretches of days when nothing particularly interesting happened. Sure, there are books, and I had those, but that's not always enough for life. So at least there was all this here. And in some way, it helped me figure out who I finally wanted to be and what would make me happiest. That's fine, but just visit here if you'd like. Never live here.
I remember the South Coast Plaza mall in Costa Mesa, the bridge between buildings. If you wanted to get to Borders or Paul Frank or McDonald's, you walked that covered bridge, that pause and peaceful silence before more purchases. There are conversations on that bridge between others as they pass by you, and you might be having your own while walking that bridge, but it's enough just to watch the cars pass under the bridge, to see all the other buildings in what looks like a consumer district. You look out as far as you can, and you can sense the ocean somewhere nearby, the ultimate peace in this state, which I never visited often, but the times I did remain memorable, such as that Santa Monica sunset near the pier after an awful advance screening of The Producers in 2005, and being on the pier itself, on that ferris wheel as the sun set further.
The most recent complete peace happened while Mom and Dad were in Las Vegas and Meridith and I eventually had 10 days at home. On one of those days, we took the bus to the nearby Ralphs, had lunch at McDonalds, and then walked to where the Italian sub shop was, which took us past Meridith's old high school, Valencia High. But before that, we came upon what is usually considered cookie-cutter housing, a development with row upon row of houses of varying design in the front, but generally with the same purpose: Porches. No matter how small the porches seemed on those houses, there was always room for a chair, a sense of relaxation, a thought that the world could stop right here and rest for a while. I loved those houses. I wanted the designs of a few of them for myself. I'm getting all of that in a different way with the apartment we're going to be moving into in Henderson, but then, I just needed to know that the world still cherished calm, and it did there. It was the kind of place where dog crap on the sidewalk doesn't seem so bothersome. Inconvenient if you step in it, but you only have to look and be careful. This was the kind of development that encourages you to slow down and look closer at the lives around you through the houses, the cars, the moments that tell you that life should not always be a race for something that could very well be unachievable after years of straining so hard for whatever it might be. That's not to say one should not take risks, but care should be taken in what's pursued, as it relates to you, as it might satisfy you.
While we walked closer to the Italian sub shop, I saw Valencia Ice Station, which contains two ice rinks. I had to go in because it had been years since I'd been there. I never skated there, but I remember going in with either Mom or Dad (or both) to pick up Meridith when she was there. I had to go in to see what it was like this time.
The large right-side rink had skaters on it, and the left-side rink had hockey players practicing. To stand there and watch the skaters and then go across the way and watch the hockey players, they're interesting contrasting microcosms. There we were, it was almost noon, and here they were, skating and hoping to win the next game. And that was enough. That's all that was needed in those lives at that moment.
All I needed in my life came when we went to the arcade on the second floor (We were in the second floor, watching the skaters and hockey players from long balcony seating) and Meridith and I found not only a working air hockey table, but also a Galaga arcade machine for myself. I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and after ducking into the restroom for necessary action, Meridith and I played air hockey on a surface that was much smoother than what we usually have at other arcades, such as the one at Ventura Harbor Village. It's not slick enough, and the thin puck sometimes just stops and drifts in the middle. This puck moved across that surface as if it instinctively knew the surface, that it would be the fastest puck ever made. It was a more intense game than I'd had in years, and every time Meridith scored every goal to an eventual win, a cluster of multi-colored lights on the top would spin around. She liked that a lot.
When I played the Galaga machine, I played it as intensely as I did the one at Ventura Harbor Village, weaving and ducking as if the aliens were firing directly at me. When I get into that game, I'm gone. I am that ship, banging on the buttons to fire fast and often. I've gotten as far as level 12, but no further. I aim to change that when I find another Galaga machine somewhere in Las Vegas, possibly even at the Pinball Hall of Fame, the next time I go, this time with Lisa, who's game for it, since it'll be the first time in years she's played pinball, and her favorite video games are all arcade machines there, such as Mario Bros. and Centipede. See? I've finally figured out the secret to a happy life: My beloved pinball games and the most beautiful woman in the world. I wouldn't be surprised if all this makes me live to 150 years old. And I'd be happy with that, because it means more time with her.
I don't think I ever got used to Southern California because it never felt like it offered constant, wide-ranging pleasures. I need that in my life. That's how I live. I don't believe errands should feel like errands. There should be fun in everything. And I never felt that here, not with grim-looking freeways, not with some supermarkets lit so dimly as if to hide the prices inevitably encountered. I feel that constant pleasure in Vegas, and it's where I belong now. I've always wanted to live somewhere that thrives on hedonism. This is it. But at least I found pieces of it here, enough to help during long stretches of days when nothing particularly interesting happened. Sure, there are books, and I had those, but that's not always enough for life. So at least there was all this here. And in some way, it helped me figure out who I finally wanted to be and what would make me happiest. That's fine, but just visit here if you'd like. Never live here.
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