Martyr For Love

Pain. Suffering. Love. You've met them all before.

Ladies and gentlemen, tonight for your listening pleasure, please let me introduce you to "Martyr"!

Yes, you guessed it. Depeche Mode has a new record coming out -"Martyr". It's not officially hitting stores till mid-November. BUT, don't worry. On the DM website, there is a short MP3 sample of the song and a link to some software called Umix .

I've been busy for the past few hours using the software to tear the snippet of "Martyr" down to vocals, then down to just the drums ,then down to just the bass line. After I got a feel for all the different components and how to use the software, I put it it back together the way I want the song to sound. I created three differerent remixes of "Martyr" -- And I burned them onto a cd so I can listen to them while I'm working out at the gym tomorrow.

I recommend you try it out. It's a bit addictive but so much fun.

The Cars Drive By With The Boomin' Systems

Have you ever been in close proximity to a car that has their music turned up so loud that the bass is making your car windows shake? I just had the pleasure of having that experience while sitting at the red light on the corner of Gage Avenue and Central.

I could hear the car before I could see it.

"Boom!"
"Boom-Boom!"

Since I do live in California, for a second I wondered if it was an earthquake. I really wondered when my windows started vibrating and my steering wheel began to move underneath my palms.

Women are never the driver of the car. It's always some guy, probably with size issues (and yes, I do mean THAT kind of size). He probably figures that if he turns up his music really super loud, we'll all think he's incredibly manly and hot. We'll all salivate and wish we were riding along in the passenger seat, so caught up in his sexiness that we're completely oblivious to the fact that we're experiencing hearing loss.

After all, if my steering wheel is vibrating, imagine what's happening to the ear drums of anyone riding in the car?

Privacy

He looks like such a nice young man. His blond hair is gelled into spikes, contradicting the ice blue Polo shirt he's wearing. His Toshiba laptop is open, and his Blackberry is resting gently on the table next to his venti drink. Next to the drink is a stack of bills piled a good five or six inches high.

Someone has been on a shopping spree.

Our nice young man is talking to himself as he opens his bills. Wow! He's going to have a bit of fun. He's taking a trip to Sweden next month. But wait! Uh-oh! He just ripped open the Amex bill and dropped the f-bomb.

"How the f- am I gonna pay that off?"

Most of us pay our bills at homes where there aren't any nosy writers sitting there tapping away in a seemingly innocent fashion. Most of us don't lay a thick stack of envelopes on a table in Starbucks so that complete strangers can observe the look of shock and awe on our faces when we slit open the envelopes and see how much we owe for those lengthy cell phone chats or credit card splurges.

I'm observing and overhearing far more than I should about his spending habits. He's talking out loud, even if he isn't really expecting anyone around him to answer his question. I'm pretty sure that if I responded to his questions, he'd complain that I am invading his privacy.

Am I? If I can hear him is it an invasion of his privacy?

Salt

My whole life I've been fascinated by the concept of "What if?"

What if I had driven instead of taking the train?
What if I'd gone to Notre Dame instead of Northwestern?
What if I hadn't seen them sitting together in Clarke's that morning?
What if I'd slept in?

I rarely sleep in on Sundays. I'm up early, packing in a workout, hustling to complete chores around the house and stocking up on carrots and grapes at the grocery, all before ten-thirty in the morning. Yesterday, I found myself not wanting to do any of it. No trekking to the Bally's in Hollywood. No fighting for a parking spot at the Trader Joe's on Silverlake Blvd. No loading laundry into the washer. Nope. Nothing. Nada. Rien.

I suppose my lack of motivation was in part due to the fact that I've been sick for most of the past week with the cold/flu that will not die. I hadn't slept well Saturday night, despite popping those friendly little Nyquil pills and some Tylenol. At seven in the morning, I looked in the bathroom mirror and said to myself, "You look like crap." No one in my family was up to either reassure me that I actually looked fine, or to concur with my observations. I seriously considered going back to bed...

Instead, I decided to go for a long overdue walk.

My weekend walks around the neighborhood began last spring in an effort to have some quiet time by myself. I'd stroll wherever my feet took me, trying not to worry about where I was walking, how long I'd been walking or how far I'd traveled. Sometimes I'd end up a couple miles from home, walking through parts of this city I'd previously only experienced by car.

Something changes when you get out of the car, when you're down on the street, analyzing the odd architectural quirks of this city, admiring the skyline through the early morning haze, inhaling the perfume of a thousand flowers and running into other people who are also up with the dawn.

"Do you have salt?"

This heavily accented question was not what I was expecting to hear as a reply to my chipper, "Good morning!"

The question was so strange, so oddly perplexing, I simply couldn't stroll by the sari-clad woman standing on the sidewalk. I mean, who asks someone who's walking by if they have salt?

"No. I'm sorry. I don't have any salt."
"Oh." She looks at me curiously before continuing, "You don't have salt?"

I repeat again that I have salt at home but none on me. I explain that I live about a mile away or else I'd go get her some. I can tell she doesn't understand all of my rapidly spoken English. After about ten minutes of repeating ourselves and laughing at our misunderstandings, I gather that she is from Bombay and is here visiting her niece. She wants to cook breakfast, but the niece doesn't usually cook and so doesn't have any salt. In the midst of our conversation, I hear stirring from the apartment next to hers.

"Maybe one of the neighbors has some salt."

I take her hand in mine, lead her to the door and knock. A middle-aged woman comes to the door and I explain the entire situation.

"So if you have some salt, that'd be great so she can cook breakfast instead of eating pop-tarts." I'm realizing that I've probably over-contextualized this in the hopes that she doesn't think we're some sort of crazy serial killers trying to get her to open the door.

"Oh of course I have some," the neighbor says. "Hold on a sec."

Next thing you know, we've got salt in a styrofoam cup and my new auntie from Bombay is hugging me in gratitude. I snapped her photo to remember her by.

Which brings me back to my question. What if I'd slept in? Would she have gotten her salt? What made me decide to go for a walk and then walk up a street I almost never walk on? Were we meant to meet just so I could get her the salt?

I reminds me of the one poem I know by heart, "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost. What would happen if I'd taken the other path?

At the end of it all, will I know for sure whether or not I took the right path?

The Luck of the Irish Never Goes Out of Style

It's college football season. With the number of games on, I could spend my entire Saturday watching football all day and all night. I don't have to waste my time with all the other teams. There's only one team I watch: Notre Dame.

Since I'm half-Irish, I am clearly genetically programmed to believe that Notre Dame should win. It also doesn't hurt that my dad went to school there. In fact, my parents got married on campus at the log chapel. I grew up having Notre Dame blankets to cuddle in when I was sick. Now my dad teaches at Notre Dame. He's at tonight's game against Michigan State. I am busy text-messaging him.

When MSU scores, he gets a message like, "This is not looking good." When MSU intercepts the ball, I write, succinctly, "This sucks." When ND finally scored, I sent him, "Yeah!!! Boy!!!" Unfortunately, I've only sent that message three times.

He hasn't written back.

My dad is probably too busy trying to avoid having a heart-attack. You see, Notre Dame just scored on an 85-yard kickoff return. But wait, it won't count as a touchdown because of a holding flag on Notre Dame's side. Great.

I love these announcers on ESPN, "Folks, the wind has turned against Notre Dame." I don't think the wind is the only problem. Notre Dame is just getting killed.

Time to send my dad another message, "Charlie Weis is gonna get fired if they don't win."

UPDATE: I said it last year and I'll say it again: Quarterback Brady Quinn is my hero. There are now 37 seconds left in the game and ND is up by three. They scored 3 TD's in a little over five minutes! Clearly the luck of the Irish is in the house. But...having seen ND lose with 10 seconds left in the game, I am holding my breath.

Wait! Can it be? YES! Notre Dame has won, 40-37!!! Unbelievable!

My dad just replied to all my messages. His answer is actually just one word.

VICTORY!

Extremes in CP Time

"You here already? What time's your appointment?"

Is she serious? This is not what I want to hear from my stylist. The whole reckless drive to the salon, I'd been stressing out about the mere possibility of being late.

"It was for 1:30. I'm SO sorry I'm a couple minutes late," I answer. I'm breathing heavily due to my dash from the parking lot.

My stylist leans in to whisper, "Girl, I have to finish flat-ironing that one over there." She quietly points to a matronly, dark-skinned woman sitting under the dryer reading Star Magazine. "And I'm still working on the one in my chair." Her eyes roll skyward and she gives a conspiratorial sigh, "She was a hot mess when she walked up in here. Wants me to work magic everytime. Hmmph!"

I look over her shoulder to a Friday-faced woman sitting in the hard metal chair. The woman is staring at my reflection in the mirror, an impatient grimace twisting her mouth. She glances at her watch and then back at me. Her eyes are flat, dark pools in a sea of butterscotch skin. Must be a thrill to do her hair.

I have two choices here. I can reschedule, or I can accept that this is the fate of millions of black women who want to get their hair done on a Saturday afternoon. I choose to join the ranks of my sisters.

"No worries. I brought a book along." I smile as I pull my copy of "On Beauty" by Zadie Smith out of my bag.

"Mmm hmm. I figured you can use some quiet time away from those kids." She sashays back to the styling chair to get back to work on "the hot mess".

An hour and a half later, I'm tired of reading about the Belsey and Kipps families and all their drama. I'm sick of the smell of hot irons and relaxer chemicals. I don't want to hear another song by Babyface. The truth is, I hadn't planned to spend my entire Saturday afternoon sitting and waiting to get my hair done. Whoever made that Beauty Shop movie with Queen Latifah must have been living in some fantasy-land where clients are in and out in two hours.

Finally at 3:30 I hear the magic words, "Come on back to my chair."

Shampooing.
Conditioning.
Sitting under the hair-dryer.
Sitting while someone else gets shampooed and conditioned.
Flat-ironing.
Curling.

The intricate mysteries of the salon need not be fully revealed. Let's just say...this was an extreme in CP Time. I was finally ready to go home at 6:30. Yes, five hours.

I suppose it's worth it and my stylist knows I'll be back.

"See you in two weeks, girl!"

Outstretched Hand

I see him through the window, hovering next to one of the outdoor tables. I quickly offer up a silent prayer.

"Please do not let him come in here."

My eyes are riveted on the scene on the other side of the glass.

He is shirtless and pantless. As he leans over the table, his hand extended, a brief flash of aged brown penis pokes its way through the slit in his only attire, a pair of stained boxer shorts. The blonde woman he's beseeching recoils, dropping the change she was about to deposit into his outstretched hand. She covers her mouth to suppress a scream. Her friend is less successful, uttering a loud, "Oh shit!"

Too busy scraping the ground for stray nickels and dimes, he doesn't notice their horror. Are those hospital ID bracelets on his wrists? He bows in thanks and turns toward the door. He is coming inside.

He stops two tables up from me. I am staring. Everyone else is blithely tapping away on their computers, sipping their venti soy chai's with a shot of valencia, purposely avoiding eye-contact. He is bowing in thanks again. Now only one table away. Now approaching.

"Excuse me, miss. I just got out of the hospital."

His hand is outstretched in front of my face. If I turn my head, the slit in the boxer shorts is...yep, it's right there. This was more than I needed to see up close. Way more.

"I don't have any money to get home."

What am I supposed to do? I do not, as a rule, usually give money to folks begging on the street. I do contribute to organizations that provide resources to homeless folks, but what am I supposed to tell this man? How does that help him?

The hospital ID bracelets slide along his wrist. I focus my eyes there. He probably just got released from Kaiser Sunset and wandered his way up Vermont to Starbucks. Kaiser came under scrutiny this spring for alleged dumping of homeless patients on skid row in downtown LA. I suppose he must have declined the ride downtown in order to explore the friendly-looking environs of Los Feliz Village.

The outstretched hand is still waiting.

"Excuse me, Sir. You're going to have to leave." The Starbucks employee looks uncomfortable. Everyone is alert now, waiting to see what's going to happen. Will there be a showdown of some sort or not?

"Oh. ok. Thank you though." He looks at me briefly, turns away and begins to shuffle toward the door. The employee trails behind him and sees him out the door. Once outside, the man walks across the street to the Bank of America.

I'm sure this man, when he was young, didn't see this in his future. Who would? We don't see it in our future either. We are all too smart, too educated, too talented, too beautiful and too stylish to ever be reduced to such a level. Or so we tell ourselves as our heads lower to laptops again, bouncing gently to the barely audible melodies of the latest indie-hip tunes.

Overheard

I always carry a little notebook with me. I write down dreams, ideas, worries, things to do, music I like and books I want to read.

I also write down what people around me are saying.

I don't have to strain too hard to hear. These days, everyone seems to talk about everything in public. Here are a few recent things I've overheard:

One man at the grocery store, putting his case Corona on the conveyer belt and talking to the guy he's with: "She's not doing 'nothin for my kid with the money I give her. It goes straight to those Asian chicks that are doin' her nails. It's bullshit, man! Straight up bullshit!"

Have you ever been stood up by a date? Here's one man on his cell phone outside the Los Feliz 3: "You're not coming? Why? What are you talking about? What is there to talk about? I don't have anything to talk about. No, I already bought two tickets. Give it away? Oh, and what am I supposed to do, sit and watch the movie by myself? Fine. Fine."

One "friend" to another friend after a third friend got up to go to the ladies room at House of Pies: "She's so ridiculous. What a dumb-ass!"

Hmm. What do you say that other folks are writing down.

What do I say that other folks are writing down?

Genius

Most two year-old boys love dogs and action figures. Toussaint does like dogs and he definitely likes action figures. It's just that he loves music more.

Much more. He takes a marked interest in music. It makes me wonder if he's going to be a musical genius.

This is Toussaint at a Barnes and Noble listening station last night. He even knows how to scroll through the songs on a cd and pick the ones he wants to hear. He prefers Billy Idol and AFI.

In this picture, he's listening to AFI. Zoom down a bit to my post entitled, "My Children Like AFI...And Other Reasons Why I'll Burn In Hell" and you'll understand the deal.

Will Only Thorns Remain?

In my sophomore year of high school, my social studies teacher, Mr. Pappi, went off on a completely non-academic tangent. He used me as an example of how a woman's looks go to hell once she's past the age of sixteen. The tangent went something like this:

"All you guys in here, you'd better listen up to this," he said, pointing to me. "You need to date a young lady like this now because she will never again be as beautiful as she is today."

The guys sat there snickering under their breath as Mr. Pappi continued. "Take a look: she's like a beautiful rose. When a girl's fifteen or sixteen, that's the height of her beauty."

The laughter grew a little louder in the room. "No, seriously. You'll see what I mean," he predicted. He paused for a dramatic moment and I remember his eyes looked slightly sad.

"Think about it. Roses don't last forever. The petals shrivel up, die and fall off." We quieted down as he delivered his final thought. "All you'll have left is a bunch of thorns."

Unfortunately, (although in hindsight, fortunately) none of the guys took Mr. Pappi's extremely jaded advice and asked me out. It was pretty well known that my parents did not allow me to date at all so there was no point. Mr. Pappi's tangent was one of the odder moments of my high school experience, one that I have occasionally thought about over the years. I thought about it again this week as my eldest son, Olinga, went off to school.

Olinga started kindergarten with a nonchalance that belied his mere five years of age. There was no obvious nervousness on his part. No shed tears (from him at least) and no desperate clinging to my leg. I don't think he even gave me more than a cursory backwards glance as he trotted away with his class, casually throwing over his shoulder, "See you later, Mom."

All week long I've been thinking about the swirl of emotions his going to kindergarten has caused. There's one particular feeling I'm not so thrilled to admit: Vanity. Having a kindergartener makes me feel old, a bit like I'm Mr. Pappi's stupid shriveling rose losing it's lustrous vitality. I'm not sure if I like that!

On the one hand, of course I know we live in a culture that glorifies and idolizes youth. It's just that ten years ago, it was so much easier to think about how I wasn't going to fall victim to our youth-worshipping culture.

I told myself then how I wasn't going to be one of those women who have a hundred pastel-colored pots of anti-aging creams stacked onto the three by twelve inch shelves of their bathroom cabinets. I wasn't even sure I was going to dye my gray hair, if and when I ever got a gray hair. Now though, the temptation to get those creams that promise to plump, firm and revitalize tired skin is growing. And nevermind how many gray hairs I have! They remain undyed, but if they continue to multiply at the current rate, their untouched state is up for debate.

I am realizing I need to continually think through how to protect myself from all the messaging that women are fed about getting older. It sounds very metacognitive that I have to strategize about this. However, I find it's especially needed since I reside in the epicenter of youth worship, Los Angeles.

By far, the strongest emotion I felt on Olinga's first day of school was a sense of pride and gratitude that my son was walking into kindergarten with such confidence and nobility. The thing is, without getting old, I can't watch him transform into a strong man that behaves with an exemplary rectitude of conduct. The happiness of getting to witness my son growing up is well worth the wrinkles and gray hairs.

Mr. Pappi left out a critical piece we all know in theory, but find so hard to put into everyday action: Getting older isn't all about external beauty and appearance. He neglected to tell us high school kids that true beauty is really about nurturing our internal "rosebuds". I have have the courage to let the veils of physical beauty fall away to reveal my true self.

If I don't water and tend my internal rosebuds, in another ten years when my external rose petals really begin to fade, nothing will be left but bitter, razor-sharp thorns.

My Children Like AFI...And Other Reasons Why I'll Burn In Hell

My two sons like to play at being rock stars. It's fun watching a five year-old and a two year-old play air guitar and twirl in the floor like David Lee Roth. I twirl and dance right along with them. Without a doubt, the three of us have had our countless Depeche Mode moments. We've also washed dishes while having Franz Ferdinand sing alongs. In fact, that group was their favorite until this past spring. This past spring, they became punk-rock aficionados. You see, AFI (A Fire Inside) came into their world.

Looking at the picture of the group, you probably think I'm a horrid parent...and maybe my soul will burn for all eternity because of this. But really, there are no bitches and hos in the music. No one drops the f-bomb. They do look a little weird, but it's just good, angst-driven guitars and slightly depressing lyrics.

I suppose I should explain. It all began when I started watching videos in the mornings last spring while getting dressed for work. MTV started playing AFI's highly stylistic video to their song, "Miss Murder". It was definitely a great video so it started getting played more frequently. Olinga would sometimes ask who the group was.

Simultaneously, the song was suddenly all over the radio. It seemed like it was always getting played on KROQ at around 6:00 at night, right when I was driving home with the kids. (Yes, I frequently listen to KROQ because rarely do I hear someone calling me the aforementioned bitch or ho.) So on comes "Miss Murder" and we all start singing along. They didn't know the lyrics all the way though and so they would sing along by saying this, "Ay Miss Mi Al Cam Bye"

One afternoon, the boys were playing a game. I asked Olinga what game it was and he says, "We're playing AFI." He then got down in the floor and did a punk-rock scream just like the group's lead vocalist, Davey Havok. A couple of days later, he drew tattoos on his arms with a sharpie. --we had to have a little chat about that one. As for Toussaint, he isn't a big singer. He likes to be a guitarist so he is always busy "playing guitar" with a spatula.

Next thing you know, we're in the CD section of Barnes and Noble. Toussaint somehow got his hands on an AFI CD from the store display and started to harass me about listening to it. I let him listen to the snippets of music available for previewing and then I took a listen. It was pretty good. It really has to be the most watered-down punk rock ever. It's more pop-punk than anything. In fact, there were four songs on there that I really liked and my rule is that I have to love three songs if I'm going to buy a CD. So I bought it.

When we got home, Toussaint tried to take the shrink wrap off with his teeth. Once I put the CD on, they danced around to the entire thing, Olinga did vocals and Toussaint did guitar.

Two weeks later, they are more into AFI than ever.

Lust, Murder and Mayhem

I want you to take a moment and make a quick list of five flicks set in Los Angeles. I'm not talking about Quinceanera-sized films right now -- even though you should go see that if you have the chance because it's just fantastic.

I'm talking about that blockbuster, big-budget movie that gets shown at the multiplex in Indiana. Write down the first five films that come to mind.

Do you have your list? Let's compare. I put down: "Collateral", "Training Day", "Boyz n the Hood", "LA Confidential", and "Crash". What did you put?

If your list is anything like mine, there aren't many positive images of Los Angeles floating through your silver-screen visions. Psychopaths, racists, killers, gangs, crooked cops and sleazy actresses. With so much lust, murder and mayhem on display, it's a wonder anyone moves to Los Angeles. Why the heck is my rent is so high if LA is such a cinematic cesspool of unhappiness?

Maybe you included "Beverly Hills Cop" in your list, so your impressions might also include Eddie Murphy's effervescent grin. Then again, visions of Eddie's grin might lead you to subsequently see images of transvestite hookers strolling Santa Monica Blvd in search of a good samaritan at four in the morning... But that's a whole other subject for another day and time.

You see, I've been thinking about what kinds of movies are set in LA because of this weekend's release, "Hollywoodland", and next weekend's "The Black Dahlia". They are two murder-mystery blockbusters that take advantage of the sea of sin that lies on the soft underbelly of this city of unangelic angels. I can't help but wonder, should we Angelenos really be so excited about these films?

Of the two, I've noticed more local Black Dahlia hype. "The Greatest Unsolved Crime in California History!" Yep, we are definitely a nation of people fascinated by the murders of white women. I'll admit, for a minute there, I was thinking about plunking down $47 to take The Real Black Dahlia Crime Bus Tour. Then I found out it lasts five hours.

If you're like me, you don't have five hours to tour around recreating Los Angeles' post WWII angst. You're too busy dealing with 21st century angst. Somebody should start a tour of the city highlighting local spots where "The Black Dahlia" was filmed. Oh, wait -- we'd have to pack up and go to Bulgaria if we want to see filming locations.

Instead, how about we go grab a scoop of Black Dahlia gelato from Scoops over on Heliotrope.

Yes, I'm sure gelato is what James Ellroy envisioned when he wrote his book about Beth Short's murder. How in the world does someone enjoy eating something named after a woman who was cut in half and brutally disfigured by her killer? What do you say as you're putting the spoon in your mouth?

"Wow! This licorice flavoring is just magnificent!"

Even if he'll probably skip the gelato, Ellroy is a smart author. He's hawking his book left and right across the city. In my neck of the woods, he's at Skylight Books tomorrow night at seven and at the Barnes and Noble at The Grove later in the week.

I'm going to try to check Ellroy out at Skylight if only so I can hold up a sign that says, "Make that money, player!"

The Ultimate LA Bumper Sticker

I spend a great deal of time in my car and so I get the opportunity to observe a great many bumper stickers. There are the usual political gems such as, "Blame Bush!" Then there are the environmentally friendly stickers on the backs of gigantic SUVs: "Save the Amazon Rainforest" for example. Let's not forget the bumper sticker shout outs to KPFK and KCRW if you are into NPR (and Power106 if you aren't). But I believe that I spotted the ultimate LA bumper sticker driving through Hollywood on the 101:

"The man with the most clothes is the winner".

That's a classic!

What's That Noise?

Last night was a slow Saturday night. In such a fast-paced city, I am proof that someone can have a slow night. I suppose I needed to stay inside, needed to have some time to sort through all that has happened in this past week. Here are the momentous events that have transpired since I last posted:

I attended the longest birthday party in history: Last Saturday, one of my son's classmates had her 5th birthday at the park by our house. After several of these birthday parties, I now know that Black folks don't have a lock on CP time (colored people's time in case you didn't know) because our Latino brothers and sisters take it to a new level. How about a party start time of 1:30...but the birthday girl and her family don't even show until 3:30? I was lucky there were only two pinatas at this party instead of four. I've noticed that the average is to break open one pinata per hour. Believe me, if you leave before all the pinatas are busted and the cake is cut, that's the height of rudeness. We got home at about 9:30 at night. What did we do while we were killing time at the park, waiting for the party to start? We watched...

The "One Crazy Summer Dodgeball Tourney": Hosted by the Los Angeles Dodgeball Society, this event was taking place at the recreation center in the park. Teams had to come dressed up in costume, so imagine a team called "The Nerds" playing a team called "The Hezbollahs" -- all to the retro sounds of 1980's dance and freestyle music. It was a classic, "only in Los Angeles" moment. This was nothing like the dodgeball you may recall from middle school gym class. I felt like I was in a club...watching a woman dressed up as Pee-Wee Herman dance to Pretty Poison's "Catch Me I'm Falling", all while avoiding getting hit by a blue rubber ball. It was a great weekend and then...

I went back to work: My wonderful vacation ended and Monday found me back on the grind in pursuit of student achievement. Except, some folks at my office are abandoning that grind. I came back to announcements of resignations. Whenever one or two people leave, it makes you wonder...hmm...should I be making that move as well? The fact that I worked really long hours all week made me tired, (duh) and probably contributed to my getting a sore throat.

Visitors from "The Chi": Our dear sister, Syda Taylor, is here visiting from Chicago and we've given her the Hollywood tour, the Los Feliz tour, and the Silverlake tour. Despite all the driving around, it's just nice to be with someone you've known from home, someone who feels like family, someone for whom you don't have to micro-clean the house.

Writer Talks at Vroman's: Thursday night found me trekking up to Pasadena to attend a chat with some writers that happen to also teach at UCLA. I mostly went because the instructor for the class I took this past spring, Noel Alumit, was on the panel. I like Noel because he doesn't spout a lot of b.s. and he seems to be an optimist as well as a realist. Quite a combination. The gent who's teaching the novel writing course I'm considering taking, well, I'm skeptical. He seemed more intent on cracking jokes than anything. But, he could end up being totally fine. Of course, one of my anonymous commentators has me thinking I should take the romance writing class. Actually, it sounds like a load of fun, writing about love and romance. I suppose it's my own literary snobbery that keeps me from it. What do you think?

What's that noise?: Have you ever found yourself driving on a Friday night in the carpool lane on the southbound 110 Freeway, going around 70 mph, when you suddenly hear a really odd sound? Yes, you too might think it's the gigantic truck speeding along next to you. Until that truck passes you by. I said to my other half, "Hey, what's that noise?" He replied, "Maybe it's the road." Given that I spend half of my existence on the 110 Freeway, I had to disagree. Then I saw smoke in my rearview mirror. Turns out, one of my tires had completely shredded and my AAA card came in handy yet again. It only took around twenty minutes for the truck to come and the tire was changed in a jiffy -- and I was thanking my lucky stars that our car didn't flip over or something. Which brings us back to the slow Saturday night.

I needed to just relax. I declined invitations and instead found myself nursing my sore throat, listening to Ultra by Depeche Mode and watching the film Good Night, And Good Luck. Ultra is one of my favorite albums and the movie is quickly becoming a favorite of mine as well. It's a throwback to those wonderful childhood mornings I spent watching the nine-o-clock morning movie on WGN. Would I even know who Bette Davis and Barbara Stanwyck are if I hadn't grown up in the Chicagoland area in the late seventies? I went to bed early and woke up refreshed and ready to jog two miles around the track located in the very same park that hosted the world's longest birthday party last week.

It all comes full circle, n'est-ce pas?