Well, here it is, my dog Shadow’s 16th birthday.  Earlier this week I wasn’t sure we’d make it this far, but alas her resilience and lust for life are not things to be trifled with.  Per her annual neck tweaking/stinger/compressed vertebrae, she was literally just — Sunday, Monday and Tuesday — hobbling around, not eating, not barking, panting and even a bit incontinent.  I say annual, yes, so perhaps it shouldn’t be so surprising, but the thing is, as she approaches these more twilight years of her life, it certainly makes one pause and wonder if this is where the road starts to tip at a more downwardly angle.

But if this is indeed the downhill slope of her life, she seems generally unfazed, with a playful light still glowing brightly behind her slightly cloudy brown eyes.  Just yesterday we were on the track and she walked the entire mile, occasionally bouncing after a tennis ball.  She has the legs of an old dog, to be sure — not so steady on the abrupt stops — and like our favorite aged ones, she farts like a champion, is less tolerant of creatures younger and more rambunctious than herself, forgets things, can be willful, and more often than not prefers the consistency and comfort of her own carpet over travel.

Now, I don’t know how much more time we have together — conventional wisdom and golden retriever genetics would suggest not a whole lot more — but however long it may be, each day, month and year that passes is a moment I’m forever grateful to be part of…

prolific flatulence included.

Happy birthday Shadow and happy May Day, all.  Peace.

pau.

So on Monday I went to the hospital for a scheduled CT myelogram (think spinal tap) and a whole lot of waiting around on gurneys, in empty hallways counting holes in acoustic ceiling tiles (more on why in a later post).  And while I enjoy all the pomp and circumstance of having a 20 gauge needle put into my spine and then injected with an iodine-based dye while strapped to a table tilted head down at a 45° angle as much as the next person, I can probably think of one or two other things I’d rather be doing on an 85° Berkeley day… like, oh, I don’t know, not having a 20 gauge needle put into my spine and then injected with iodine-based dye while strapped to a table tilted head down at a 45° angle.  Call me crazy, but I’m just wired like that.

Still, like so many things in life, it’s not always about the size of the needle, but rather the size of the heart, and yesterday, my heart had an opportunity to swell again by at least two more sizes.  Hospitals, it seems, have that effect on me.  But it’s not really hospitals — personally I prefer to be nowhere around them — no, it’s really more a matter of what I’m able to see while I’m there — outside the backless gown, if you will.

From the beginning, I thought the day would be no big deal; check in, get prepped, get spiked, get scanned, lay flat, go home.  Simple.  But my mom, in her unchecked sensitivity and love, felt she would’ve been remiss in her motherly duties if she didn’t let me know just what kind of test I was actually having:

Her: “You know this is a serious exam don’t you?

Me: “Uh, yeah?”

Her: “Well, let me just send you a couple of links so you can see what it’s all about, just in case”.

Now, I know a lot of people out there subscribe to the whole “ignorance is bliss” thing, and while I’m not one of those subscription holders, I will cop to the adage that sometimes “less is more”, and in this case it especially applies to myelograms*.  In other words, go in cold, you’ll be a whole lot happier if you do.

Anyway, long story short; given the unfiltered, straight dope presented on those websites — and because my parents are just that cool — my mom and dad wanted to fly up to Berkeley to be with me for the exam.  Now you’re starting to see where I’m going with this, aren’t you?  And though I didn’t think it was necessary, I do enjoy their company and if a needle in the back facilitates that, well, then, far be it from me argue the point.

But as I said above, sometimes it’s not about the size of the needle; and what was most huge about the day — besides my mom waiting seven hours with my anxious dog, all the good thoughts from all over penetrating those reinforced steel walls, the cool nurse who chatted with me for an hour and a half while I was in recovery, my two friends shifting their schedules around to help me out — was my dad driving my battery challenged car over 100 miles to nowhere in the 90° plus heat without air conditioning after they woke up at three in the morning to catch a flight north, so that my car would be charged up enough to be smogged and then registered**.

Big, no?

But wait, here’s the kicker (and a lesson for humanity about how we should all be, what we’re all capable of); when he came down to see me in the basement post-op recovery room as I was being discharged, he was nothing but smiles — no sign of fatigue, no grumpiness, not a single complaint about what he’d just done***, not a word about it, just his sweet, patient, kind smile, and a “well kid, are you ready to go?”.  And, wow, I gotta tell ya, my heart at that moment couldn’t have been more expansive. My pop is an amazing father, to be sure, but more than that, he’s an exceptional human being who continually surprises.

Now I can give you a thousand and one reasons why I think this is so and where I think it comes from, but really, it’s hardly important — to know him is to love him and that’s enough.  Is he flawless?  That depends on your understanding of what that means — politically he can move a bit further to the left (but then so could most everyone else in SoCal) — but he continues to grow more patient, kind and loving with each passing day. And this is beautiful when you consider how full of these three things he already is.

And there you have it, a CT myelogram, while not exactly a ride you’re gonna see at Disneyland anytime soon, is like everything else in life — neither good nor bad — an open door in which opportunity — of all sorts — can be had.

Footnotes:

*This actually applies to most medical referencing on the Internet.  If you don’t believe me, try putting in the symptoms for the common cold and you might find that you have the Ebola virus.  I’m just saying, exercise your Google health searches with caution.

**Seems crazy, I know, but I don’t drive and neither do any of my friends.  It’s Berkeley, after all, and this is a town of bikes and public transportation.  So why do I have the van, you ask?  Well, believe it or not, it does occasionally come in handy, i.e. trips to the Sierra to ski.

***This, incidentally is really nothing compared everything he’s selflessly done since I’ve known him.

pau.

After nearly 40 years in Newport Beach, my parents — like the Israelites in the Old Testament — have all but made the final exodus out into the desert.  They’ve traded cool ocean breezes and the smell of salt air for the oppressive heat, the need for AC and putting greens. And while it wasn’t God who told them to go east (or at least I don’t think so), it’s a liberating — albeit painful — move just the same. Retirement is in their sights.

As for myself, I left Newport for Berkeley in 1985 and it couldn’t have been soon enough.  By that time, the city had changed — was changing — going from the semi-nondescript beach town in the shadow of Los Angeles to the crown jewel in the fast becoming uber chic “OC”.  Once quaint 40s style beach houses became tear down fodder for bloated mansions on tiny lots and exotic European car dealerships outnumbered seagulls, I knew my days were numbered and never felt the need to look back.

Still, even as the city was changing, there were things about the place that resonated within me; my family, the people who were there for us during difficult times, the beaches and our charmed home on Port Manleigh Circle.  For my parents, especially for my mom, these are some of the things that have made it so difficult for them to completely pull up roots and leave.  So much happened in that place, over so many years, with such deep personal investment, that their sense of loss is easy to understand.

Of course, it’s only natural for one to wax nostalgic, reminisce or even second-guess decisions as boxes are being packed, labeled and loaded to be moved to a new home.  And it’s even more natural for one to feel unsure as you begin to fill a new home with old things, expectations and most importantly, life.  But the wonderful thing about homes is they’re responsive to the things we fill them with, and will grow, blossom and fruit accordingly.  Fill a home with love and goodwill and the home will give that back.  If you’ve ever been fortunate to live anywhere long enough you understand this potential, and my parent’s new home has potential in spades.

Even still, I’m surprised my parents have indeed moved, and there’s even a little part of me that’s inclined not to believe it until actually see them firmly planted in the new place.  But, the truth is — and all facetious disbelief aside — the move has been a slow train coming.  In actuality, they’ve had their feet in two cities for a couple of years now, which –  among other things — has served to temper a naturally difficult relocation process.  As I said, their roots in Newport run very deep and if history has shown anything, it’s shown they possess an uncanny ability to influence decision-making and hold one in place.

That said, this isn’t the first time a move from Newport Beach was in the works — in the late 80s a move was all but eminent.  At the time, it was less a choice and more of a necessity, but just the same, the gears were engaged and the house was on the market.  Now, why it never happened is in large part a matter of fortuitous arrangement, but still I’m confident things wouldn’t have turned out quite the way they had had it not been for the unconscious (or not so unconscious) kibosh my mom levied on the process.

How NOT to sell a home

If you’ve ever been privy to the selling of a house, then you probably know it’s a good idea not to allow the owners or family members anywhere near the property while you’re showing it.  And there are good reasons for this:

1. Change is difficult. And while sometimes it manifests itself in quiet apprehension and introspection, more often than not it leads to visible moodiness and overt fear. And nobody, walking through an open house for the first time, wants to feel or see this.
2. It’s a lot easier to picture yourself in a new home if the previous residents aren’t in it.
3. People — above all else — are unpredictable and therefore you never know what sort of crazy thing a homeowner might say when asked a question directly or has the desire to be of friendly assistance.

Now, this is great advice and I would highly recommend anybody who’s going to sell their home to follow it.  But, when it came to selling ours — circumstances being what they were — we went in a different direction completely.  I, with a pressure sore, would stay at home in bed to recover, and my mom — who, with all her body and soul didn’t want to move — would stay with me — keeping me company, as she put it, but also at the ready to “assist” potential homebuyers with any questions they might have about the house.  This, not very surprisingly, is where things went off the rails.

Unlike the housing market bubble of the not so distant past, the credit default swap and “don’t ask, don’t tell” loans had yet to be invented, and things at the time were comparatively slow.  People came to check out the house, but more often than not they were “lookie-loos” rather than serious buyers.  When a serious buyer would come along, conflicted emotions would run through us all, and I think secretly we were all wishing for the same thing –  Amityville horror or some other paranormal interference.

But truthfully, though, one doesn’t need floating pigs, rooms full of flies or the devil if you simply go against the above advice as we did.  My part in the kibosh was circumstantial, but nevertheless I was there. To this day, I try to imagine what it must’ve been like to come into an otherwise empty house on a buyer’s preview and find somebody still lying in bed in one of the rooms.  Granted, there were no tubes or wires coming out of me or beeping machinery keeping me alive, but still, upon discovery, what sort of conversation would you initiate when this is your final stop on an otherwise typical open house walk through?

Needless to say, the experience provided me with a fascinating insight into the nature of human interaction; not to dissimilar to witnessing how people in an elevator adjust to somebody facing the opposite direction from the doors and engaging in conversation.  And truth be told, I almost got a perverse thrill watching as these homebuyers — in that microsecond of a moment — decided how they wanted to deal with this most unusual “elephant in the room”.

Unfortunately for the anthropological/psychological sciences community, and any future papers that may have been presented/published on the subject by moi, my mom — by virtue of her location with me in my room — was more often than not able to preempt said situation and temper some of that initial awkward contact.  It must also be said, however, that any attempts on her part to explain why I was in bed during an open house — the physiology and treatment of pressure sores — though done for the uninitiated’s benefit — were not easily digested or understood.  And in the end, I’m afraid, only served to add to the awkwardness and confusion of the situation, not achieving the purpose she’d hoped.

A coyote ate my baby

For homebuyers, our house was fairly unique compared to other houses that may been on the market in the neighborhood, as our backyard sat right up against an empty field. It was a great view and there were no plans to develop it in the future, making it a natural highlight for potential buyers.

On one occasion, after learning more about pressure sores than she’d ever expect to learn during a buyer’s preview (or anywhere for that matter), one of the more serious homebuyers — there with her infant daughter in her arms –  asked what I can only imagine she believed to be a innocuous, but useful question about the field.  Certainly, the conversation was crying out for a less intimate direction than the condition of my ass, but the question was no less a valid one.

“Well, we just love it.”  My mom answered with a sparkle in her eye, “You’re right up against nature. We’ve got squirrels, hawks, buzzards, lizards, owls, frogs, coyotes… all sorts of animals out there.  At night, it’s beautiful, you can often hear the coyotes howl.”

“Coyotes?”, the woman asked, instinctively clutching her baby a little tighter to her breast.

“Yes,” my mom said, not sensing the woman’s growing uneasiness, “But we rarely see them, they’re pretty shy.”

Now here’s were the conversation could’ve gone in a couple different directions, but even from my bed, lying more than 10 feet away, I could see it was headed for unintended consequences: like watching an accident unfold in slow motion, and wishing you could do something, but knowing, in reality, it’s moving way too fast to intervene.

“Oh.” She said, shifting the baby to her arm away from the window.

“Although”, my mom paused and then began again,  “Sometimes they do come in and take someone’s cat or small dog, but that’s not very often. We’ve got big dogs”.

And boom!  There it was, the collision.  And just then, I could see the gears in the women’s mind start to turn, as the joyous pictures of her, her husband and their baby in their idyllic new Newport Beach home were quickly eroding and being replaced by that of her baby being carried away in the middle of the night by a coyote.

How I kept from erupting with laughter is purely a testament to the power of shock and disbelief. But my mom — God bless her — in her attempt to share something that is actually quite spectacular — hearing coyotes in a beach community at night (not the part about “fluffy” and “whiskers” becoming dinner) — was completely oblivious to the story’s affect on this young mother looking to buy a home in the peaceful suburbs.

In the end, the woman and her husband never made on offer on the house — and that was fine by us. The fact was, none of us wanted to move, that house on Port Manleigh Circle felt less like a structure and more like a gift, and was the hub of so much activity, goodness and love. And while by proximity alone, I’m indeed culpable to some degree in our house’s failure to sell, it was my mom’s beautiful, unchecked gift of gab that brought us home.

Epilogue

I have not yet been to the house in Palm Desert as it stands now, but nevertheless, I believe it’s starting to feel like home for them.  They still rent a little refuge on Balboa Island they can retreat to when the summertime heat of the desert rises to the absurd temperatures of Venus, or they have work to do in the “OC” (retirement still seems to be a little further off), but I think ultimately, as the rest of us start to visit during holidays, weddings and funerals, it’ll begin to feel alive in the way only a family loved dwelling can.  The structure doesn’t have much of a history yet, but like I said, that’s a remedy served by time, place and people.

As many of you may have discovered by now, a lot of these stories have their root with my mom.  And there’s good reason for this.  My mom is by far one of the most interesting, crazy, fiercely loving people I know, and her heart is an unchecked beacon that shines brightly and attracts many.  But above all this, she’s hilarious and has the ability to laugh at herself in a way few people can or do.  This I admire to no end, and hope that I possess at least a fraction of this DNA.

I must also point out, that my mom is now — and has been for many years — a real estate agent of great success, skill, integrity and loyalty, and would never suggest any home seller go against the above rule…

unless, of course, they really didn’t want to sell their house.

pau

From the moment I was weaned and started dining on solid food, I’ve disliked eggs. The taste, the smell, the texture, all of it. Nevertheless, every six months or so I take a bite off someone’s plate just to see if my tastes have changed… they haven’t, but I still hold out hope that one day they will.

That said,  I find this gastronomic steadfastness somewhat impressive — if not perplexing — given my otherwise ever expanding tastes.  Foods I once found so odious as a child — mushrooms, olives, raw spinach, brussels sprouts — I now find delicious and even difficult to live without. The egg, for whatever reason, remains odious.

But today’s blog isn’t about my adversarial relationship with the egg — though for the sake of working things out perhaps it should be — but rather my transcendent one with the brussels sprout… a far more rewarding and interesting one.

You see, up until about year ago, the much maligned brussels sprout — that bitter, gaseous dwarf of a cabbage — was as difficult to swallow as the egg. But unlike the ubiquitous egg, the opportunities to challenge my taste buds were virtually nil, being more a question of availability than cahones (see; will). Because seriously, who — outside of someone born prior to 1950 or a Belgian — would order brussels sprouts at a restaurant when they had a whole menu of other side dishes to choose from. I’m just saying.

But like so many other things in life, it’s often about timing or coming at something from a different angle. I was fortunate enough to be privy to both when my mom decided to go out on a limb and not only serve brussels sprouts to a potentially — and I’m being kind here — “non-receptive” audience (my sisters and I), but to resist her greater impulses and not to fall back on her traditional boil and butter method that she found so…well… traditional.

What came to the table that evening was nothing short of a wonder; not only was it not the traditional sprouts we were all dreading, but it was a revelation to boot. Ridiculously so, in fact, especially given where these sprouts previously sat on our list of things “we’d most not like to ingest at meal time”.

Crunchy, salty, olive oily; they were the perfect blend of texture and flavor. None of the characteristics that marred the vegetable prior to this method lingered — or rather, they were transformed into deliciousness.  And surprisingly, even cold the next day, with none of the crunchiness, they were still amazing.

Sometimes a bad reputation is earned by way of a misunderstanding, and I’ll state it here that the brussels sprout is a good example of that. The misunderstanding being, what method of cooking best brings out their hidden tasty goodness. Now, if you’re like most people I’ve met, you’re probably locked into a particular way of preparing these things, and that’s fine if you want to continue to perpetuate their bad reputation. But if you want to elevate their status into the pantheon of foods you just can’t live without and recipes that will wow and impress your friends, then put away that pot of boiling water, ditch the butter, break out the olive oil and fire up that oven… you’ve got roastin’ to do.

Oh, and when you’re doing your shopping for these lovely, green enigmatic things, make sure to bring a really big bag.

Roasted Brussels Sprouts Recipe:

Coat copious amounts of brussels sprouts with olive oil and place evenly onto a cookie sheet. Salt with sea salt to your liking (slightly salty seems to be best). Roast in a preheated 375° oven for around 30 or 40 minutes depending on the size of the sprouts or until golden brown (you want them to be crunchy on the outside and melt-in-your-mouth soft on the inside). Shake the pan from time to time for even browning. Eat immediately!

Bonus tip: They are also great cold or on salads.

Pau.

If you’ve been anywhere around Facebook lately then you’re probably well aware of the viral happening “25 random things about me” and in turn even contributed to its spreading.  If for some reason you haven’t been touched by this arguably benevolent virus and have no idea what I’m talking about, or you’re one of the seven readers out there who are scratching your heads at the word Facebook, let me briefly break it down for you.

About two weeks ago, Facebook, the popular social networking site, became host to what can only be described as a mass electronic chain mail… a virus, basically.  Members were “tagged” in a note by one of their “friends” with the heading “25 random things about me” that had — you guessed it — 25 random things about that person.  Upon reading it, the tagee was then asked to do a note themselves, re-tag the person who sent it and tag 24 additional friends whom they felt might like to know 25 random things about them. And so on and so on.

To say the virus was popular would be to miss the point — though the numbers are ridiculously impressive — what’s most interesting was not the level of “infestation”, but rather how it fits into and shapes our popular cultural zeitgeist and what that all means.  Time Magazine, in an online editorial, attempted to break it down, but their take on it was far less than favorable than mine.

Besides being unintentionally ironic (I think), the piece in its attempts to be sassy and humorously cynical (which it accomplished in places), failed to understand the greater significance of such “narcissistic” endeavors.  First and foremost, Facebook is a community — many communities to be exact — and as such, it’s all about communication and connection.  And while there are many ways this communication manifests itself — pictures, music, videos — 9 times out of 10 it’s through the written word.  In general it’s a glorified (albeit dynamic) form of public e-mail, but on occasion — as with the “25 random things” virus — it breaks free of this utilitarian constuct and becomes something else… literature.

Now we can argue what literature is until Harold Bloom comes around on Harry Potter — and perhaps if you do one of these lists you can put your definition there — but for me at least it’s hardly a question and the virus is a great example of how difficult it is to pin down.  In the same way that blogging might’ve originally challenged our assumptions and patience about what was important/valuable with its democratizing openness, so does this type of micro-blogging (for lack of a better word).

The Time piece, above all else, stressed that the virus/endeavor was a “narcissistic waste of time” and even attempted to back this up with arbitrary numbers. But what does that mean exactly? Is it a waste of time because it’s not a legitimate form of literary expression and therefore not worthy of engagement? Or that people shouldn’t bother sharing things about themselves because there are more important things to do?

If it’s the former, I don’t see what’s any less legitimate about this form of literature as opposed to any other.  As nonfiction writing goes, it’s been as interesting, funny, insightful and controversial as anything out there, and certainly no more “narcissistic” (whatever relevance this label has) than anything else on the web or in print.  And if it’s the latter, well, what can I say?  Take a look around at the world sometime and tell me how learning something about one another might be a “waste of time”… no matter how arbitrary the details.

Look, not everyone on Facebook chose to do one of these things in much the same way not everyone chooses to blog/write about their life or the world around them… or surf, or bake cookies, or meditate, or solve a Rubik’s cube, or wank for that matter. And that’s cool.  But if you did do one of these things and you tagged me in it, thank you… your insights, humor, ridiculousness and talent resonated with me in a way the best literature often does, and I’m all the better because of it.

Bottom line; if Facebook and its byproducts are such “narcissistic time wasters” and a threat to capitalist productivity, then perhaps there should’ve been an earmark attached to Obama’s recent stimulus package to shut it down.

#26.  I’m just saying.

pau

I’m finding lately that amongst my friends there are two types of people: those who would shell out their last cent for a good, quality roll of toilet paper and those who wouldn’t. This isn’t a judgment of character by any means, it’s merely an observation of where people are willing to cut corners and where they aren’t. Admittedly, until not too long ago, I had nothing but the cheap stuff hanging in my bathroom, but I must also add, in my defense, this was more by default than by choice (okay, some choice).

The thing is, I rarely buy my own toilet paper (or most sundries for that matter) and my friends who often do my shopping for me — for whatever reason — have been under the mistaken assumption I don’t like to buy anything that’s not on sale or that can actually be fit into a closet. I’m not complaining, I don’t see any reason — for example — to purchase a Reach brand toothbrush when I can get 107 Walgreens ones — which are exactly the same — at a lesser price. But that said, there are certain things where knockoff brands just won’t cut it and toilet paper, I’ve come to learn, is one of them.

Truthfully I probably wouldn’t have given this subject much consideration if my home wasn’t regularly filled with friends (a fair percentage of them being female) and I was the only one using my bathroom/toilet paper. But as I’m not the only one using my bathroom/toilet paper and I live by the philosophy “mi casa es su casa”, there’s a level of comfort that exists whereby my houseguests feel they can openly “critique” any product in my home they may or may not use. I have no problem with this, if I’ve purchased something that doesn’t work or is inferior to something else, I want to know about it. And by far the biggest and most vocal complaint has been about my choice of toilet paper.

Now I know what you’re thinking, how could anyone whose life is so centrally focused on their behind be so cavalier about their bathroom’s most important paper product (no doubt, the women out there have been shaking their head at my ignorance since the start of this piece)? And I can only say paralysis and a certain level of compromised sensation in the nether region led to my prolonged apathy. That said, we all see the light sometime and with a little help from my friends, I now have some of the best and cushiest TP money can buy. You may find faults with my soap dispensers, but you won’t feel shortchanged after making a pit stop in my place.

So here are some of the simple rules I’ve learned about choosing a quality toilet paper (in no particular order).

1. Know which of these three criteria matter to you most: strength, softness, or value
2. With the above in mind, be wary of “the deal”. 128 rolls for $3.99 might be tempting, but that savings will cost you where it really counts. Bottom line; you get what you pay for.
3. If strength is important to you (and why wouldn’t it be considering the task at hand), go with a 2 ply. Keep in mind, however, you can always fold a quality single ply.
4. If softness is your bag, the general consensus is go with Northern Quilted. But beware, word has it it’s kind of gone downhill of late. In lieu of this, go with something that has either angels or bear cubs on the packaging (kittens or baby chicks would be fine too) … preferably both or better still, some sort of amalgamation.
5. At all costs avoid any toilet paper that has a picture of two bald men on the cover, regardless of whether they’re smiling or wearing lab coats. In fact, avoid any toilet paper that has any sort of grown man on it (especially with a moustache)… you’ll thank me in the end.

And there you have it. I leave you with a quote from Oscar Wilde that not only applies to your next shopping outing for toilet paper, but I believe life in general.

“A cynic is a man who knows the price of everything but the value of nothing”.

Go forth and wipe with comfort and confidence.

pau