The Beauty of Crying

Crying is a natural emotional response to certain feelings, usually sadness and hurt. But then people also cry under other circumstances and occasions, for instance, people cry in response to something of beauty. Stephen Sideroff

The place was the Los Angeles County Museum, the time was the fall of 1990. The exhibit was The Masters of Impressionism and Post-Impressionism: The Annenberg Collection. Jimmy, Audrey and I entered together but soon drifted in different directions. Nearly half an hour later I noticed Audrey at the far end of a small display hall, I was at the other end, inevitably we would meet near the group at the center of the room. As we got closer the group dispersed leaving Jimmy standing alone in front of a shimmering Monet. Reaching him at the same time, we noticed his tears. We embraced him, Audrey at his waist, I around his shoulders. "There's a word beyond beauty," he said.

Some time later Jimmy and I met in front of one of the early impressionistic works and were marveling at the techniques that were simply invented by those artists. We walked together into the next room and found Audrey standing alone in front of a huge Renoir. Tears streamed down her cheeks, followed by another embrace.

Late in the day, I was standing in front of a very pointillistic work by Camille Pissarro. I was transfixed by the movement created on flat surface and the shifting of light with just a infinitesimal movement from me. I remember the scene so clearly, the picture was on a short wall section next to the opening to the next gallery. At some point I looked just slightly to the right through that opening to see Jimmy and Audrey coming towards me. I had to blink the tears from my eyes to see their smiles.

Constructing a Personality

"I am just a bundle of reaction formation responses."

I don't know if I love my friends because they are my friends or if they are my friends because I love them. But I do know I love the wonderful things they say. So much laughter, learning and blog fodder.

Reaction formation refers to a coping mechanism (Freudian defense mechanism) by which we replace unacceptable or anxiety producing behaviors and emotions with their direct opposite. Or at least what is perceived to be the opposite. Different flip-sides for different folks as it were.

Of course, as with all psychological theory it all gets much more diffuse and complicated as applied to various personas and personalities. For instance, if you are reacting to a parent who is often angry then you might avoid anger yourself by overly compensating, being always agreeable, never oppositional. Perhaps trading one dysfunctional behavior for another. How then does someone express an emotion like anger when reacting to a pathological use of that same emotion in parents or peers?

Well fortunately we are not just a bundle of reaction formations. We really do have free will; we actually can break free of whatever traits our childhood imposed upon us. Our maturation allows us options other than reaction formation. Still buried down deep or not buried at all lurks the remanent of all we have been and might have been. All twisty and turny (psychological terms) yet changeable, malleable and unique.

All my friends are nearly normal and I love them for exactly those qualities.

Evocative Music or Not

"Music jerks you around to feel stuff 
you could better have left alone."

That quote comes from a good friend of mine. She said it sometime last year and like a diligent writer I jotted the words down for later use. Our conversation didn't stop with that line, she went on to say that feeling big emotions was just not worth it because the really bad ones are very painful even when evoked or relived via music. And, she continued, the good emotions that music pulls forth always end when the music ends and you lose them all over again.

Yes, that is a fairly dark view of music and perhaps of the world in general. It contrasts sharply with my own feelings about music and my personal worldview. Remembering even reliving long ago emotions is not only healthy; I believe it is healing and growth oriented. Yes, music can recall old hurts and stir dormant memories but catharsis is good for the soul. Stirring the pot brings all the flavors of wisdom to bear on our place in the present.

I let my friend know I was going to post this blog because I wanted to hear her say it out loud -

"You know I've started listening to music again."

Yes I did notice, which is how I knew it was time to share this nugget with my blog friends.

. . .being of an older generation.

In case you're worried about what's going to become of the younger generation, it's going to grow up and start worrying about the younger generation. -- Roger Allen

Recently I've been thinking a bit about being a member of an "older" generation. Then semi-suddenly two incidents brought it all home and gave me sufficient fodder for a blog post. 

First came a friend's fascination with the TV sit-com Two and a Half Men in which Charlie Sheen plays an alcoholic whore monger. Yes, I know the show is technically about two brothers sharing a house with a ten year old son; but all of the storylines and dialog have to do with Charlie Sheen being an alcoholic whore monger while mirth and merriment ensue all around.

Now you have got to know that this show has caused screams of protest from those who find its content unfit for broadcast television. The rebuttal to those cries of moral degeneracy has been steady top ten ratings for the show since it began. So I watched half a dozen episodes. OK, I laughed a lot more than I cringed, but then I don't have any kids who might see it. Clearly lots of young, unknown wanna be starlets are getting much needed guest shots and showing as much skin as prime time allows. When I did feel a bit uncomfortable about the content, it was the writing not the visuals but then again I am still a guy, which means hot, young bimbos playing hot, young bimbos are at least visually satisfying. With each verbal indelicacy I reminded myself that I am of an "older" generation and I remembered what our elders thought of us during the 60s & 70s. Besides I did laugh. 

Then last week Charlie was big news for going into rehab again, bigger news it seems than a conflagration in Egypt and adjoining parts of the middle east. Charlie in rehab again, the show on hiatus again, the show about an alcoholic whore monger, and you thought South Park was irreverent. Well enough of banal television, I will not be watching future episodes once Charlie is dried out, but do allow your kids to watch the boob tube without restrictions, after all it's better than finding out the local meth dealer peddles his wares in the public library; but that's another story.

Part two of this story comes to us via facebook. I saw a post from a old high school friend about the death of another high school classmate' again the theme of being part of a older generation. I dropped her a note, the old friend not the dead old friend, and reminded her of an incident we were involved in back now 46 years ago. She responded and told me a few details which I had not known and then she added: "It just seems life is not fair to everyone, I find it hard to believe Deborah has been gone nearly 20 years."

What? Gone twenty years? Deborah was my high school girlfriend, most of my adolescent 'firsts' involved her but wait, she has been dead for nearly two decades? My mind just didn't wrap itself around that one, my brain just kept spitting out that factoid - it simply did not compute. I hadn't seen her in over 40 years, heard not a word of news but still - "gone twenty years" . . .

I need a break, maybe catch The Big Chill on the oldies network before I head out to the seniors discount buffet at the local tribal casino, then maybe a few rousing rounds of bingo.

The Fabric of Friendship

I base my fashion taste on what doesn't itch.

-Gilda Radner

Like Gilda I make my sartorial selections based solely on comfort. I once wrote that "96.4% of my clothes are cotton" but I really don't think I own that many shoes anymore. I remember as if it was yesterday the first dress slacks my mother bought me, they were gray and felt like fiberglass on my legs. I just don't get scratchy garments, perhaps there is a wide variation in tactile sensitivity or it may be that I am simply too sensitive for this harsh world. But this is not a post about clothing but rather one about comfort. I stumbled upon the Gilda Radner quote and it reminded me of one of my absolute favorite lines -

I like my friends as I like my sofa that they may easily be reclined upon.

Unfortunately I am reminded of this by an olde friend who is ever so slowly slipping away. Not from life mind you but from our friendship. I had not been able to figure out exactly why this was happening until recently when I was with him and a small gathering of his friends. The conversation was sarcastic, critical of everyone identified as "they" and just plain unhappy. I don't know what happened to my friend but he now runs with the truly disenchanted and morose.

I enjoy the company of bright, talented, interesting and interested friends and those who seek comfort in our friendship. Opinions can held and defended without vitriol, disagreements tend to be of degree not of core beliefs. Laughter is genuine, conversation is expansive and care is inclusive that they may be easily reclined upon.

Friends and Fellow Travelers

A friend, an olde friend sent me this image and said that it reminded him of me. Somewhere in storage or in another friend's home there is a white Balinese mask very similar to that image. We were in the workshop/gallery of a gifted mask-maker in Ubud, Bali. Mask were being tried on, laughter was awash but respect was being shown to a true craftsman. I put on the white mask in a back hallway and leaned out into the main room just my head emmasked. For a moment there was complete silence and then everyone came towards me, I had evidently found my one true mask. I need to get it out again, wonder where it rests?

But today's post is not about me or images of me. Today's post is about friends and how I speak of friends in this blog. Long time readers know that I tend to begin a tale with -- "a friend told me the other day" or I write about friends as examples of all things good and not so. Friends who make me happy and those that make me sad or baffle me are blog fodder. There are even a couple of very close friends I never write about either because they are just too private and I don't want to intrude or I have ever so lightly referenced them in the past and received less than warm returns via critique.

Recently a post got three responses that basically said -- "Did you mean me?"

So new rule. In the future when I use the term friend I will send said friend an email disclosing their appearance, no matter how veiled, in this here blog. No email, it ain't you.

Now I must go, there are some towering grey clouds hanging low over San Francisco Bay. The sun has been transformed into a viewable disk as it sinks into the greyness. I am going to sit and watch as light and dark struggle. Which I wonder shall prevail?

eLetters to Friends

On the long drive back from Las Vegas yesterday I was pondering something I had not said to one of my poker buddies. We travel in a poker gaggle while in Vegas and I don't always get enough one-on-one time with my friends because I tend to treasure sleep over late night video poker sessions. Definitely my loss.

I was composing my thoughts to this friend, after all that's what long drives are for; when I heard a tribute to Daniel Schorr on NPR. Apparently Schorr was a proponent of letters. He wrote rather than called and definitely wrote letters over email. I pondered sending a letter. How long has it been since I mailed one of those? I know there are envelopes in the apartment left over from the big emptying. I also know I have stamps, even though they are denomination-less and I don't know if they are currently sufficient to carry a letter to its destination. A lot of fuss when email is so immediate. Does anyone still put (long) in the subject space to warn of thoughts requiring more than a nanosecond of consideration?

When my own thoughts returned to mentally composing my letter I was surprised to discover I had switched friends. Apparently I had more than one billet to turn out, long stretches of desert will do that to your focus. Are there even more languishing communications I wondered? Lo and behold just a few miles of sandy rumination produced a list of nearly ten epistles that needed attention. By this morning the roll had reached a dozen.

So, this week I will be sending eLetters to a baker's dozen or so of my friends, be warned in advance (long). I would take this moment to suggest to all of my readers that you too have thoughts unsaid, words unspoken, feelings unexpressed. Friendships deepen with shared expressions. Depth is never something to avoid, at least not in the world this blog inhabits.

Around the Firepit

Remember those late night debates in the dormitory. Do you miss them? I don't. Well I don't miss being 19 and talking and acting like I knew more than I did. But I do miss the conversation, the camaraderie and yes, the mind expansion that flow from interactions like those. I enjoy the feelings that honest, open, intense conversation engenders.

I was reminded of this a few weekends ago, when some of my olde grad school friends and I got together, had a big meat laden barbeque and then late into the night, we tossed yet one more log on the coals and launched into one more topic. Sometimes I miss heated conversations where polysyllabic utterances are not discouraged and where loud and pointed disagreement is often met with laughter and even agreement.

Read all you will, ponder until the dragons come home but articulating what you are formulating to an interested and attentive cadre is oh so satisfying. Even when they beat up your still half-formed thesis.

Gotta do that again soon.

Picking Your Battles

I remember a younger version of me who was adverse to waiting. Taking time to make a decision seemed like just a waste of precious time. The facts were the facts, the options were clear, just get on with it. I guess with age may come wisdom but certainly comes patience and contemplation. For nearly a year I have been pondering one particular interpersonal relationship with no fear of deadline or timeline. I didn't have what I required to move forward. This is not simply procrastination. I do think about the issues involved, I sit with what was before and what might be in the future. It just isn't yet time.

When a similar situation came up over Memorial Day weekend, one of my friends who was directly involved said something about "picking your battles" and while not precisely a fight, it was a conflict which could easily have led to a confrontation. He chose to linger in limbo rather than push forward while still "unprepared and unarmed" (his words not mine). The warlike metaphors seems a bit overwrought, so I engaged in a little wordplay.

Battle has militaristic, confrontational overtones but crusade or campaign might work.

Picking conjures synonyms like cull, sift, harvest and gather.

It became clear to me that I was more into the picking than I was into the battle. I was indeed gathering my thoughts; culling my feelings, sifting through the possibilities and gathering myself for an eventuality.
Once again the younger me spoke up and suggested this period of rumination might better be called out as mental masturbation. Ah, the impetuousness of youthful ganglia. But I had to think, it has been nearly a year, perhaps my friend has something to say about our estrangement. Perhaps the time had come. Could I get a sign or a stage direction here?

As if in the "ask and ye shall receive" mode, I dropped by while another friend was doing some household divesting. They offer me several tables of items that will soon be the property of Goodwill. I did not care to even check the inventory because I am still post-accumulation. But then she said: "Well maybe one of our friends might need something here." I took a quick glance and sure enough right there in the first pile was an artifact of our youth my olde friend had talked about perhaps ten years ago. Here was my sign. I picked it up and that evening made the call. Now I just need to find the words before the next full moon.

A Prickly Nightingale

According to a recent biography, Florence Nightingale was "devout and unforgiving, inexhaustible and chronically unwell." What history remembers is that she fought against limitations imposed on her by her gender and launched what we now call the modern health care system. Apparently she also saw "earthly friendships as a hindrance on the path to true righteousness." Obviously a complicated and complicating woman. She is said to have been so driven that she worked two of her loyal followers to death. But what struck me about her life was not the details (didn't finish the book) but the concluding words of a short review:

"This is a terrific biography of a woman to whom we owe a great deal, but would perhaps never want to meet." Mark Bostridge

Got any nightingales in your life?

I have just one in mine right now, though in the past I have had many more, some as big a vultures. A nightingale is someone we admire, someone we share an abiding passion with or even someone we love but . . . someone who we just cannot tolerate being around. I know I have been a nightingale myself at times, in fact I remember being shouted at by an olde flame, she really could have used this newly coined association with nightingale; it would have saved her a lot of four letter approximations.

I truly admire individuals who can look beyond the befuddling, muddling, perplexing exterior to the heart of gold, silver, bronze or platinum. Those with that patience make great social workers and I think good mothers must have a modicum or more of such grace. Me -- well I am an advocate of the timely retreat or the cowardly pythonesque run away. But this time, with this nightingale, I am going to attempt to work through the gritty, abrasive interpersonal slime and see what might be on the other side. And I am going to start that soon, maybe next week or right after the solstice.

Kontemporary Koan

I do believe I heard the first utterance of an original koan today.

"She doesn't go anywhere for the first time."

Please forward any previous utterances or references to this linguistic gem in any and all variations, just in case I am challenged by the OED or Guinness. The source of this emanation is someone I have learned to keep one ear turned towards at all times. Today in the midst of a completely original and fanciful story arose that luscious line.

Sure it tangentially references by own favorite koan:

"You can never step into the same stream twice."

I assume we have all been there for the birth of pithy and insightful turns of phrase, right off the top of my head I remember this doublespeak:

"Just because you believe it, doesn't mean it's true.

Just because it didn't happen doesn't mean it isn't true."

And I was second hand to the first overhearing of the teeny-bopper record store observation:

"Did you know Paul McCartney was in a band before Wings."

When I grow up I want to be a linguist.

Secret Supper

I was torn between the Quentin Tarrantino Last Supper and the Big Lebowski version or even one from the Simpsons. But I went with Battle Star Galactica because that caught more of the flavour of last night. On a side note, if you would like to view over 50 Last Supper spoofs, a little click will do ya.

But today's post is not about the art but about the dinner last night. A good friend, of many names, has launched a new aspect of her culinary bricolage with the inaugural event in her Secret Supper. Once a month a select group of Bay Area elite email eaters/invitees receive directions to a Secret Supper. Menus are attached (for last night's delectables, see below) and payment is via PayPal. Last night was launched in a warehouse space in Oakland and by most mouthful utterances was a big hit. I particularly liked the asparagus soup and the warehouse cat, who braved the both dogs to locate a couple of cat people and receive generous pets and scritches.

My apologizes to any local readers but it may be several months before I can sneak you onto the limited invite list, but I am always looking for a monthly food date. Here is the essence and the edibles from this month's venture.

Secret Kitchen is an underground dining club which changes both the prix fixe menu and location monthly. Members will enjoy gourmet dinners in a relaxed setting, with great entertainment and thoughtful conversations with interesting people. Diners are asked to bring the beverage of their choice, and wear comfy clothes as you'll never know just where you'll be sitting til you get there!  Here is our homage (menu) to Spring: App:Braised Pork Belly in Citrus-Maple Reduction Soup: Roasted Asparagus with Lemon Chive Creme Entree: Salmon Papillote with Smoked Chilies Baby Potatoes in Green Garlic Butter Dessert: Spiced Fruit Phyllos with Wine Sauce and Marscapone

. . . and my favorite Last Supper spoof.

Names Have Been Changed

A loyal reader noted recently that I often tell stories about "my olde friend" or I begin a tale with "a friend of mine was going to the park the other day when.....".

My curious friend noted that I seemed to make most of my "friends" anonymous on my blog and she wondered if there was a reason for that. First, guilty as charged. I guess I should have used the O.J. mugshot here.

I do protect my sources and my friends by making most of my stories generic. I don't want to embarrass anyone in my little blog and quite frankly not everyone wants to be as 'out' as I make myself in my posts. In fact, this blog is a bit of an "outing experiment" for me. I have been protective of myself for most of my life. I don't tell stories about me and I haven't been personally in depth with most of my acquaintances. So for the past three years I have been slowly opening up on these pages.

When we wrote the Matusow book, we struggled with which names to keep and which to change. The obvious "I did some meth with _______" were easy changes, but the girlfriends and strippers were not always so obvious. At some point we got confused and didn't know if Kim was Kim or a pseudonym we had made up. It took us the better part of a three day weekend to get all the names straightened out and the guilty protected.

In my current semi-autobiographical, demi-fictional novel/tell-all, I am using the real names of friends, enemies and lovers in the drafts. When I get the completed work ready for a publisher I am going to give everyone the opportunity to vote. You will get to say "me" or "not me" and then I will change the names of all the cowards. Until then, if I disappear, someone had better delete the manuscript. You can find it on this laptop in the "RtM" folder.

As for the blog, I will continue to tell my "friend" stories, but I think I will start numbering them. Something like: "My olde friend #32 was having a dustup with his 24 year old girlfriend when....." Those of you who are regular readers will get the inside joke. Once I am a ridiculously famous author, the late comers will have to read back all the way to March of '10 to get the insider insight.

Until then: "An olde friend (#16) walked into a bar. He spots my other olde friend (#23) slouched in a chair by the juke box. Friend #23 looks at friend #16 and says: 'Did you have to bring the gerbil?'"

We Used to Speak the Same Language

Recently one of my friends asked for some help, a bit of assistance with a project. He/she told me that if I went to the museum and looked at the sculpture in viewing room #4 and then went to the gift shop and purchased the replica of the key depicted in that sculpture, I would have all I needed to complete the requested favor/task.

Being a friend, I did indeed go to the museum and found viewing room #4 but alas, there was not a single sculpture in that gallery. So I inquired of my friend about this mystery. She/he was unable to get back to me until later that evening, but then told me that I had gone to the wrong museum but not to worry the same key could be found in a local art store near where I lived. She seemed a bit stressed, so I did not make a point of the "wrong museum" being the one he had originally directed me to.

I googled the location of the art store and discovered it was not anywhere near where I lived but if one store had the key then why not another. After a bit of searching, I found an establishment with the same key and I picked it up the following day. I then called my friend again, only to discover that he had gone out of town until next Monday, which apparently was why she needed my help in the first place.

The key, however, had to be delivered by this Friday in order for the task to be successfully completed. Since my friend would not be back in town until Monday and she had not given me the destination for the delivery, it would seem like all was for naught. Further, he was not answering her cell phone.

Making one last attempt to salvage the endeavor, I called my friend's colleague from work and inquired about his knowledge, if any, of the process and discovered that the whole enterprise had been rethought and not only was delivery of the key not needed by Friday, apparently the key was not longer going to be required at all. So in the end my help was entirely unnecessary.

I have been sitting here reviewing this little escapade, which briefly goes something like this: a favor is asked of me, the favor is outlined with incorrect information, when I attempt to comply using initial instructions and discover the bad link, new allegedly simpler information is discovered, which too proves to be inaccurate. Through my own devices, I managed to acquire necessary item, which cannot be delivered in a timely manner, but which is no longer needed in any case. My friend managed to delivered incorrect information or instructions each and every time she spoke to me and neglected to tell me the entire project was no longer necessary before she up and left town.

After due consideration, I have come to the conclusion that I can shorten my list of friends by one inconsiderate flake and I now consider the entire adventure a complete success.

In-attentive-ness

As I have said before in this space, one of the clarion calls of my existence is the phrase: pay attention. Notice it is not written Pay Attention! nor Pay Attention! or even Pay Attention!!! I simply and quietly attempt in my life to attend to those thoughts, words and actions that present themselves to me during the course of my day. In particular, I try very hard to practice close attention when I am speaking with someone I like, love and/or treasure.

I do admit that some part of this attending fervor of mine is a learned behavior from my years of training as a psychologist. But clinical techniques are really not necessary in the ordinary course of going about one's life; what is required is a desire and a commitment to really paying attention to what is presented in hearing, seeing, smelling, tasting, touching and other.

One of my current writing projects is thematically all about this topic, the plot and story build on attending to the tiniest of motes of action and information that pass before the eyes, ears and heart of my protagonist. Think of the word "attend" not in the sense of attending a performance but of attending to a person. Being in service to them, to look after, to minister to. The exact oppose of ignoring or dismissing. This is the quality I am speaking of and fostering moment-to-moment in my interaction with others.

Which brings me to an observation about the variety of my acquaintances. Once again I refer to my recently ended journey on which I saw and interacted with so many friends both old and new. Now I am back in the Bay Area and once again in the midst of my academic cohorts. I noticed in my travels that while my friends were busy with their full and active lives, they had time or we could make time for intense, meaningful, in-depth conversation and friendship. If I attended to them, they were able to reciprocate, even if generally speaking such interactions were not the norm in their everyday life.

Sure most of the human contacts in my life have college educations. There are many big brains outside of my academic tribe and many more big hearts. What surprises me then, is that within the large cerebrum, fully lettered gaggle of friends there are several examples of gross non-attending. I don't just mean the stereotypical absent-minded professor. I mean fully functioning, highly educated, well-meaning friends, who just don't have a clue. They seem to talk the talk and grok the written word, but in action they simply fail. They either will not or cannot pay attention to what so many of us find important. Ideas and feelings they give lip service to, seem not to actually be of any significance in the day-to-day conduct of our friendship.

What I feel about these friendships is sadness. What I hope to communicate to them is simply nothing because I know none of these individuals will ever read this blog. To those who do, let's have lunch, I have something wonderful to tell you.

Many Thanks Along the Way

I have just spent eight months on the road and most of that time I was not staying in hotels or motels but in the homes of many good friends. I want to sincerely thank every one of you for opening your doors, yours hearts and your homes to my vagabond ways. I enjoyed the variety of experiences at each and every stop and would not hesitate to encumber you with my presence again in the future.

Particular thanks to Randy, Gary and Cyndy, Bill and Kathy, Dan and Sue for not only inviting me to stay but also having the extreme good manners to pack up and leave. The only thing better than good friends would be good friends who offer you the shelter of their home and then go away.

Celebratory thanks are also in order to Pat, Bob and Holly, Jim and Mary Grace for timing their parties to coincide with my visits. The many meals at all stops were just too scruptious to mention but Bill, Pat, Mary Grace and Eric will be remembered for their culinary skills. Also the caterers in Virginia, the grill in Weed and the barbeque at Salt Lick in Austin.

To those who opened their homes for weeks at a stretch, I am gratefully indebited. To those I was only able to share a meal and a conversation, you too. The briefest of stops in the strangest of locations were like beacons into our past.

I learned the intricacies of the DVR at many different stops along the way. I became a fair to average Wii disc golf player and I observed various examples of Ipod, Bluetooth and other new techno devices both enthralling and frustrating their new owners. I even acquired my very first GPS to find my way from doorstep to doorstep. In all cases, I can honestly say to every one including myself: RTFM!

Thanks to David and Kim for opening their spare room on short notice. To all my old college friends in Kalamazoo, was great to see you, wish we had more time to talk. To the several dozen 'friends of friends' I met on my travels, twas nice to make your acquaintance, except for that one crazy woman in Florida. To those I saw but did not homestead with, was good to catch up and to those I missed along the way - I am not done traveling just yet.

Special thanks to the PokerBoyz for all the laughs in Biloxi, when are we doing that again? I would point out for the Boyz that I remain the only member to have met Becky, Rachel and Eric or to have seen and visited all but one of the PokerBoyz home turfs.

I would be remiss without sending cyber scritches to Midnight, Rascal, Matisse, Tigerr, Cat, Duffy, Jerome, Abra, Edmund, Crattchet, Blackie, Java and nuzzlin' my keyboard as I write this - Vlad.

What did I learn on this adventure? Well part of it I hope you will be reading in the book/story I am writing roughly based on the geography, if not the actuality, of the trip. Second, I came to realize on a much deeper level why people refer to me as their friend. I want each and every one of you to know that I value whatever interaction we had, I am humbled that you consider me that type of friend and you have more than repaid me with your friendship and camaraderie. Each and every one.

Arctic Austin

I have now traveled three-quarters of the way around the country passing thru nearly half the states and yet it took coming to Texas to experience truly cold weather. The Arctic Blast that is keeping the Weather Channel in viewers this last week brought official temperatures into the high teens last night on our arrival here in Austin. My unofficial blog thermometer registered 12° this morning. No matter, typical January temps here in the heart of you know are 60°-40° or thereabouts, so the environs will be warming soon or so I am told.

Biloxi was a great stop. The five members of the Poker Boyz who made it had stories to tell and laughter to more than compensate for our dwindling card skills. Congrats to all who made final tables and to Randy for the one big win of the week. We also ran into a surprising number of old poker road friends and our favorite poker management team: Johnny Grooms and Ken Lambert. The Beau Rivage Hotel & Casino is now highly recommended by all.

As for the continuing trip, I expect to linger in Texas for a week or so and then begin the slow progression west. Further stopovers are still in the state of potentiality, I am considering a L.A. sidetrip to visit friends and gather some more fodder for the writing mill.

This next week, Amy and I will be heads down on the Matusow screenplay, with hopes of progress and insight into the vicissitudes of the Hollywood movie mindset. I am going to accompany her to the Austin screenplay group and perhaps to her home game as well. And there will some catch-up blog posts for the lost time in the bowels of the Biloxi poker rooms. Until then...

---

Texas Wall Art by raganart.com

Friends Along the Way

A couple of my readers have asked for some observations about the many friends and family I have seen in the past eleven months on my journey. I have thought about this for awhile and decided I need both a serious and a humorous version. You decide which one this is.

Driving: To at least three of you: I will never get in a car again with you behind the wheel. That goes for golf carts and if we take a bike ride, I want you out front, so I can see the accident coming.

Food: I am 'thinking about dessert', does not mean double chocolate with whipped cream in a small tub delivered to my room. Having your own stash of carry-out styrofoam is an obvious giveaway to your intentions. But mostly, thank all of you for not cooking like the ladies in my family of origin.

Television & DVRs: I had no idea some of those shows even existed. Those I did know about, I was sure I knew no one who watched them. It truly must take all kinds. Wii, on the other hand, is an entirely different issue.

Pets: I love all the cats, even the ones that won't come out to play. Those last two dogs were pretty cool too, but they smelled like gingerbread.

Mattresses: Many thanks to anyone who owns a firm guest bed. So far no one has caught me sleeping on the floor.

Alcohol: I approve of the upgrades you have all made in the variety and quality of your imbibing concoctions. Particularly the grape-based liquids.

Hot Tubs: Two perfect. One empty. One tepid.

Availability of Suitably Aged Female Companionship: You are all miserable failures, except one.

Wildlife: This would be the Sierra Club type of wildlife, not the variety inferred in the previous category. A gold star to Mt. Shasta, silver to the Windsor foxes, bronze to the white cat.

Best Sci-Fi Series: Hands down the offering at Beit Malkhut.

Smallest Hut which can actually be lived in: Golden Ridge in Sebastopol.

Best Grill: Gallop Road, Weed California.

Best Wine: Five way tie.

Best Barbeque: Everett & Jones, Berkeley, Ca.

Best Bunch of 60+ yr. olds to party with: K College Reunion, OK so maybe not so much partying but still great to see everyone.

I would rebook at any of the stops I have made this year. Now on to the southern portion of our travel program.

Open Post to My Boomer Buddies

On my travels this year I have spent quality time with many friends old and new, family too. I have observed what I believe is a silly and yet serious affliction among many of my friends, all of whom are charter members of the baby boomer generation. I admit I am a member of this club, so I am outing everyone including myself. The one and only trait we all share to qualify for membership is silence.

Silence about our health.

Why is everyone so reluctant to talk about the afflictions of the inevitable aging process? Yes, I know we have all, at one time or another, joked about family gatherings where the "olde folks" sit around and share their latest diagnosis. We aren't "that old" yet, are we?

Maybe this is a manifestation of the cult of individuality which we all grew up in. Perhaps it is just not wanting to inflict our decrepitude on our friends; but quite frankly it's also a potential killer. I may know something about your syndrome, symptom or affliction that you do not. We all run in different circles of health, education and treatment. But we can't share what we don't know exists.

So my friends, speak up. Talk to your friends, your loved ones, your physicians, healers, shamans, herbalist, medicine women, sorcerer, medico and/or witch doctor. If none of them are available, I am.

Please speak up. There are lots of adventures still to be had, stick around and share some of them with me.

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Cartoon by Liza Donnelly in The New Yorker

Internal Escalation

It would seem that a small but significant number of my friends have been engaged in something I have come to call internal escalation. For anyone familiar with customer service, I am not referring to the flowchartable concept of the same name that is used to bump complaining customers up the chain of command. No, I am referring to a tendency of some individuals to engage in an often self-defeating mode of overthinking. Personally I have been jousting with just such a concept in my writing the last week or so, prompted by a fictional Tibetan monk suggesting:

"An excess of reason is itself a form of madness."

Internal escalation is a process wherein a single individual, on their own, without consultation nor confirmation takes a piece of information, an impression, a snippet of reality or not and mentates on that singular iota of interiority and expands it to the brink of implosion, explosion or madness. More than simply overthinking, internal escalation adds facts, scenes, dialog and potentially wild outcomes to what to others might have been a mere tangent or passing phrase.

The problem with simply stamping out such behavior is that internal escalation lies very close to magical thinking. Again, let me make a distinction. I am not talking here about the definition of magical thinking which says that it involves the belief that thought is the same as action; that can be the stuff of madness and Prozac. I refer rather to the realm of magical thinking where it is believed the sentient thinking does have an effect on the natural world. Interesting how many scientific people "know" that the natural world affects our rational processes but they cannot conceive that it works in the other direction.

So to my many internally escalating friends. Go forth and ponder the world, all these worlds. However, show caution. Stay moderately in touch both with ordinary reality and with other adventurers in the realms of magic. Beyond here there be dragons, so proceed with the Audubon guide to basilisks, hydras and wyverns. And call if you get lost.

[It seems every time I attempted to type escalation, I thumbed out excalation. So I thought I had better look it up. Excalation: The absence, suppression, or failure to develop one member of a series, such as a finger or vertebra. Who knew?]

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photo credit: archives