Scales of (unfortunate) justice

After I wrote that blog post about weighing myself, I thought yeah.  There's a column here.  And after all that ravioli I ate this weekend (stuffed with cheese, pine nuts, and golden raisins then covered with a burnt butter sage sauce) my backside could have its own facebook page.

Two brief encounters

While I was in SF this past weekend, I took a short little jog through Chinatown where I noticed a huge security presence at one of the hotels.  Like HUGE.  Motorcycles.  Black cars.  Guys in jackets and sunglasses.  Not even when we lived in New York did I see something to match this.

Naturally, I was curious, so I stood around to see what happened next and much to my wondering eyes did appear the Dalai Lama.  Hello, Dalai!  So that was one brief encounter.

The second encounter was with a young man who stood next to me.  He seemed pretty average--normal--in every way.  But once he started talking to me, it became pretty clear that he suffered from paranoid schizophrenia.  And all I could think was this man had been somebody's baby, somebody's little boy once.  That was my second brief encounter.

 And it has stayed with me longer than the first.

I'm trying to decide what this says about me

So like most people (I assume) I have a love/hate relationship with my scales.  Mostly a hate relationship, actually, but whatever.  Every now and then I say to myself, "JUST STOP WEIGHING YOURSELF EVERY MORNING."  But somehow I am compelled to get on the scale every a.m. just to see where that late-night cupcake and bowl of popcorn, followed by a Dr. Pepper chaser, went.

Ken Cannon weighs himself every morning, too, although with considerably less neuroses.  Anyway.  Here's the deal.  Whenever KC weighs himself, he makes sure the needle starts out EXACTLY on the Zero.  When I weigh myself, I . . . fudge.  I don't exactly set the needle in negative numbers territory (yes!  I just used some algebra right there!), but I like to be on the slim side of zero.

Just like I apparently like to be on the slim side of truth.

At least when it comes to my weight.

Chihuahuas gone wild

In the mood for a story about packs of feral chihuahuas?  Then today is your lucky day.  I found this story in the Daily Mail, an online "newspaper" that sets all kinds of records for journalistic lows.  But yeah.  I check in with it every day on the outside chance that I'll get to read a story like this.

I sent this link to my brother Jimmy who said that Alfred Hitchcock could make an awesome movie with this material--something along the lines of The Birds, only it would be called The Feral Chihuahuas, natch.

(Also--about the link to the Daily Mail?  You're welcome.)

Well, I'm in full voice again

I think that's something Bertie Wooster used to say about his fearsome aunts, wasn't it?  That they were in full voice like a pack of hunting dogs?  Anyway.  I can speak again.  But the funny thing is I got used to not talking and apparently I am not as chatty as usual, according to Ken Cannon on our walk this morning.

NOT THAT ANY OF THIS IS THE POINT OF THIS BLOG POST.

I wanted to post the column here.  I've been thinking lately what a shame it is that some books disappear--like the lovely picture book Dora's Box.  So I wrote a piece about it.  I don't feel very satisfied with it, actually, but I guess some columns are just gonna feel like that.

I'd be interested in hearing of a book (in-print or out) that mattered to you.

Voiceless one

It's a fact.  I've lost my voice.

It started slipping away from me yesterday and by last night when we took Q's friend out for burgers, I was reduced to wild gesturing.  Oddly, after watching The Mod Squad yesterday, I watched an old episode of the original Hawaii 5-0 which featured a mute girl who was also reduced to wild gesturing (also violent head shaking and fist pounding), thus making it difficult for friends and family to understand that she'd witnessed A MURDER, in much the same way I had a hard time making Ken Cannon and the waiter understand that I wanted FISH AND CHIPS and NOT my usual Big H with a raw onion.

 Let me tell you, I suddenly had a lot more sympathy for random mute girls on Hawaii 5-0 after last night.

Meanwhile, here are a few of the things I've learned since going mute.

1.  I talk a lot.  A lot more than I thought I did. I always accuse Ken Cannon of living out loud, but apparently I do, too.

2.  I would make a crappy monk--for a lot of reasons, of course, but the vow of silence thing would be a trial for me.

3.  Ken Cannon can carry on a conversation without my help at Hires.  I suspected that, of course, but last night confirmed it.  He and David got along like a house on fire, discussing Chilean slang and Finnish declensions.

I am sure there will be many more stunning Life Lessons during the internment of my vocal chords.  I'll keep you posted.

Today

I've got The Sick today.

This is what happens when you start feeling smug.  This is what happens when you start thinking that although every one around you is coughing up a lung, YOU will not get sick because you have such awesome willpower.  You start taking pride in your ability to dodge The Sick Bullet.  You say to yourself (and to anyone else who'll listen) that your non-sickness is the reward for living with too many pets and for not being a particularly fussy housekeeper.  Congratulations, Non-Sick Pro!  YOU HAVE A GREAT IMMUNE SYSTEM!

And that's when the Gods of Sick sit up and take notice.  They smite you with their smiting rods and force you to go to bed and watch daytime TV.

Which isn't all bad.  Watching reruns of the Mod Squad is hugely entertaining, leading one to ask why Linc wears sunglasses all the time, even when he's getting stitches in the ER.

Oh, Linc.  You were the man.