Lucky

When I arrived here in Siem Reap, Cambodia a couple of weeks ago, I was feeling a little sorry for myself. After ten months of non-stop travel, I felt road-weary and lonesome as hell.

And then I met a guy named Lucky.

He sits on the curb in front of the ice cream shop where I stop each evening, selling books to passersby. Lucky was born with no arms and no legs. He’s a torso with a head. About as minimalist as a human being can be. And one of the most cheerful, upbeat people I’ve ever met.

"What did you say your name was again? Lucky?"

Seriously?

The other night after he finished work, Lucky and I went down the street to have a frosty adult beverage. He didn’t want to sit in his wheelchair, so I lifted him like a 50 lb. sack of cement and placed him on the lawn chair next to me, holding my breath that it wouldn't fold up and swallow him.

He ordered a beer and some food and when the waitress returned she opened a pack of cigarettes, put one in his mouth and lit it. “This should be interesting” I thought. He smoked by taking a puff and then balancing the cigarette on his shoulder. I’m a die-hard non-smoker, but I’ll light cigarettes all night long for a guy like Lucky.

When the food arrived, he asked me to hand him a pair of chopsticks. I thought he was pulling my leg. He gripped them between his chin and shoulder, gestured for me to hand him the plate, then scooped up a big bunch of noodles and offered it to me. My jaw dropped. This guy can’t feed himself and here he is offering me the first bite. I leaned over, nose-to-nose with my new friend, and gobbled up the heaping helping. Then I took the chopsticks and fed him in between cigarettes.

A couple of pitchers of Angkor beer later, we decided to call it a night. Lucky didn’t even pretend to reach for his wallet, so I ended up getting stuck with the tab. As I wheeled him down the bumpy dirt road to the spot outside the now abandoned night market where his brother was going to pick him up, I asked him if he wanted me to wait with him. It was 1 a.m. He insisted he’d be fine, and as I turned to walk away it was all I could do not to take him back to my guest house and get him a room. When I saw him the next day, he was as cheerful and chipper as ever, and even used the pointed nub where his left arm should be to give me an impromptu back massage.

A few days later, I stopped by the ice cream place to get a couple of scoops of rum raisin, and the woman behind the counter asked me how long I was planning to stay. When I told her I’m volunteering at a school for at-risk kids for the next couple of weeks, she got all teary-eyed and said “Thank you for your helping.”

I felt like I had a golf ball stuck in my throat, but I managed to say “You’re welcome” before I turned to ride the bike that’s provided for free by the guest house where I’m staying in air-conditioned comfort in a private room with hot water, a flush toilet, free internet, cable T.V, a double bed with clean sheets every day...and breakfast is included. $15.00 a night, which is more than a guy who sells paperbacks on the sidewalk makes in a week.

I feel pretty lucky.

Farewell to Virginia

Among the more interesting and eventful assignments I've had was the time I was hired by a retirement community to photograph several of their residents. The reason for the group portrait was that all of these folks had local schools named after them. Needless to say, they don't put your name on a school unless you grew up when the world was still in black and white.

I was running behind schedule, feeling frantic and hoping that no one would fall, or succumb to the heat and humidity, or have a stroke. Especially me.

Meanwhile, an elderly woman nearby was peppering me with questions:

"What are you doing?"

"Who are you photographing?"

"Why?"

"Are these photographs going to be in the newspaper?"

"How long are you going to be here?"

"Are you photographing everyone who lives here?"

I was trying to maintain my composure and be polite, but I was really preoccupied, stressed out and beginning to think she might have a screw loose.

"Will you take my picture?" she asked.

"Well...I have to photograph this group, and then I have to break down all this equipment and haul it inside and set it all up again to do a headshot, so...if you're still here when I'm finished (realizing as the words came out of my mouth that the phrase "if you're still here" might have have a different connotation to someone who can see the light at the end of the tunnel) then I'll be happy to take your picture."

"I'll meet you back here at 3:30" she said...making it clear that I better not be tardy.

The cumulative age of the group was somewhere close to 500 years. Seriously. 6 x 80 something = High Potential for Disaster. I held my breath as my subjects arrived with the assistance of canes, walkers, oxygen tanks and orderlies. As they crossed the lawn, I prayed that no one would trip and fall and break a hip or have to be hauled off in an ambulance. Or worse.

To my extreme relief, we completed the shot without any injuries or fatalities, and as we packed up the gear to move inside for the second shot, I noticed that the woman who had interrogated me earlier was still there, giving me the eye to let me know she meant business. By the time we dragged all of our gear back outside, my crew was exhausted, especially since we had shot another assignment earlier in the day.

And then we saw her.

"Hello" she said, having freshly coiffed her hair, changed into an elegant outfit, and sporting a multi-colored walking cane.

"Hi", I replied, shooting a sideways glance at my assistants, who had begun loading the gear into my truck.

"I've picked out three of my favorite spots" she said.

"Is that right?"

I realized that this tenacious little old lady wasn't kidding, and that I had bitten off way more than I could chew.

"My name's John, by the way" I said, extending my hand.

"I'm Virginia Walker" she responded, gripping my hand firmly. "Let's get started over here at the gazebo."

By now the absurdity of this situation was making me wonder when the Cosmic Candid Camera crew was going to step out from behind a bush and say "Gotcha!" She had very definite ideas about how she wanted to pose, where I should position my camera, and completely disregarded any suggestions I made. My assistants were chuckling, so I decided to give in and just let her boss us around.

We gave her the V.I.P. treatment, using studio lighting to photograph her at the gazebo, and near a flower bed, and sitting on the edge of a fountain. As nearly an hour passed, my three assistants, whom I was now paying over time, grinned at me to let me know they were really getting a kick out of this quirky character.

As we chatted, I learned that Virginia was 92 years old, had three children, was extremely well-read and well-traveled, and not only was extremely sharp and savvy, but was also a funny, charming, dignified, and sophisticated lady.

As things were drawing to a close, I asked "So...Virginia. Are you single?"

"I'm a widow" she replied..."My late husband was a Texas Supreme Court Justice."

"So...are you seeing anyone?" I continued.

"No...not at the moment." She smiled coyly.

"If I asked you out on a date, would you go with me?"

After a long pause, she answered. "Yes...I suppose I would" in a tone that let me know that would be a big step down for her. And I don't mean age-wise.

"What are you doing Saturday night?" I asked, grinning from ear to ear.

Virigina and I had several dates over the ensuing months. Once we went on a double date with one of her daughters and her "boy"friend...who were in their 60's. Another time we scandalized the retirement community when she invited me to dinner and led me from table to table introducing me to all her friends. On another occasion we sat together in her apartment as she showed me 80 years worth of Christmas cards, each one a painting or drawing that she had created every year since she was a teenager.

I grew very fond of Virginia, and every time we got together, we laughed ourselves silly, and invariably I got a little teary-eyed at something particularly poignant or touching or insightful she would say.

Virginia was always very concerned about my spiritual well-being. She insisted on buying me a subscription to a booklet of daily devotions called Daily Word. After carefully jotting down my mailing address, she sent off the subscription card, and called me repeatedly to ask if the publication had arrived in the mail yet.

After about a month of this, she took down all of my information again, sent in another subscription card, and began asking me again whether I had received my first issue. I thought about lying to her so she would stop pestering me, but because I knew she received Guideposts herself, I was afraid there might be a quiz! When I told her I had not, she got on the phone with customer service and registered her dissatisfaction. I wonder how many complaints they get at Daily Word magazine.

One night we went out to dinner and as the waiter approached our table he asked "Can I get you anything to drink?"

"I'll have a frozen margarita with salt!" Virginia said, as if she drank tequila for breakfast. She couldn't have weighed 100 lbs., and if you've ever sampled the margaritas at Fonda San Miguel, you'll understand my concern about the possible side effects on a diminutive little old lady. As she sipped her drink, dabbing the salt from her lips with her napkin, I said "Hey Virginia, let's make a pact."

"O.K....what sort of pact?"

"Whichever one of us goes first...and I'm not suggesting it's going to be you...let's agree that if there's something on the other side of this, something after this life...let's agree that we'll make every attempt to get a message back to the one who's left behind."

"Oh, there's definitely life after death," she said. "You've got a deal!"

We shook on it, and as I walked her to her door and hugged her tiny frame goodnight, I thought how fortunate I was to have a friend like her. I've been on a fair number of dates during my 30 plus years as a bachelor, and I can say with complete honesty that I've never had more fun, more of a feeling of connection or more belly laughs and tears of utter delight than I did with Virginia.

A few weeks later my phone rang, and Virginia's name came up on my caller I.D. Always happy to hear from her, I grabbed the receiver and cheerfully said "Hi Virgina! How are you?" There was a long pause on the other end, and then I heard a woman's voice saying that Virginia was gone.

A few days later her son called from San Francisco to ask if the family could use one of my photos for Virginia's obituary. I told him I'd be honored.

A reminder popped up on my computer screen that it was Virginia's 94th birthday. I went to lunch at a Mexican restaurant and could have sworn I saw her sitting at a nearby table sipping a margarita.

And then, a month to the day after she died, I opened my mailbox to find my first issue of Daily Word.

Thanks Virginia. I'll miss you.

Is "Obsessive Compulsive" Hyphenated?

Anyone who knows me can tell you that I'm a little bit on the compulsive side. O.K....a lot on the compulsive side. The manufacturers of label makers can rest easy knowing they'll always have a job because of people like me.

When I edge my front lawn, I also edge my neighbors' lawns. I'd edge everyone's lawn on both sides of the street if I didn't think the men in the white jackets would haul me away in a straight jacket. Speaking of jackets, all the shirts in my closet are facing in the same direction. The short sleeve shirts are at one end, and the long sleeve shirts are at the other. I have a drawer for white socks and a drawer for socks of color.

My garage floor is clean enough to eat off of. When you enter my house, you are never more than 10 feet from a box of Kleenex. If I eat dinner in front of the T.V., I'm compelled to clear away the dirty dishes before I finish chewing the last bite, or I can't enjoy the rest of the movie. And all of my dirty dishes are surgically clean BEFORE I put them in the dishwasher.

Once upon a time I bought an area rug for my living room (after trying out several and returning them), only to discover that I really wasn't going to be happy with it unless one edge was under the two front legs of the armoire that houses my T.V. set and stereo. It is approximately the same weight as a Ford F350 pickup truck. A team of long shoremen couldn't lift that thing.

Not to be deterred, I bought a 12 foot long piece of lumber, borrowed my neighbor's car jack, which I used in conjunction with my car jack, and by placing the piece of lumber under the front of the armoire and darting back and forth between the two jacks, was able to raise the front legs enough to slide the edge of the carpet underneath. No small chore...and I was quite proud of my ingenuity and tenacity.

After lowering the armoire and returning my neighbor's car jack, I noticed that the edge of the carpet didn't line up perfectly with the floor boards in my living room. By that I mean there was a deviation of about 1/4". I figured I could live with it...but I was mistaken. After a week of lying awake at night staring at the ceiling fan, I decided that my mental health hinged on fixing the problem. I sheepishly asked my neighbor if I could borrow her car jack again, and repeated the entire process until the edge of the carpet lined up EXACTLY with the floor boards. Mason and Dixon would have been envious.

Yesterday I was hanging some photographs in a long hallway at Charlie Tango, where they will be exhibited along with the work of three other photographers. The hallway is 25 feet long with 10 foot ceilings, and I decided to suspend my photographs from fishing line so that they would give the illusion of "floating" in mid-air against the white wall.

I measured everything three times, making careful note of the thermostat mounted at the far end, which would have to be taken into consideration to maintain the proper spacing. Here's the 3 1/2" x 5" index card I brought with me to map everything out. Is it just me, or does it look like the schematic for the Apollo 13 lunar module? All of this in order to hang five photographs. Five.

Three hours later, the task was complete. I took my final measurements and discovered that the photograph on the right was 3/4 of an inch closer to the end of the wall than the one on the far left. Keep in mind, we're talking about a 25 foot wall. So I decided to let it go. But not really. I figure if the Egyptians could build the pyramids without the aid of cranes and laser levels and walkie talkies, I should be more precise than that. But I decided to leave it alone, and to channel the discomfort I'm still feeling 24 hours later into this blog entry.

No sooner had I finished my handiwork than my fellow photographer Lance Rosenfield arrived with 20 photographs to hang. Eager to help, I loaned him my pencil and index card. I stayed there 'til 9:30 p.m. "helping" him, and to make sure that everything lined up just right. Here's his diagram. Clean and simple. I added the arrow at the top, because I just couldn't help myself:

Before we left, I scrubbed all the dirty dishes and put them in the dishwasher, made sure that there were four chairs at each of the tables in the lobby and that they were equidistant from one another. I've read and re-read this blog entry 17 times and have made a total of 43 changes and corrections. So far.

Breakfast of Champions

Every Thursday evening, I get together with my buddy and fellow photographer Faustinus Deraet von Regemorter for some camaraderie, spicy tamales and a few frosty adult beverages. Next to my brother Paul, he is one of the funniest humans I've ever met.

Tomorrow, however, he's going home to Belgium for a visit, and we realized we'd have to miss our weekly ritual. So we decided to meet for breakfast at 8 o'clock this morning at Aranda's, a little taqueria in the neighborhood. Since my birthday is next week, and Faustinus will be out of town, a celebration was in order.

Imagine our waitress' look of concern when we each ordered a beer just as the other customers were sitting down for breakfast. Nothing washes down a couple of potato, egg and cheese breakfast tacos like a cold Tecate.

Just then the notorious curmudgeon, raconteur and candidate for Texas Agriculture Commissioner Kinky Friedman walked in, looking like the morning after the night before. Glancing over at our table, he sat down nearby and ordered heuvos rancheros and a beer.

The Emperor's New Clothes

This evening, after a long day of work, I stopped by Sarah's Mediterranean Grill, which is where I go when I'm really, really hungry. Nothing satisfies quite like a mountain of chicken shawerma with a side of hummus and pita, topped off with a piece of flaky baklava for dessert.

As I was finishing my meal, the owner, whose name is Maethem, joined me at my table. He's a charming guy with a winning smile and an easy going manner, and we struck up a conversation about this and that.

I asked him about his family back in Baghdad, and he told me about an incident he witnessed when he was 13 years old and working in his father's clothing business.

One day, as he and his father were returning to their shop, they happened to be passing by as the Crown Prince of Kuwait, who was visiting Iraq, stepped out of his limousine. His dutiful chauffeur closed the door behind him, accidentally slamming it on the sheik's robe, worth thousands of denarii.

As the sheik shouted at the driver, threatening to fire him for ruining his priceless garment, Maethem's father intervened, offering to repair the Prince's clothing at no charge if he promised not to terminate the unfortunate and humiliated chauffeur.

After much persuasion concerning his abilities as a tailor, Maethem's father escorted the Prince to his clothing shop and told him his robe would be ready in half an hour. With skilled hands, he deftly repaired the intricate needlework on the opulent garment and presented it to the Prince, who could not believe his eyes.

As promised, the humble tailor refused to accept payment for his handiwork. A true prince is not always recognized by the clothing he wears.

Grand Theft Auto

Rodney and I were itching for a joy ride. We were 18 years old, high school was almost over and our bodies were twitching with testosterone.

There were just two problems: neither of us owned a car, and the driving age was 21. We lived in Hong Kong, and our parents were Southern Baptist missionaries. The cars they drove were owned by the mission, and we were strictly forbidden to drive them.

Our caper was as well-planned as The Great Train Robbery. We scoped out the cars of every missionary who lived in our neighborhood, and discovered that the preacher's car was the only one with an automatic transmission. We at least had the good sense to steal a car we could drive without stalling.

I nabbed my mom's purse, removed the keys to the mission office, then rode my bike to a lock smith nearby and had them copied. I replaced the originals on my mom's key ring before she noticed they were missing, then set up a time to meet Rodney to begin phase two of our plan.

This involved going to the mission office at night, letting ourselves in through the main gate without being noticed by the night watchman or any of the missionaries who lived there, then getting into the office itself. Once inside, we made our way to the glass case which housed a duplicate set of keys to every car owned by the mission, labeled with a little white tag bearing the license plate number.

Using a flash light, we scanned the rows of keys until we found the one we were after, then I pried the locked sliding glass door open with my finger tips just wide enough for Rodney to slip a bent coat hanger through the narrow gap and fish out the keys we needed.

We were in the middle of this precarious operation when the night watchman came by on his rounds. We had to drop the key and stand as close as possible to the wall, so that when he shined his flashlight through the window he wouldn't see us. Our hearts pounded as the beam swept the floor a few inches from our feet....if we got caught we'd have a hard time explaining what were doing in the mission office after hours with a bent coat hanger sticking out of the case where the car keys were kept.

Once we were sure we had been undetected, we fished the keys out, took them to be copied, then replaced the keys, all in the same night.

With uncharacteristic patience, we waited a few weeks to make sure that no one had seen us coming and going and reported this to our parents, and then I asked my folks if Rodney could spend the night. About 3 a.m., we snuck out of the house, walked the half a mile or so to where the preacher's car was parked on the street, and began our adventure....Rodney drove first.

After cruising around for a half hour or so, we decided to go through a tunnel which would take us out of the city and into the New Territories...the part of Hong Kong which joins Kowloon, where we lived, to mainland China, and where there were fewer traffic lights and less likelihood of encountering any cops.

Or so we thought.

By this point, I was behind the wheel, and no sooner did we emerge from the tunnel than we spotted a police road block ahead, looking for illegal immigrants sneaking across the border from China. I instinctively hit the brakes and slowed down, which of course attracted the attention of the police, who motioned for us to pull over.

As I pulled onto the shoulder, I glanced around and noticed that there were several green- uniformed members of the Royal Hong Kong Police, but no police car! I floored the accelerator...spraying gravel all over the cops who were chasing us on foot and easily out-running them in their futile attempt to catch us.

We took the long way home, circumnavigating the mountain range we had just driven through, knowing that by now they had used their radio to issue an all points bulletin for our arrest. We got back to our starting point a couple of hours later, the fuel gauge dangerously close to empty, parked the car and high-tailed it back to my house, slipping in the back door without waking anyone.

A couple of weeks later, Rodney's family was invited to lunch at the preacher's house after church. Rodney was a couple of bites into his mashed potatoes when the preacher announced that every time he left the house, he got pulled over by the police, who told him that his car had been spotted running a police road block at 3:30 a.m, driven by two Caucasian males.

Rodney just about choked on his food, but held his breath waiting for the other shoe to drop. Was the preacher about to reveal the identity of the 2 culprits? As it turns out he was as mystified as everyone else in the room...and Rodney managed to swallow his food without asphyxiating.

It's been 30+ years since our escapade,the preacher has long since crossed over the River Jordan, and the two car thieves are still at large. Here's a photo of Rodney and me taken last year when he flew in from Florida to buy a used garbage truck, but that's a story for another time.

Feliz Cumpleaños a Dana

Today is my friend Dana's birthday.  So I decided to accost everyone I encountered throughout the day, many of them random strangers, and ask them to wish her a happy birthday. Somehow I managed to find representatives from China, England, New Zealand, Germany, Australia, Ireland, Honduras and the U.S. 

Here's the video:

Felonious Monk

Last night I went out for Thai food with my good buddy Steve. We became friends about a year and a half ago when I signed up for a sculpture class he was teaching. Not only is he a great instructor, but we immediately hit it off and soon became as thick as thieves.

A few weeks later, I had Steve over for dinner and we stayed up 'til 2 in the morning, covering every topic from art to Aristotle, our philosophical fire fueled by a copious quantity of red wine. Steve's one of the smartest guys I've ever met, extremely well-read, a world traveler, constantly curious, and has lots of tall tales to tell.

As I walked him to his car at the end of the evening, I hugged Steve goodnight, and in my somewhat altered state, I wasn't sure if our unshaven faces had simply brushed against each other, or if he had kissed me. I sometimes kiss my guy friends on the cheek, so I instinctively kissed him back.

But as he drove off, I had this sinking feeling that he HADN'T kissed me, and had misinterpreted my spontaneous display of affection. I sent him an e-mail the next day to tell him what a great time I'd had, but received no response, which confirmed my worst fears. Several days went by, and the next time I saw him, I felt kinda sheepish. He was with a mutual friend who asked if we knew each other. In response, Steve came over and gave me a bear hug and a big smooch on the cheek and said "Yeah, we kissed for the first time last week." You gotta love a guy like that.

Last summer, when Steve was relocating his studio from one side of town to the other, he needed a place to stay while he finished out his new digs, so I offered him my spare bedroom. Far from being altruistic, my motives were completely self-serving...underneath my seeming benevolence was a desire to hang out with this fascinating character. I've lived alone for more than 20 years, and Steve ended up staying for several weeks. Unlike most house guests, however, the longer he stayed, the more I didn't want him to leave. We grew really close during that time together, and I now consider Steve one of my dearest friends.

He's an extremely talented and prolific sculptor, constantly reinventing his style and exploring new materials...he's currently creating the most amazing sculptures from discarded car windshields! His prowess as an artist is exceeded only by his humility. He's generous to a fault, a riveting raconteur and an all around good guy.

I was delighted to be invited to a recent surprise party for Steve's 65th birthday. I wish I had a photo of the look on his face when he walked into a room filled with his friends and fans. The walls were covered with several years' worth of self-portraits, secretly stolen from under his bed by his girlfriend, who organized the shindig.

All of the drawings bore the same 7 digit number, Steve's primary form of identification during his 16 year incarceration. Originally sentenced to life without parole, Steve spent most of his time in prison at a federal correctional facility ironically named Terminal Island. Never one to give up hope or his perennial equanimity, Steve continued to read, to learn, to evolve as an artist, and to fight for his eventual release. Last night we celebrated his fourth year of freedom.

I consider it a privilege to call Steve my friend. He recently reprimanded me for failing to call him for help when I had to change a flat tire in the rain. I'd take a bullet for that guy. And I know he would for me.

Shake It Up

I received a postcard today from my buddy Henry. He's a financial advisor at my bank, which just made international headlines by going belly up...the all-time, world's record, biggest bank bust in history. Not to mention that the NASDAQ dropped more than 700 points this week. At the moment Henry’s doing about as much business as a chimney sweep in Honolulu.

Henry has a smile that can be seen from outer space. Soon after we met, I'd think of reasons to stop by the bank so I could shoot the breeze with Henry. His favorite book is The Pursuit of Happyness. He has an autographed copy on his desk. Whenever I came in, Henry would stop what he was doing, walk over to me, flash that big grin of his and give me a great big ol’ bear hug. Do you get that kind of service at your bank?

Henry is a terrific dad. He asked me to photograph his 12 year old daughter's "jewelry line" so that he could build a website to sell her hand-made creations online. He had a portfolio of the photographs printed so that she could show off her wares. He made arrangements for her to have a "jewelry kiosk" at the convention center when a women's conference came to town. And he struck a deal with her to "pay" him a commission on each sale.

We talked about a lot of things on the phone today, and I told Henry that one of my hobbies is looking for the mystical moments in life…those all-too-rare times when I feel like I’m “in the flow” instead of swimming across the current.

Like when you see a little kid doing something funny and no one else is watching, or the girl at Home Slice Pizza zaps you with a great big smile for no apparent reason, or you're driving in your car with the windows down and your favorite song comes on the radio right when the sun is setting and the sky is that perfect shade of blue...moments that are poignant or moving or inexplicable and that leave you feeling as if there just might be something more to life than meets the eye.


Henry told me that he'd recently had a fight with his wife. They went to bed mad as hell at each other and didn’t speak for a couple of days. Henry wasn’t about to apologize to her, because he didn’t feel like he'd done anything wrong. And then he had an idea.

He remembered that he'd packed away a copy of his wedding vows with the suit he wore 12 years ago when they got married. So he went and put on his wedding suit and read his vows to his wife. That ended their fight…and I added another mystical moment to my collection.

I noticed on the postcard Henry sent me that he had changed his last name from McDonald to Muhammad. When I asked him why the name change, he said “Because I’m pretty sure I’m not Irish”.  I'm pretty sure too...Henry is African-American.

I asked Henry if his new last name meant that he had converted to Islam.  "No," he replied, “I just like to shake things up every once in a while.”

Shake it up, Henry.

Wannabe Triathlete Completes Grueling Grillathon

Last night at a dinner party, I sat next to a friend who mentioned that she's training for a half marathon and was going for a run this morning.  I confessed that I had really fallen off the exercise wagon and asked if I could join her.

I got home at 11:30 p.m. having consumed several celebratory libations, slept fitfully, then got up at 6:30 a.m. to meet her at sunrise at Town Lake.  We ran a little over 3 miles at a pretty brisk clip...she's 20 years younger than I am and my tongue was hanging out by the time we finished.

Town Lake at Sunrise

Then, on a whim, I drove over to Barton Springs, which is a chilly 68 degrees year round and will make you squeal like you're in the Vienna Boys Choir.  I felt so invigorated that I swam about 1/2 a mile.  At one point I almost bumped into an old guy swimming the opposite direction who shouted at me and splashed water in my face.  My fantasy of competing in the Iron Man suddenly dissolved into a sinking feeling that I was the Tin Man. 

Barton Springs

Afterwards, I met my buddy Jonathan for breakfast.  He's a psychologist by day and a trumpet player by night. His band, The Greatest American Heroes, plays only T.V. theme songs.  It's a vastly under-rated niche.  Jonathan foolishly agreed to help me move a barbecue grill, and in keeping with the fundamental principle of the universe that Nothing is Simple, it got kinda complicated...

You see, I inherited a grill from a friend's boss who died recently, so I decided to give mine to Jonathan in exchange for helping me move it.  A few days earlier, I had called ahead to the U-Haul place that's 2 minutes from my house to make sure they would have a 4' x 8' trailer in stock, which they assured me they would.

You guessed it...they were fresh out.  In fact, the guy behind the counter said they NEVER have them. And when I inquired about renting their one inexpensive truck, he told me it was full of stuff and that the tail lights didn't work.  I'm pretty sure he lives in that truck.  So we drove to another U-Haul place, where we encountered a humorless, scowling woman who spoke in mono-syllables, and her male colleague who had a shaved head covered in tribal tattoos.  From behind, his neck looked like a package of hot dogs.  He should be called U-Scarey!

With trailer in tow, off we went.  Once we picked up my new grill, Jonathan decided to pass his grill along to our mutual friend Tom, who is getting his master's degree in Russian.  Any time you see Tom, he offers you a shot of vodka...a "Stoli moment" as he calls it.  By this point I was feeling invincible, so I had 3 shots...one for each of the grills we were relocating.  And Tom is gonna donate his grill to the Top Drawer Thrift store to complete the "4 grill hand-me-down Circle of Love".  See diagram below. 

My pleasant midday buzz soon turned to nausea and a feeling of general malaise, so I ate some lunch then came home and took a 2 hour nap.  I woke up feeling sore from stem to stern...but it's nice to know at age 49, without having exercised in months, I can still jump out of bed after a late night and do 2/3 of a triathlon and toss back the potato juice like a member of the Politburo.

Pot Luck

These folks were here for a potluck the other night when the air conditioning 

was kaput, and were kind enough to let me make their portraits in my sweltering 

studio.  Click on each person's name to find out more about them:

darren

roi

bijoy

josh

alicia

steve

marcy

john

What the...??

I just received the following e-mail from my friend (and an amazing artist!) Heather Tolleson:

"Hey Dude:

It's always good to see you.  Better yet to smell your manly scent of chocolate-chip cookies, couch-cushion coinage and innate-inert rage.  

Luvyamuch,

--H"

With friends like that, who needs enemas?  But seriously, check out her stuff.

A Snow Globe and a Pencil Sharpener

Last night I got together with a buddy who had just returned from vacation in Australia. Before he left on his trip, I had asked him to bring me back a pencil sharpener in the shape of the Sydney Opera House, thinking he'd never be able to find one.

Undaunted by my impossible request, he returned with a pencil sharpener featuring the Australian flag and a snow globe containing a replica of the Sydney Opera house (or maybe it's the Swiss Alps...see photo).

So....with a stick of gum, or some other adhesive, I can create a pencil sharpener which is not only functional, but also interactive, entertaining and aesthetically pleasing.

All components manufactured in China. Chewing gum not included. Some assembly required. No warranty implied.