NOT WITH A BANG: THE WEEK CLOSES

Guess I can't give blood anymore. Or something. Felt in a weakened state all day and then barely finished the editing I wanted to do. Then tried to send a finished article to Nancy and it wouldn't go through. I'll have Don check the e-mail later.

I just don't feel good today. But . . . "Tomorrow is another day." La-tee-da.

Several times caught myself distractedly shuffling around, hunched over and grimacing like a crusty old lady. Immediately upon noticing, I straightened up and gave the world a smile. Thrust out my chest, put my head up, did a little dance. That perked me up for about 5 minutes or so. Drank lots of water, found more graying hair. Paid a bill, edited, played one online game of Scrabble (I lost).

Played my new CD while I laid down. Don and Buckwheat joined me and Don grunted, "That music is horrible." I admitted it wasn't exactly what I thought it would be, but there were some "tunes" I dug. Electronica . . . hypnotrance . . . one interesting piece about the beauty of skyscrapers. All with a throbbing backbeat. Not exactly Mendelssohn, but way cool.

Almost finished my latest large-type mystery book. Two more waiting in the wings. Plus beaucoup editing and some writing.

I miss my grandsons.

NOT EVEN WORTH A HEADLINE

Gotten lots of good feedback on the look of this simple blog. I'll very likely keep it for awhile, maybe for a long time. I'm tired of the futzing around with the templates, anyway! But I've yet to study the "HTML for Dummies" book. That could lead to a new kick . . .

The blood donation foray went ok except when the medic injected the needle; apparently she had a little trouble with my vein and yes, I winced. It stung, sharp metal awkwardly plunged into soft flesh. The pain's quite unusual. I comforted myself later with Pecan Sandies and Cheez-It crackers (the latter way too salty), then went and bought a music CD, some electronic music I heard on KCRW.

The issue appears to be coming together well, we might even make deadline! Got exciting things ahead today: taking the trash cans out, editing, and paying more bills. I also handled my traffic ticket by the court's new automated telephone system. (Don't have to drive to Compton)--my little violation was a very expensive mistake.

Buckwheat is biting my hand, gotta go.

RH Negative, Mood Not Positive

My latest tweaking of the blog template replaced orange with cyan--I call it aqua--a kinder, prettier color for the top banner. But the name of blog disappeared! I strained my eyes scrutinizing the CSS--cascading style sheet; that's where the codes are written out--but couldn't find the error. Obviously I have more homework to do.

Blog must go on back burner for awhile. I have editing and so much organizing, plus I am gracing the Red Cross today with a pint of my rare RH factor blood. They call me a "Universal Donor"! How can I say no when they ask for a small serving of my life essence? I always feel good doing it, too, knowing that my blood just might save someone worth saving. Besides, it's a chance to lie still for 15 minutes, and then sit still for 15 more consuming free juice and cookies! They serve Famous Amos, Oreos and Pecan Sandies. Can't complain. Oh, my diet? Not on today's agenda.

Don writes about vampires, I give blood. Match made in heaven!

I'm fighting an inferiority complex today, anyway. There are so many really entertaining writers who have blogs! George Carlin was a guest on Don's favorite morning radio show this a.m., and at one point explained his creative process. His mind virtually gushes ideas and he files them all on his computer. I practically have to hit my temple with a brick just to get some already hackneyed idea to ooze out, and then have to mix that with other ingredients before it becomes palatable.

I better shut up now. This kind of introspection never helps.

THE INEVITABILITY OF CHANGE

Blogskins, that is. Yep, I did it again. I went back to a plain Blogger template. I can work with colors, though, if nothing else. . . Don tells me we have HTML for Dummies. I'll see how far that takes me, and try to ease off this compulsive skin switching. It's just a nervous habit, since I now have acrylics and can't bite my nails.

WHAT'S WHAT

I've made some progress on the office. It occurred to me that I could participate in the once-a-month neighboring Lake View Terrace swap meet, get rid of some junk and make some nail polish money, but just the thought of the piling, organizing, picking and packing I'd have to do for a Saturday in the hot sun amongst lookers and swappers, for unspecified and no doubt modest sales, gives me second thoughts. It's not a free enough week for that, plus my inventorying of UFO Mag back issues currently precedes junk-gathering as the garage project of note. Note to Nancy: We have back issues!

A cooling trend has favored the area and Buckwheat and I were able to comfortably climb up the hill and visit the graffiti wall. When we hike up our path adjacent to the park, we'll typically rotate one of two easy destinations. The graffiti wall is an old 5- or 6-foot long, curved section of concrete wall someone decades ago constructed to hold back the side of the sandy hill from the path below--at least, that's my theory. Teensters and homies have personalized it with their own brand of indecipherables, but one word stands out: Starburst. Of course written with spray paint. That's an okay word. Buckwheat likes to climb up behind the wall and bounce through the bushes and brush therein. I find smoothe stones. The alternate destination is the listening post--actually a rickety shed and some sort of signal dish apparently belonging to the U.S. Forest Service. If the dish is meant to relay cell phone signals for the Canyon, it's failing miserably. Maybe it detects UFOs. Interestingly, it has an address! 2320--makes me think of that old Rolling Stones song, "2320 South Michigan Avenue." 2320 North "My Canyon" Trail!

I haven't read the report on Kerry and Bush as youths. Yet.

100-DEGREE WEATHER!

Much as I'd like to play outside, it's awfully hot. I've been experimenting with blog backgrounds (gee-- ya think??) and have settled on this artistic grouping of turquoise stones, for the time being. Yes, I've stayed on my diet, but as has been the case my whole life when I've tried to diet, I'm starving. I walk around just starving. Not literally, of course, but it feels like a hollow black hole in my tum-tum. If only the fat fell off as quickly as the stomach empties!

I'm not complaining. Don brought me a low-carb Subway sandwich for lunch and boy, it was heaven! The new U.S. News and World Report has an article about Kerry and Bush in their younger days. Will read and report back.

I AM NOT FEELING BLUE!

Hi, it's Tuesday. Just had to change the blogskin. It was a compulsion, and I wanted something tres simple. A lot to do today. So we'll see y'all later.

THE BAD, THE GOOD, & THE MONDAY

I am recreating this from memory because I lost it all when our modem went down this a.m. Talk about withdrawals! This computer need is like food...speaking of which, I've started a diet. More on that ahead.

THE BAD: I worked on my office yesterday and all morning, and yet feel very little progress. I compulsively hang on to paper, pens and magazines. Subject change: I also discovered that the bold type in my blog's text doesn't highlight the links. If you scroll back to the last entry and click on Rancho Santa Fe, you'll be beamed to some pricey real estate. Just a small idea about what it takes to live the high life in So. California! The fact that some ultra whackos checked out by drinking their own poison cocktail, convinced they were at Heaven's Gate . . . well, that's something so delightfully Chandleresque, an eerie irony--death among the palms, you know. Only someone who really understands California would understand why that's just . . so . . . perfect. But my point is that I have to go back to regular type here. A little harder to read (assuming someone reads it!), but I'll try to keep things kicky enough so the strain won't be too bothersome. Besides that, I can always change the blogskin!

THE GOOD: Bill and Nancy are back and we had a great "meeting" at Islands on Saturday. Joni drove in from Redondo yesterday, and we hiked the hills for hours. Buckwheat came with, of course, and after the first half-hour I had to share my water with him. It was that hot! Joni is one powerful lady, and we are developing a mutual support system by exchanging certain awarenesses. She told me how she keeps herself trim . . . by counting calories. I will follow suit. We had pizza and beer at the end of the afternoon. Er, I may have to cut down on that sort of snack!

THE MONDAY With the computer down-- :( -- I was able to spend more time on the office, with predictable results (see above). I received my first subscription call, though, and hey! That was like old times! Someone's subscription is reportedly fucked up! Tomorrow I will get the info to Nancy. Oh, that diet . . . I couldn't get my calorie counts from the Internet today, so had to fake it. I wrote up a chart and the calculations went well above the 1,500 calories I'm aiming for. My weakness looms at night, when I get just so hungry. But I have a rationale: I do have to eat up the anti-diet foods we have stockpiled. Joni and I fervently discussed the importance of commitment. I'm committed. Honest, I am. Now I have to decide whether I can pass up the bagel I'm thinking about . . .

IMAGINE

Hmmmm. A home in Rancho Santa Fe. I certainly wouldn't mind living there. An effluence of Affluence . . . But first I would like to acquire the comfortable means to afford such a residence . . . then decide whether I want to be there . . . or buy a tiny island instead. Gimme a minute here while I yank my head out of the clouds . . . okay, that hurt.

Buckwheat wants to go now. His wish is my command.

BOLD. I WISH TO BE BOLD.

Note that this font is bold, and I found a new background pic-- Hale Bopp, the ostentatious comet of the last decade! The one that made some brainwashed cultists obediently lie down and take a holy poison, in the manner of the Jim Jones massacre! Whereas the Jones horror took place in Guyana, the Heaven's Gate suicide took place in one of Southern California's most exclusive residential neighborhoods. I will insert link here for you non-Californians. Later.

But enough depressing reflection. Major hike today, not to mention organizing my office for the coming issue. Organize! Me!

IS THIS BETTER?

Nancy and Bill are back and Nancy showed me how the blog appears on her nifty MAC. Whoa! Was it screwed up!! So, yet again, I have downloaded yet another new skin to try and fix . . . up to a point. Who would have ever thought that I'd strain my poor nearsighted eyes for nearly hours at a time squinting at HTML codes? Who woulda thunk it?

REAL QUICK BEFORE WE LEAVE

Don is just swooning to have his novel mentioned in my blog, so before we head out this a.m., I'm rushing to add it! Note new entry in links area! Be that as it may, the three years he spent writing the damned thing (shouldn't use that adjective.--I'm quite proud, no, awed at his accomplishment), he virtually vanished into some writer's purgatory where the clouds of vampiric immersion prevented our usual day-to-day closeness. it was, man, like I was alone again! That was my particular purgatory, or hell, if you will, post divorce. It lasted 20+ years, for God's sake! I'm not ugly or anything, but too needy, I guess. When I dated someone I guess I got too serious too fast. One of the unfortunate remnants of marrying too young. Anyway, I am reading the novel now, but the version I have still needs quite a bit of editing, so it's slow going. Nevertheless, it's a gory, get-down horror thriller. More later . . .

BLOG FRIDAY, II

I've gleefully inserted another new "skin," and even though the pic came out in the wrong place, I like it a lot better. Don and I moseyed over to La Crescenta for In-'n'-Out burgers and generally just reveled in the sunshine and balmy air.

With so much time at the 'puter today, I had to distract Buckwheat with a chew bone, because the big boy just won't let me be. Unfortunately, he took the damn thing outside, dug up the alyssum I just planted in my mini rock garden and buried his bone -- lengthwise. I scrubbed off the filthy thing and gave it back to him, and shut the back door so he can't repeat his offense. I've decided I'll plant a big cactus there instead, and surround it with decorative rock. Flowery landscaping and big dogs= not compatible. And you can quote me.

BLOG FRIDAY

I discovered how to change blogskins this morning. As you can see by this new (and somewhat plain) blog template, I haven't learned how to add all the bells and whistles. I'll keep refining this until I get it the way I want it . . . then will go hunting for a new blogskin! This is fun, and in case you haven't tried it, I suggest you get going. It's a great way to waste your day! But now, I can proudly proclaim: "HTML scares me no more!" Or better put it this way: "I know what `tags' are." Do you?

I'M READY TO SIGN UP!

Before I begin this blog entry in earnest, I should confess that my generation issued perhaps a few too many rebel patriots who burned their draft cards and fled to Canada in response to the Vietnam War and to that crazy President Nixon--even before Watergate, a lot of us had his number--so my current attitude seems just a bit hinky, even to me. The latest "news" from Washington, however, is that "they" are mulling over re-instating the draft. Even though I'm sure "they" can't be serious, "they" apparently have to consider all the alternatives as the meager 135,000 troops now in Iraq appear woefully inadequate to contain the rising violence and ensure the June 30 deadline to hand back the country to its rightful occupants. Even if things do settle down and somehow Paul Bremer waves his magic wand and June 30 holds, the War continues--and without question brave troops will need to be deployed near and far, all over the globe, to squelch the terrorist poison that now seems to be our 21st century Devil. It just might take the whole century to complete the job as President Bush would have it.

In sum, I wish to join the military and play my part in this righteous fight. Whereas Vietnam was the twisted sister in our family of American war efforts, this one against al Qaeda, Hamas, Jihad, Hezbollah, Kim Jong Il, and the Tim McVeighs, the Sheik Omars, the al Sadrs--well, you get the idea, there are too many names to list--may just be the one on which the life of freedom ultimately depends.

Freedom must live and its succor is what I am enlisting for. The irony of this lies in the truth of who I am, delineated from my past commitments and repulsions; for instance, my adult son attended a private elementary school for two years as a child, and I bitched about the fact that he had to wear a uniform. A uniform! What a loathsome crime that a school should demand that all the kids wear identical clothes! My child didn't mind it at all, and grew into a West Point graduate and a lawyer, now in private practice and also in the Army's JAG reserves. His father and I were anti-establishment. Nevertheless, we both tucked our rebel selves into the scratchy conformist packets necessary to make some kind of living. True, we are both entrepreneurs, but capitulating to capitalism never quite fit me. I cannot speak for my ex-husband, because I think he made a million somewhere along the line; I didn't, and I still view our reckless consumer culture with suspicion. I cringe at the endless car commercials on TV. I bite my nails because most of them are for voracious SUVs.

I'm too old to enlist. They won't draft me, either. And Don often says he's glad he never had to share a foxhole with me! The reigning belief is that I am unsuited for military service. So what to do with this desire to serve? There is, of course the Freedom Corps, but that's wholly voluntary and I would like a little money for my service, thank you. (I capitulate to capitalism!) So now's a good a time as any to make my proposal:

We need a new sub-branch, the Purple Corps. I see the uniforms: violet jumpsuits in the mode of Star Trek. Lots of women, artists and ex-hippies. Our mission? To unite the branches. To put interservice rivalries well aside in the crucial service of saving freedom. To smoothe and increase communication between the branches. To smoothe and increase communication and cooperation between the intelligence community and the military. Let the DIA-CIA party begin!

The idea hit me on the way back from the National Security Forum I was invited to back in the '90s, an annual PR gig for the Air War College. While it may have been the spell of being ferried to and from the Forum in a Lear jet, I also heard too many AF and Army guys calling Navy men "squids" and Marines dismissed as "jar-heads." For their part, the Navy and Army denigrate Air Force people as "zoomies." I'm certain our Marines have a perfectly insulting label for the rest of the branches. How can you effectively unite to fight an unprecedented war when your troops & sailors are demeaning one another? Does not compute. The Purple Corps would lead the developing accord between service branches through seminars and exercises and lots of parties. We'd conceive and manage projects such as organizing meetings with Middle Eastern officials to convince them to let our troops in places like Saudi Arabia and Iraq drink beer and recite the Lord's Prayer (not necessarily at the same time).

Until I figure out a way to get this plan to the Joint Chiefs, I will content myself with supporting and encouraging my son and husband, both Army-connected, and sending my prayers and appreciation to all the young men and women in uniform. Maybe someday some of them will wear the Purple .

THE UNBEARABLE MORTALITY OF BEING . . . HUMAN

My nasty sore throat returned. It appears to be a virus with exceptional rebound capabilities, even after disappearing from steady, albeit not desired, antibiotic bombardment. The pain seems to have set up shop mostly on my left tonsil. I could just scream, if it didn't feel like swallowing rusty razor blades. I could scream, because once again I am viscerally reminded of the human body's abject natural vulnerability to disease and degeneration.

Even with myriads of life-extension remedies on the market, people grow old and die. It's a fact of life that I simply can't get used to, even though the loved ones who've passed on in my decades here seemed to have done so when I could handle it, even when I thought I couldn't handle it. Don laughs when I express my dismay at mortality, but I swear some part of my soul really does remember and reflect on a place of existence where life is, in fact, eternal. I've always thought of it as "another planet," hence my nearly life-long fascination with UFO reports and extraterrestrial speculations.

After a "defining moment" that took place in 1983, my interest in, and longing for, something in outer space took a dramatic upswing. I was loco enough for a few years to spend time at my window talking to the stars (at the time, I lived in L.A. -- you could perhaps see four or five stars at most!), and although they never answered back, I got supreme satisfaction in just voicing my love for something I couldn't even describe, but that somehow I knew was out there.

Since then my feet have generally landed and stayed firmly on the ground, while I exercise my left brain on these matters by working on UFO Magazine. My romance with space fantasies has definitely soured a bit, but illogical nostalgia for some kind of permanent well-being and eternality still bugs me. I get gnawingly irritated with my own fallibility, in every way, but particularly bodily. Generally feeling like shit today, I failed to take Buckwheat on his daily walk. You cannot imagine the guilt! He knew something was wrong -- the poor baby climbed to the head of the bed and pawed me, whining in unmistakeable dog-ese: "Hey, Mom! Mom? What's wrong, when will we be leaving for the park, heh? When? MOM!" Punctuated with gentle hand biting and licks, his dismay drove me to the kitchen for some Milk Bones to soothe the very unsavage beast. Don was going to take him when he went out to get my cough syrup, but then changed his mind. I tried to distract myself by reading UFOs and the National Security State . Buckwheat went to sleep as I read about all the UFO events that took place in 1955. When I got to the part about the Air Force suppression, I knew this wasn't the way to heal my throat, much less attain immortality.

Depending on what's on the tube, I may try taking up these concerns with the omnipresent stars again tonight. There are many more of the eternal twinklies suspended in anxious listening mode out here, than in neon-lit Los Angeles.

FROM PALL TO SOL . . . EVENTUALLY

At Wal-Mart today I passed four loaded shelves of sunning products, and lingered, overwhelmed with the options. Pallid as usual, I was most attracted to the self-tanning foam in a pretty pale blue bottle, but decided I'll use up my two half-used bottles of the regular stuff first; one Coppertone, one Sea 'n' Ski, both at least SPF 30. But it's not as if I can go out and do that right away. The weather has cooled and Spring is doing its usual unpleasant hazy thing, the sun cowering behind the stinky dust and mist, not beach weather at all.

Even with one small skin cancer in my med past, a number of years ago (no biggie--just "basal cell carcinoma" that the doc froze off), I refuse to give up the beach. I just can't wait to go to the beach. I pray for gas prices to fall, and my hair to grow and my hips to slim (but . . . is Rocky Road ice cream still okay?) enough that I can walk from towel to surf without too much self consciousness. I promise to slather myself with liberal amounts of sunscreen and to wear shades and a hat. Once in the surf, I promise to get out before the my skin wrinkles like an skinny old pickle, and to limit my waves to ones I'm confident won't smash me to the sand and flip me around like an old sock in the dryer.

But I dream. It's many moons 'til beach time. But I'm prepared. I have flip-flops and two very flimsy and cool sundresses. Oh, yeah, and I promise to drink lots of water. Fresh for my innards, salty for my skin.

But I dream... oh, and I'm not a board surfer. I was born about 20 years too early. I just body surf. This year I think I'll buy a fin, to assist my "catching" of waves. Just when you catch one, a thrilling, in-the-moment summer and sea kind of bliss just washes over you!

Just a few more months to go.

NOT JUST ANOTHER DAY


Scheduling things with what family we have here in California didn't work out this year, and so Don and I are spending Easter by ourselves, at home. It's been so gratifying and relaxing--the weather is warm and clear, and we went out to a nice breakfast in Burbank, made our Easter donation to some frat boys at Woodbury University holding an impromptu carwash (they'll buy a bigger keg now!), and I found some drought-tolerant plants at a nearby nursery.

I'm wearing one of my mom's little crosses--this one made of turquoise and silver, so veddy Southwest--to honor the Christian holiday, but the real Easter flush came with the rows and rows of flowers spread out like so many delicate, fragrant rainbows at the nursery. Leaning over to smell a lavender rose, it struck me how the natural world is such a blatant expression of God's love that no church service I can think of could possibly compete. I guess my frame of mind these days is what people mean when they say they're "mellowing," because the satisfaction I get from things like birds and flowers and finding rocks has never, I mean never been quite this strong. I don't want to get old, but feeling this much pleasure from small things is certainly a valuable characteristic. I don't spend nearly the same wasted time grumbling about the vacation trip I want to take or the furniture I think we need, the business matters that need solving, happy enough just to make a cream pie with fudge on top and looking forward to picking up the book I'm reading . . . .

. . . which happens to be about the Bush family; I felt it necessary since I'm so often surrounded by Republican vibes and Rush Limbaugh's strident (though admittedly cogent) talk about the liberal left. Just a glance at "the other side" proves out my theory that you can find something about any politico that, with careful cultivation, can be spun into conspiratorial paranoia. Bush's mega-corporate ties and privileged entree into paths of power have all the earmarks of the Establishment control-freakery we were so afraid of in the '60s. But that time is gone. We need a strong President, an unvacillating President! Nevertheless, I am quite happy with my recent decision to register as an Independent.

We're wrapping up Easter with beaucoup traditionalism, food-wise. Don cooked a ham complete with cloves and pineapple rings; we also noshed on mashed taters and canned green beans and biscuits! Plus--I have some pie in the refrig!

Has this been a great and blessed Easter, or what?

CHOOSE YOUR DAILY OBSESSION


My neighborhood dog-walkers include two stand-offish ladies with attack-dog breeds, and Buckwheat and I encountered both of them yesterday. One is Bruni and her Rottweilers, of course; the other has a small black-and-white Pit Bull kept safely on a leash, although his mommy, I feel, needs to rein in her snotty vibe.

I've hated snotty women since junior high, when I was masochistically jealous of a blond girl with cute clothes, Laurie, who spurned my tentative offers of friendship only to dash off to unimaginable fun with her equally popular and well-dressed chosen pals. Hmmm. My recent illness has sparked some serious introspection: Could my frequent encounters with what I see as needlessly arrogant dog-owners be projection on my part? That popular psychiatric symptom where one sees some behavior or attitude in someone else, but which is actually part of one's own character? I'll at least cop to a touch of passive-aggressive tendencies now and again, but no one's ever accused me of arrogance. I'm duly proud of my wonderful dog, though. He's a prince, my hero, and when I walk beside him I know my aura bursts with dignity and love.

That said, I've decided wasting words on the likes of Bruni and her ilk just ain't the best use of my brain or time. Bruni, and your prim Rotties, you're forgiven. End of story. Because it's laughable-- any concern or dismay at all about something so trivial, when young men and women are giving their lives to carry out what may be misguided policy in America's war on terrorism! Another bunch of brave souls killed today in Fallujah. I've questioned America's international aggression since learning about CIA covert action in places like
Iran and Guatemala, presumably at the behest of presidents with national security and spreading democracy in mind, but whose policies in fact shore up corporate concerns deemed vital to the national interest while profitably exploiting local labor. I wish to avoid going into a rant about Iraqi oil interests vs. killing terrorists, however.

As global troubles escalate, I find myself less prone to keeping up with news and involving my own opinions than reactively diverting my attention altogether toward ultra-trivial personal pursuits--the aforementioned recipe-clipping, finding the right bed sheets, time to water the tomatoes?; toothbrush: regular or electric?; when to buy more vitamins, that sort of thing. It's as if a large part of my consciousness wishes to withdraw from the larger issues and become insulated in the mundane. The only saving grace to this attitude might be it's spiritual consequence. It's a quick but not so simple leap, perhaps, to a quasi-Buddhist state of mind, a one-time obsession that I used to discuss at length with John Shirley. A minute-by-minute attentiveness might guide one's awareness to the infinite and eternal lurking beneath the mundane. Which reminds me of a J.D. Salinger story I used to read over and over again, second only to "A Perfect Day for Bananafish," titled . . . titled . . . well, I just spent a good 20 minutes searching for my copy of Nine Stories, which contains said short story, because I cannot remember the title. But it's about Franny, a precious and fragile character who wants to save herself and the world by chanting the Jesus Prayer constantly, non-stop. That was her obsession, and in perfect Salinger style, the story culminates right on the precipice between a revelation and the abyss.

Which is sorta the way life has been for me and mine these last few months. It's okay, it's been an appetite suppressant and a sleep enhancer. Mad-dash Laurie from the 7th grade is probably fat and bored by now.

BLOODY SUNDAY

Now the Pope says all good little Catholics mustn't watch sports on Sunday. That day shall be reserved for worship! I'm not a Catholic, but Johnnie Paul, puh-leeze get a life! Sundays are hard enough to get through without sports programs. But . . . not being either a sports fan or a church-goer, my Sabbath opportunities are radically limited. Take today, for instance. Buckwheat and I managed to make it about halfway up our favorite trail before I saw a beer can, which ruined the mood, and besides, I'm supposed to take it easy, and the antibiotics are slowing me down, etc. I have the rest of the week's most nothing day to face, with little energy and even less entertainment potential.

Renee called, though, and we got into an inspiring conversation about the sudden upsurge of interest in Jesus Christ and religion overall. I often feel grateful to my late Mom for having been a
Unity minister, even though as a youngster I felt neglected because of her endless church duties. At least she picked a non-denominational denomination, a belief system that places more emphasis on the Christ spirit within rather than the man who held the office, a radical Jew and change agent whom none of the religions can totally agree upon.

All of this we're seeing today--the growing conflict between the Islamic and Judeo-Christian worlds, the overwhelming dangers of Islamic terrorism, the Armageddon-oriented evangelical movement--portends a mass transition to a new way of seeing ourselves and God. At least, I like to think that. Renee and I chatted about Michael Baigent's book Holy Blood, Holy Grail, one of a number of works trying to straighten out the confusion. While I can buy into the concept of Jesus having married and fathered children whose descendants may still be around today, it stretches credulity to assume that a hearty welcome to the Antichrist lurks behind the so-called New World Order plot spawned by the Knights Templar, Freemasons blah, blah. . . all that crap. Face it, people like to join clubs! Especially ones with rituals that just may help tap into the Eternal Source.

Anyway, that's my Sunday so far. Perhaps it looks as if I'm a bit too cavalier about the strange new leanings of the ultra-religious among us ("Allah Akbar! Blow up your kid for Mohammed today!"), but after all these years (and my own spiritual experiences), I can't be bothered with entrenched belief systems that sacrifice truth for some twisted, fanatical need to control the world and everyone in it. Catholics are nicer about it, of course, but the Pope seems to have the same compulsion to dictate as Osama and his crew; a difference only in degree and execution. I feel so sorry for those thousands of God lovers who think they have to follow the creaky old Pope's every word, ridiculously reactionary and life-squelching as they may be.

Some of us worship in front of a cross or a candle or a tree, some near a football field. The joy a Raiders or Dolphins fan feels when the game accelerates is God's joy, too. He/She never made distinctions, as far as I can tell.

RECIPE RELAXANT

Perhaps it's a peculiarly female thing, but I read recipe books and food magazines for mildly mind-stimulating relaxation. I have files stuffed with recipes that I've carefully cut out over the years--more than half of them never tried--and have them neatly tucked away aphabetically, "A" for appetizers, "B" for breads, "C" for casseroles, etc. I cannot seem to part with them. I know that if I forced myself to do so, however, I would make a decent crack in the wall of pack-rat-ism that seems epidemic around here, but for some reason I feel I need these recipes; somehow they're a comfort or safety zone my psychology appears to thrive on. Even if I don't cook for days at a time. In fact, I don't enjoy the cooking nearly as much as the recipes, which may say something about my work ethic.

To add clutter-borne insult to injury, I've also collected far too many cookbooks than I'll ever be able to use. Many gals say they only need one. But for me, it's as if each book I cling to carries just the recipe that will ultimately prove my worth in the kitchen. Don is far more the "natural" cook than I--he can work without a recipe and isn't afraid to experiment. Unfortunately, his repertoire is rather limited. If we left our culinary acts to him, we'd have roast beef, meatloaf, kielbasa and potatoes and peanut butter sandwiches over and over and over again. OK, so there's a few more things he'll whip up--but do waffles and gravy or the occasional roast turkey really add much? My cooking, on the other hand, can be lavishly wide and various--I can swing from guacamole burgers to Mediterranean couscous in a heartbeat, from Sugar Pops for breakfast to my famous chile-cheese- egg casserole.

Don doesn't appreciate variety as much as I do. I'm left to my own devices and he promises me he'll eat what's put in front of him. Currently I'm on a vegetarian kick, and I just can't wait to watch his face when I place before him the mouth-watering masterpiece from a recipe I pulled from my files today: Italian Zucchini Bake. You can't miss with Italian.