ROUNDED STONES

I pamper my internal bag lady by collecting stones when Buckwheat and I take our walks and hikes. I may have mentioned this before, but I get particular pleasure in seeking out smoothe, rounded stones--the kinds that look like they've undergone millenia of steady water erosion--to place in my ever-evolving rock garden in our back yard. They're attractive and easy to work with, like people who have no rough edges, and submit to my constant re-arranging with nary a complaint! In my mind I view these collecting jaunts as "treasure hunts;" the world is filled with countless free treasures that await an observant human. And the stones are fun to rattle around in my pocket.

Went through photos today looking for something to post here and ones for the magazine. What I really wanted was a shot of the rock garden I had started out in our side area, but apparently I rummaged through the wrong box. So, that search is for another day. In keeping with the title of this blog, I'm instead posting a shot of my precious pooch. He's being lovingly embraced by Don, but looks like he's not so sure about it!

I KNEW THAT!!

This just in, from the ever-edgy newsroom at Netscape:

"Amazing Impact of Listening to Music

It doesn't matter if it's rock or classical, listening to music will give your soul a quick jolt of happiness. That's the word from researchers at Pennsylvania State University in Altoona who have shown that when we hear music we like, bad moods are banished and good moods are enhanced.
What music does: It makes listeners more optimistic, joyful, friendly, relaxed, and calm, and helps vanish feelings of pessimism and sadness.
What music doesn't do: It won't ease feelings of fear, sadness, hate, or aggression, and it does nothing to increase feelings of love."

Of course, of course. And I had my own personal experience of this phenomenon at Las Vegas' latest tourist attraction (although that term, in my view, doesn't come close to describing the impact of an unparalleled musical/visual experience). Forget the strip. The real action after dark happens at the Fremont Street Experience! Designed for us baby-boomers with residual flashes of 1960s-era light shows sometimes cycling in our brains, the Experience is three city blocks of the "original" Vegas--dizzyingly ostentatious neon and all--domed over with an electronic net that lights up with an array of images as loud rock'n'roll plays! That was the 9:30 show. I missed the signature event at 8:30, with spacey music and more cerebral imagery, because I thought some slot machines needed attention. My loss, according to my friend Cath. Next time, I will see that for myself.

Live rock bands play. Rickety old men dance. Dissipated-looking hillbilly chicks sway against their spouses with dirty gray beards. Young black dudes with beaded dreadlocks and red high-tops dance, totally sans inhibitions, truly "Venice hip." My high-point: I saw this dude and began dancing with him to the band's rendition of "Green River," while about 100 inhibited types just stood there! I was in heaven.

No, I haven't been hired to do PR for Sin City. But some things that happen in Vegas shouldn't stay in Vegas, but should be shared! I love being in Vegas and dancing without caring what anybody thinks.

Speaking about not caring what people think: Cath had a different kind of experience when she couldn't sleep and so decided to take a walk on the Strip at 2:30 a.m. "The underbelly of Vegas," she told me, "is alive and hopping at the time of the . . . morning." Prostitution isn't legal in Clark County, you say? Then a lot of unattached, sleazy-looking women in miniskirts up-to-their-butt-cracks and low-cut tops like to cruise Las Vegas Boulevard well past the witching hour. Just for the fun of it, I guess.

My sin: too many quarters in the Mr. Magoo slot machine, and one too many microbrews on Friday night.
But I had a ball. One heartwrenching moment: When I saw the lion at the MGM Grand's Lion exhibit. He was chewing on a rawhide bone and I swear he looked like Buckwheat. I can't be away from that boy too long.

DEAR UFO . . .

I finally got to some UFO mail today, and ended up filing away more handwritten missives about channelling the ET overlords and such. One expects this sort of thing as the editor of a magazine that deals with a subject that a good number of the world's population either ignores or disavows. Yet this phenomenon has no signs of quitting, just yet--people by the thousands not only believe, but have had their own sightings or other contact. Me? I've been through an experiential arc that started with wholehearted belief and even a nostalgia of sorts (am I from another planet??), and has transmogrified into a kind of jaded ennui. I only get shaken out of it when I randomly run across someone who's seen a UFO. And I mean that happens to me lots; it's almost spooky! The most recent news--fast-moving lights witnessed by Mexican Air Force pilots--will hopefully get "fair and balanced" reportage in our Aug/Sept. issue. There's follow-up news I received today which demonstrates a growing controversy, south of the border and elsewhere.

I made Don a shrimp and angel hair pasta dish tonight. It was pretty good--another simple meal I can add to my "get me out of this kitchen quick" repertoire. Soon . . . Vegas . . . restaurants . . . music . . . people . . . gambling . . . hub-bub! I may do some work, there too. I hear McCarran Airport has an "Area 51" giftshop. That might be worth a few photos and a presentation of our new issue!

FINDING CENTER

The emotional roller-coaster of late reminds me that a little meditation can't hurt. Yesterday I went to a great little store that has all sorts of home and garden things, and bought two small, cheap pots for houseplants that I will place in a kind of homemade "altar"--really just a place to look at and focus on before I close my eyes and try to contact my center: that sublime place of calm and clarity. I have a small Buddha that I'd like to place there, too, along with a Christ pic. In all, something effortlessly non-denominational. Behind the Buddha I have a Lava Lamp! A touch of psychedelia. I want to place a candle there, too, but I've run out of room. Well, the thing is a work in progress. I'm not going to rush it. I want it to be serene, holy, contemplative. I may even find a perfect mandala to hang on the wall just above it!

Meanwhile, my compulsive template changes on this here Blog have caused a loss of links. Don't know how that happened, but now I have to go back and find the tags to include a small profile and perhaps some other goodies, like "Today's Word" and "Today's Place."

Cath and I are taking off for Vegas later this week! So weird. I used to really shun that place, and now I so enjoy it. I'm just enough of a slot junkie to get my kicks hearing coins fall on metal -- but no so much that I lose my shirt. But even more than that, I'm energized by the lights and sounds, the frenetic constancy of hub-bub. It's like the polar opposite of meditativeness. Yet, ironically, I am just as calmed by the noise and chaos as I am by silence and meditation.

Being human is such a trip!!

EVERYBODY MUST DANCE!

Our post-Sally malaise has gone on too damn long, and this morning I forcibly thrust myself out of it when my screensaver's background music started. Let me explain: My current screensaver is something I downloaded a long time ago, called "Dancing Frogs." Largely a green-and-blue underwater animation, the saver breaks into music after 30 minutes. It's only the sample version, so it doesn't show that many frogs, but the music is magic...a lively, rocking, bell-enhanced calypso beat that starts the toes a-twitchin' and the legs a-itchin' . . . a sure-fire dance aphrodisiac!

This morning I had picked up a stray Sunday paper in the park and had just finished reading pointedly undanceable articles--an opinion piece on Abu Ghraib and a review of a new John Kerry biography--but afterwards, as I walked into my office, the music started up and I . . . danced! I watched my awkward, middle-aged bod clad in faded shorts and T-shirt writhing to the calypso beat, and blithely suspended my usual wracking judgements on myself for having, you know, flab here and a gray streak up there, yada yada, and just . . . danced!

Inwardly my spirits began lifting.

I admit to turning up rock'n'roll music every now and then and dancing my heart out. I miss going to clubs and dancing to live music, but please, does anyone anywhere know of a club scene tailored to middle-aged rockers? Sure, I could throw pride to the wind and visit a regular 20 or 30-something watering hole--and I may even do that in a coming trip to Vegas ("what goes on here, stays here"), but certainly this is not something a respectable woman can follow-up on her home turf . . . can she? I count it a very positive move just to do what I have done today: break into dance--proudly, wildly, freely, happily . . . and privately. It's a simple truism: you cannot dance and be sad at the same time. It is the art form, the exquisitely cathartic and primordial human ritual to supplicate the gods into bewstowing grace upon us slumping sinners. Everybody must dance! Don won't, and he has a good reason (a bum leg), but I won't let that stop me. Today's little home-hop was a revelation. So add this to my list of recommended DPs (Depression-Ph**kers): DANCE! DANCE! DANCE!

TO HELL AND BACK

When I'm particularly nervous or anxious, it often helps if I keep my hands busy. Yesterday I decided to disconnect the cable box and move the TV in my office to another room. In the process, I disconnected the modem entirely. Actually it was only unplugged, but it took a visit from the technician to tell us that. We couldn't get online or get e-mail. These days, that's like not being able to eat or sleep. There's a certain electronic need that has to be fulfilled--daily. Anyway, Don was quite pissed off and didn't hestitate to let it show. Sally and Buckwheat wouldn't stop tussling, and finally I was fed up. With Don's--ahem--encouragement (he yelled like a maniac), I quickly got Sally on the leash and into the car, and we took off. I went to the Burbank shelter, which was the wrong one. They pointed me to the one in North Hollywood. All this time Sally is in the backseat wondering what's going on--and putting her nose out the window like they do. When I reached the shelter, my stomach dropped and the tears started. When I had to explain the situation, it all became rather pathetic--my voice trembled and I cried like a 4-year-old. Apparently the folks there are used to that; no one said anything. I waited until my turn while Sally barked loudly and growled at everyone. When they later told me she had some Rottweiler in her, I had a better understanding of her nature. (That breed is more agressive than some; I don't care what some "dog experts" say). After what she did to Buckwheat, I can't say I felt a great deal of affection for Sally, but when the time came to let her go, I began to struggle under a flood of guilt and pain. I morosely drove back and Don didn't speak to me--not even once--before we went to bed. This morning, with coffee, we made amends, but tension still fills the air. And I have this rocky feeling in my gut. The L.A. Animal shelters have a website where pictures of lost dogs are immediately posted. Sally isn't there--which could mean her original owners came and picked her up. I pray that is so. The last two days have been hell.
And in truth, I'm not quite back.

REINING HER IN

Don and I dragged an old fence over to the low wall where Sally has been escaping lately. She hopped over it three times today. Poor Buckwheat whines and wants to join her. So glad he can't! We found a pet rescue site but it's a big production to get them to take in a stray. They suggest waiting for 10 days to find the owner. No decisions yet. ISN'T THAT THE WAY IT GOES? DEPARTMENT: So we just went to press, and what happens? A major UFO event (Mexican AF pilots video UFOs)! Frustrating, to say the least. But not a new incident for us. This has happened a number of times before. If I recall, before the Voronezh (Russia) sightings--that time we could stop the presses and made it a cover story; the Alaska JAL sighting, and I think the Heaven's Gate suicides. Something we've just had to accept: We can't be a news vehicle as a monthly or bi-monthly magazine. What we can do is offer more complete coverage when the time comes. FRIENDS & FOES DEPT.: Dwight called while Don was at the VA. He says European news is covering this recent Islamic execution-by-beheading by blaming the U.S. for what's been done to a few Iraqi prisoners. Any woe or protest over a horrible medieval death of an innocent American? Of course not. What is wrong with this picture??

DOG BITES DOG!


Sally loosened her love-grip on us when she got into a vicious fight with Buckwheat last night. I had given both of them a chew bone, but Sally decided she wanted Bickwheat's. He tried to warn her off but she wouldn't listen, provoking some teeth-baring on Buckwheat's part. I got them settled down and took bones away. They followed me into my office. Buckwheat crawled under my desk and the next thing I know, the two are going at it like two starving alligators over a dead fish. It was one of those awful, loud, chomping, violent dog fights. I couldn't get them off each other. When Don finally came in Sally let up, but it was too late; Buckwheat had a large chunk of his cheek missing, right near his eye. Stitches, antibiotics and a huge vet bill later, Sally is not looking like a good fit for this household. Yet taking her to the pound doesn't sit right. We're confused and depressed at the moment. I was lucky enough to be called away from this glum environment, cuz the printer already had our bluelines ready for checking! Met Bill and Nancy down in Carson and saw what looks to be, yet again, another classy, informative issue. But back to la problema con nuevo perro : Sally, poor little girl, doesn't know what she did. A street dog with few manners and probably a lifetime of scrapping to survive, she can't be blamed. Anyone want a lively dog?

OUR GAL SAL

Here she is! *Photo By Nancy Birnes*

ISSUE: AND SO TO BED!

Once more we made it, another issue of UFO Magazine! God knows how late Nancy stayed up finishing the thing, which will have some dynamite articles on remote viewing and Indigo children (yes, we are a far-thinking, avant garde publication! My last phase will be looking at final pages that I'll get today, and if there are errors, we'll catch them in bluelines. PET UPDATE: We made a rather unpleasant discovery last night when we took both Buckwheat and Sally for a walk. Sally is a car-chaser! Fortunately we had a tight grip on her new leash, but had she not been restrained, the headstrong girl would have bolted, trying to catch the uncatchable, and flirting with sure death in the process. Don and I are going to address this problem with all forces on alert. Meanwhile, she'll be taken to get shots, etc. Aw, the trials of parenting!

THIS GUY AND HIS FRIENDS . . .

. . .Have invaded San Francisco.Thought you'd like to know. It's the African Clawed Frog.

SALLY IN THE ALLEY!

We don't really have any alleys around here, but our new dog (yes, she used her large store of canine wiles and convinced us--particularly Don--that we need a second fur-child) has been christened "Sally," (she's an alley dog, a stray, an abandoned pup), after much dissension over Don's chosen names--"Oatmeal" and "Puddin." Feh! Bleh! Total Yuk! Then, last night when Nancy's here with Bill for mag proofing and radio show, she says the dog tells her that her name is Sally! Which is exactly the name that occurred to me, but I'm quiet about it until Don starts spewing "Oatmeal" this, and "Puddin" that all over the place. . . Nancy comes to the rescue! Feminine intuition pays off! Sally is not condemned to a lifetime burdened with being named after a tasteless breakfast grain!

It's Mother's Day and I'm a "new" mother--again. So, here's my great timing: we're out getting more dog food and another leash when my real child calls to wish me a happy day. Child? Hardly! Am sorry to have missed his call. I will give him a ring later today. Just for the hell of it, here's my son Eric with his son (that tiny baby, Roy, is now age 2!):

Well, I guess it had to happen. Our neighborhood is famous for being a drop-off point for unwanted dogs. You can probably hear the demented rationalizations of those creeps who would do such an inhumane thing: "Well, they really like dogs in the canyon. He/She will certainly find a home right away! Me? Feel guilty?" One came to our door tonight (a dog--not a demented creep), a female shepherd mix. Wouldn't leave. We bathed her, resulting in 6 inches of tepid brown water in the bathtub. Don is calling her "Oatmeal," but she's the color of pitch and a flaming desert sunset--black and orangeish. Oatmeal--a grayish-beige color, last time I ate it, so I find the name totally inappropriate. I added an animation (see above), but will get the real thing up here before too long. If she stays, that is. She's sweet, shy, submissive, and Buckwheat digs her. Am I ready for another fur-kid? That's the question.

Gradually getting all the files to Nancy, then getting back PDFs to proof. Will have to get back to that in a minute here. But first, another pic trick!
and another....

FRIDAY FLOWER

While waiting for an article to print out here I am playing with my blog--found a pic and I want to see if it will transfer, Here goes . . .
AIN'T THAT BEAUTIFULLLL!

I'VE GOT PHOTOS!

Today we have an exciting experiment! I found an on-line photo storage place and I'm going to try to set up a link so you can see my beloved Buckwheat! Wait! Link not necessary. Right in the body of the blog!!! I DID IT! It came out huge! The figure in the upper left in not Buckwheat. That's my huggy-cat Don. More to come!

MY HUSBAND IS A RETROSEXUAL!

A new breed of man has sprung from the urbane Petri dishes of the larger, hipper metropolises (metropoli??), encouraged by Maxim, Vogue, Salon.com, Bazaar, and no doubt Cosmo Girl, among other 'zines clawing after the teen- to 20-something demographic. He's well dressed, expensively coiffed, unafraid to moisturize and get manicures, and possibly not adverse to at least musing about the trendiness of bi-sexual encounters. Dubbed "metrosexual," this new breed of guy of course gets his high-toned style tips from "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy," and probably spends hours lingering at the men's cologne counter. He favors raspberry vinaigrette on his baby lettuce salad, drinks microbrews and champagne cocktails, and delicately sweats in the the sauna--not the steamroom.

I think Don's afraid if he were to even say the word "metrosexual," he'd suddenly be spending too much time worrying about the color of his mustache or be forced to wear a tie. As it is, he trims his fingernails compulsively. He always mentions doing that, which is often, usually adding the comment, "I can't stand long nails on a man." Now a man's appearance, hands or otherwise, is his choice. But after doing a survey among some female acquaintances, Ive come to the conclusion that any man would be farther along with the fair sex by having some fashion awareness. I couldn't care less about fingernails, as long as they're clean! But in my mind, the metrosexual phenomenon is not a negative, and in fact could tend to make the male species much more pleasing to the senses. The fewer men scratching their balls in public or wearing oil-stained jeans, I say, the better!

I remember an encounter in my 20s, at my first journalism job, when I was assigned to interview a public relations executive in Century City. My last great love was at the time a farmer in a very muddy, very faraway state. So when I went up the polished elevator and met (I'll call him John) John, his persona hit me like crushed ice in a Sahara midsummer. Here was the polar opposite of the kind of man I'd been close to--a suave exec working in the penthouse office of one of the most glamourous cities in the world. John's blond hair was beautifully styled. His suit was impeccably tailored, made of gorgeous expensive fabric, his tie a pale-peach silken thing. This was Mr. Proto-Metrosexual!--and I instantly fell for him. I flirted. I smiled, I even cagily tried to find out if he had a girlfriend. Well, John was a busy man. He gave me exactly a half-hour, and then said he had to run, he had a pressing appointment, so goodbye, thanks so much for coming! He drifted out, and I followed. I can still smell his cologne--one of sexiest fragrances I've ever had the pleasure to inhale.

John was simply fabulous.Would I trade him for my retrosexy hubby? Maybe--but only for a night!

A BIT O' BLOG THERAPY

Editing work has precluded a timely and daily entry on this here blog. But that's okay . . . when I work I feel more normal. When I write here, though, I always get a special, self-involving kind of charge out of it. I know it's smack out in the public, sort of, and that's pretty cool, but if anyone else reads it? Hardly matters. I realize that when I write more personal stuff, I'm kinda "talking to myself." In general, writing is recognizably therapeutic that way, and journaling has become a healing source of self-reflection for thousands of people. Blogging is journaling, in a way, but much more fun!

Our friend, actor Dwight Schultz, is traveling to Holland later this week. He's working, but he'll also have plenty of time for sight-seeing and absorbing the local culture. I will state openly and unequivocally that I envy him--yet he claims not to enjoy these trips that much. The flights are long and uncomfortable, and he doesn't care to be away from his family that long. I can understand that. Don and I are thinking of going to Vegas in a couple of weeks, and while I get excited about the lights, shows, and light gambling, I usually get my fill of it all in about two days. Then begin missing Buckwheat. He'll be registered at to the doggy hotel (kennel). That's going to change, though. Soon I am going to plan a family vacation!

SERPENT WATCH, 2004

I don't know how I forgot to write about yesterday's highlight incident; got distracted by all the good stuff on "Dark Matters," I guess! Anyway, I was leaving for my lonely but lovely shopping jaunt and as I walked to my car, I noted an initially unwelcome visitor slithering by the car door--a 4-1/2-foot long snake. Naturally, my first instinct was to assume "rattler!", based on last summer's two reckless, deadly vipers who dared to barge into our territory . . . and paid the ultimate price for it. But I have to hand it to myself. I simply breathed, "Oh my God," and then worried about rousing Don from his coveted nap. Before I did so, though, I tip-toed closer to the animal in order to confirm my second instinct--that this was no rattler, and he (or she) need not be extinguished in one of Don's deft but subtle workouts with a .22. Sure enough, the long guy's markings were clearly not diamond shaped and darker, and his poor little head not triangular. Nevertheless, I knew my next step was to alert Don. He's the man, this is a role he enjoys playing! I did so, and he uncomplainingly rose from his sleep and came out on his crutches after I announced my feeling that this wasn't a rattler. He instantly agreed and told me it was a bull snake . Then we experienced what I consider one of our rapturoust soul-connection moments, a simultaneous but unspoken compassion for one of God's lesser creatures. By now the guy had drifted under my car, so I couldn't leave. I toyed with the idea of reaching under and picking him up, but when I voiced that to Don, he nixed it. Just leaning over, I persuaded the snake to keep going until finally he disappeared into the bushes. For all I know he's still there.

On our hike this a.m., Buckwheat and I heard a loud warning from a rattlesnake hidden in the brush. Smart boy that he his, B. stood still and came to me when I called. I then gave him a stern warning to never, ever go near to one of those. I think he understood.

THIS IS NOT A PUFF PIECE

I'm writing this as I listen to Don and Dwight's show (see link), which has a penchant for revealing some gripping truths about The War and The World Situation. In between various comments, clips, rants, raves, jibes, jokes and Dwight's lavish samplings of mimicry, accents and voices from way beyond somewhere, some chilling realities come to light that simply take my breath away. At the risk of being seen as obviously prejudiced, there's straight talk on their show that you cannot hear anywhere else. Everything since 9-11 has changed so radically; however, as was pointed out tonight, the media has embargoed the airing of the planes smacking into the World Trade Center--and has anyone asked why? Has anyone even noticed? Yes, the graphic picture of it was horrifying, enough to make us literally sick. But the impact of that footage indeed gives the war on terrorism its footing. Not shown, we forget. We're subtly ensnared by the "politically correcting" pundits who seem to care more about the welfare of Iraqi killers rather than the innocent Americans who--let's not deny it--could be blasted to bloody vapor in a heartbeat, were it not for the line of defense, and offense, instigated by those who are aware, daily, of just what's at stake: Our lives. You, me, our children.

I'm done with that. Very much a "dark matter!" Here's a flip: I shopped today. I found Don some T-shirts so that I can toss, finally consign to the big round file, the ones he loves so much but that are practically in shreds . . . What it is about men and what they hang on to like a life raft in roiling sea? When he wears those old shards of tattered cotton, guys who sleep under bridges are better dressed than him!

My blood count must be better today. At least I feel better. Tomorrow I have some writing assignments I must complete. That's it for tonight.