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mallorys_cameraI don't remember being such a misanthrope before I stopped smoking.
In those times, it seems to me, there was always a smile or merry jest upon my lips; always a coin for the homeless guys who squat in front of Long's, urinating for the tourists. ("Look, Daddy – that man is making pee-pee on the sidewalk!" "I know, Son! And just wait till you see the otters in the aquarium!")
The weather was always good too, and I do believe stocks were higher. More importantly, people had a reason to go on living – even people who didn't smoke because, you know, they could always start to smoke.
The only positive thing about quitting – please! no lectures about improved life expectancy – is that nicotine patches give you very trippy dreams. Thus last night I dreamed the complete plotline for a colorful Carl Hiaasen or Donald Westlake novel:
Del Sol, the tacky teeshirt store next door to me – they sell shirts that change color in the sun (until you wash them) – was owned by a retired couple who lived in Las Vegas and who were somehow gulled into investing their life savings in the franchise. As in dream, so in reality: the store wasn't doing particularly well.
Owners, of course, locked into a ten-year lease at an exorbitant rent and after an interview with the sinister Ted Balistreri, liege lord of the Cannery Row Company, at which they beg for a rent reduction – "Please! I need ten thousand dollars for a coronary bypass!" to which Ted Balistreri snorts derisively ("Could ya look at the calendar for me? What day is it? You sure? Because I thought maybe you thought it was fucking Christmas –") they hire a hit man to take Balistreri out.
Of course the hit man is totally incompetent as any hit man who works the Monterey peninsula must be. Many amusing misadventures transpired and there was a whole subplot involving Clint Eastwood (whom I spotted yesterday while I was leaving the post office, standing near the driveway of the rehab center that bears his name – that man has a seriously red and shiny face! And the worst crepe neck ever!)
Woke up thinking, hmmmm… pretty good plot.
Too bad I'll never have the time to write it.
Like every other recovering addict, all I really want to do is eat stale Snickers bars. I haven't given in to temptation. But even looking at stale Snickers bars packs on the pounds, and I am up (gulp) ten this week.
I'm feeling tres nostalgic for my bulimia days.
In other news, Milo is making a well-nigh miraculous recovery and Max did the sweetest thing yesterday – literally and figuratively. He's the baker this term at Deep Springs and yesterday morning an express mail package arrived for me: four fresh baked pastries! A kind of homemade ricotta cheese and orange marmalade bear claw. Very yummy indeed, and I'm wondering whether it would be a better career choice for Max to go to Stanford or try out for Top Chef.
In those times, it seems to me, there was always a smile or merry jest upon my lips; always a coin for the homeless guys who squat in front of Long's, urinating for the tourists. ("Look, Daddy – that man is making pee-pee on the sidewalk!" "I know, Son! And just wait till you see the otters in the aquarium!")
The weather was always good too, and I do believe stocks were higher. More importantly, people had a reason to go on living – even people who didn't smoke because, you know, they could always start to smoke.
The only positive thing about quitting – please! no lectures about improved life expectancy – is that nicotine patches give you very trippy dreams. Thus last night I dreamed the complete plotline for a colorful Carl Hiaasen or Donald Westlake novel:
Del Sol, the tacky teeshirt store next door to me – they sell shirts that change color in the sun (until you wash them) – was owned by a retired couple who lived in Las Vegas and who were somehow gulled into investing their life savings in the franchise. As in dream, so in reality: the store wasn't doing particularly well.
Owners, of course, locked into a ten-year lease at an exorbitant rent and after an interview with the sinister Ted Balistreri, liege lord of the Cannery Row Company, at which they beg for a rent reduction – "Please! I need ten thousand dollars for a coronary bypass!" to which Ted Balistreri snorts derisively ("Could ya look at the calendar for me? What day is it? You sure? Because I thought maybe you thought it was fucking Christmas –") they hire a hit man to take Balistreri out.
Of course the hit man is totally incompetent as any hit man who works the Monterey peninsula must be. Many amusing misadventures transpired and there was a whole subplot involving Clint Eastwood (whom I spotted yesterday while I was leaving the post office, standing near the driveway of the rehab center that bears his name – that man has a seriously red and shiny face! And the worst crepe neck ever!)
Woke up thinking, hmmmm… pretty good plot.
Too bad I'll never have the time to write it.
Like every other recovering addict, all I really want to do is eat stale Snickers bars. I haven't given in to temptation. But even looking at stale Snickers bars packs on the pounds, and I am up (gulp) ten this week.
I'm feeling tres nostalgic for my bulimia days.
In other news, Milo is making a well-nigh miraculous recovery and Max did the sweetest thing yesterday – literally and figuratively. He's the baker this term at Deep Springs and yesterday morning an express mail package arrived for me: four fresh baked pastries! A kind of homemade ricotta cheese and orange marmalade bear claw. Very yummy indeed, and I'm wondering whether it would be a better career choice for Max to go to Stanford or try out for Top Chef.
