LIVING DREAMS

a.k.a. The Pursuit of All Good Things With my girl gone on her own life adventure, I'm trying to up my game. No excuses allowed. I'm writing daily -- I'm working on a new book adaption at this very moment and it's super exciting and challenging and fun. But life is big and what am I doing with the rest of my waking hours? Over the last 2-3 years the game has changed. After years of running, soccer, triathlons, running some more, yoga, all of it -- my body is worn out. I've tried all the usual tricks but I have no juice. I paid for personal training. I signed up for a couple of runs. I fixed up my bike and even got a new bike rack. Nothing's working. I'm doing hikes now. I can do 6 miles easy. Just walking. But that's all I have left. So I'm realizing that I need to tune up the machine -- and that means me. I've been an athlete since I was about 10. I have running ribbons from 4th grade, and competed in track all the way through college. I

I’m not sure what I was thinking when I booked my flight. I knew I had to fly into Geneva and fly out of London. But finding something affordable was the kicker. So I booked with SAS and oddly agreed to a 3-way flight in and a 9-hour layover out - through Stockholm between Heathrow and LAX. And it wasn’t any normal layover. My flight would land at 12:15 am and my connecting flight would depart at 945 am. Call me nuts. As an experienced traveler, I should have known better. But I digress... I would be on the road for 24 days in July but as the days went on I realized that that 9-hour layover was hanging over my head like a fat cloud. Let’s call it a premonition. I tried to change my flight but SAS offered zero direct flights from London to LA. Who doesn’t offer that? I considered contacting a couple of people I knew but realized pretty quickly that only one of them would be up for the task of entertaining me at those ungodly hours. But he was busy. He looked for things for me to do

In the midst of all this... so much going on, sometimes I can't breathe. Laid off. Sold my car. Bought a new one. Put my house on the market and moved everything down to LA. Lost a dear, dear friend. Started writing a new script. Finished a short script. Daughter got accepted to school in the UK (she's leaving in Sept) and after three weeks I finally got an offer on my house.  In the meantime, I'm feeling a bit melancholy about leaving the Shire. I see posts from friends and fun things going on, and yet, I'm not going back. There's nothing for me there. I did 10 years, and hung on for another two years, and now finally I'm ready to let go. It's a tornado, a life tornado. The first month was getting my feet on the ground. Month two threw me into the fire pit. Month three, I'm knocking it down, but it hurts. It's physically painful. And after six years of sharing, gone yet again. And I can't take any more. This is when we realize who our frie

I launched this blog in Jan 2008 , months after the sudden death of my friend Michael Z. For weeks I was feeling so awful that I hadn't been there for him or around after he died -- until he came to me in a dream and told me to get over it. He even laughed at me. Fucker. Even in death he was spot on and sometimes a dick.  This week another train hit me. So hard I'm in pieces. G is gone. I got the call on a Thursday afternoon. Victim of a homicide, those words keep ringing in my ears. It's been a week and I've been crying every day. Multiple times a day. I'm devastated. Heartbroken. Crushed. Shocked, and utterly confused. What? How? Why?? I met G, aka the Janitor, in 1999 or so. He took me shopping for my first mp3 player at the now-shuttered Circuit City. I nursed him while he struggled with an ulcer and had to hide the coffee from him when he kept insisting that it didn't bother his stomach. I called in a favor with an old gambling buddy and got a bunch

It's been months and while there might be loads to say or write or scream or whisper or even SING about, I'm exhausted. My body is failing me. Seriously, literally, in all the ways it can. I've been reduced to becoming a veggie/pescaterian and while it's not an enormous struggle, it reminds me daily that I cannot simply eat what I want anymore, which is essentially meaning I CANNOT LIVE HOW I WANT. Next weekend my brother is getting sworn in as a judge so I'm flying to Oakland to witness this historic event, and at the same time, my cousin offered me Clippers v Warriors tickets. FML. There's no winning on this bench, folks. So to console myself about my ill health and my frustrated libido and lifestyle, I've gone out purchasing -- new speakers, no stereo cabinet, new shoes, socks, facial, hair dyed, threaded eyebrows.  But all I really want is a new keyboard. REALLY WANT. For all that I could have purchased it. Crap. In the meantime, my house and my bedr

I don't typically write in this blog about people I don't know. Hell, I don't write it about anyone but me and my friends and family, but today I'm consumed by the sudden, unexpected death of Anthony Bourdain. My sister Valentine confessed to me years ago that she had a violent crush on Señor Bourdain. I didn't get it, but what I did see was his amazing lust for life. Here was a man who was in his mid 40s by the time he found his voice, and from there he crafted a life that he lived passionately. No Reservations is right. It was his truth, and he took us on a journey that was less about  haute cuisine  and more about real people living real lives eating real food. The eulogies and remembrances are vast and tearful and come from all walks of life, but universally they say the same thing: We loved him. We wanted to live his life. We wanted to BE him. And I think I can say that what we all wanted to be is that version of ourselves that's truthful and blunt an