Dispatches from the City of Angels
I'm a writer and humorist living in and writing about Los Angeles. You can catch my novel LOSING CLEMENTINE out March 6 from William Morrow. In the meantime, feel free to poke around. Over at my website you can find even more blog entries than I could fit here, as well as a few other ramblings. Enjoy and come back often.
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Favorite Quotes:
"Taint what a horse looks like, it’s what a horse be." - A Hat Full of Sky by Terry Pratchett
"Trying to take it easy after you've finished a manuscript is like trying to take it easy when you have a grease fire on a kitchen stove." - Jan Burke
"Put on your big girl panties, and deal with it." - Mom
"How you do anything is how you do everything."
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Half the distance, double the fun: Part Two
And we're off.
And it's sooo hot.
Disclaimer: I am a heat weenie. If captured by enemy combatants I feel sure I could withstand a multitude of tortures. Sleep depravation, mind games, 24-hour Kenny G. marathons. But the second they turn the thermostat up past 75, I'm caving. I'll tell them anything. Probably I shouldn't be trusted with state secrets.
So I'm chugging along with my four bottles of Gatorade lashed to my belt. (I'd kept them cold on the drive by storing them in an ice chest in the trunk. I *told* you I was a heat weenie.) An attractive look? No. Not so much. You never see sleek athletes in Nike commercials lugging half a dozen squeezie bottles as they sprint up the scenic mountain trail, do you? Nope. They look like cheetahs. I looked like a lost and deeply paranoid camel.
Somewhere around mile 3, others may have snickered. But as the trail turned up into the desert-like hills and the sun crept higher sending the mercury well above my 75 degree threshold, the tide of opinion began to swing. I joyfully sucked on my squeezie bottles as I passed former Nike-approved cheetah runners, stumbling blindly toward their next aid station for a dixie cup full of tepid water.
I consider it a credit to Emily Post that I didn't actually blow any raspberries as I passed. It's possible there was a little dance. The dance may have had a song, an ode to the squeezie bottle. I'm admitting to nothing.
To be continued...
And it's sooo hot.
Disclaimer: I am a heat weenie. If captured by enemy combatants I feel sure I could withstand a multitude of tortures. Sleep depravation, mind games, 24-hour Kenny G. marathons. But the second they turn the thermostat up past 75, I'm caving. I'll tell them anything. Probably I shouldn't be trusted with state secrets.
So I'm chugging along with my four bottles of Gatorade lashed to my belt. (I'd kept them cold on the drive by storing them in an ice chest in the trunk. I *told* you I was a heat weenie.) An attractive look? No. Not so much. You never see sleek athletes in Nike commercials lugging half a dozen squeezie bottles as they sprint up the scenic mountain trail, do you? Nope. They look like cheetahs. I looked like a lost and deeply paranoid camel.
Somewhere around mile 3, others may have snickered. But as the trail turned up into the desert-like hills and the sun crept higher sending the mercury well above my 75 degree threshold, the tide of opinion began to swing. I joyfully sucked on my squeezie bottles as I passed former Nike-approved cheetah runners, stumbling blindly toward their next aid station for a dixie cup full of tepid water.
I consider it a credit to Emily Post that I didn't actually blow any raspberries as I passed. It's possible there was a little dance. The dance may have had a song, an ode to the squeezie bottle. I'm admitting to nothing.
To be continued...
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