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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Running Wounded
Trail runners love war stories. Love 'em. Can't get enough.
When a trail runner shows you his race photos, the first one will be of him standing at the finish line with blood pouring down his head, grinning like an idiot.
We all fall. Rocks, uneven ground, tree roots, rabid mountain lions, forest fairies. Eventually one of them is gonna get ya. And when it does, you want the evidence to be as impressive as possible. That's not a photo of a klutz who fell down and hit his head. No, no. That's a guy who battled the elements, knocked his head against a rattle snake-infested boulder, had his brains oozing out his skull, and most importantly, he still FINISHED.
It's a right of passage. Injuries are like medals of honor. Because seriously, if you're going to have to go through the embarrassment of taking a face plant in the dirt during a race in front of all your fellow runners, you at least want to have a good story afterwards.
I know of one local runner who fell onto a tree branch sticking out of the ground, impaled her thigh - IMPALED HER THIGH - and still got herself down off the mountain. I read about another guy who fell off a ridge while trail running in the wintery northern territories, impaled his shoulder with his ice ax, broke his leg in 128 places and still crawled back down to the parking lot.
(We're big on impalements. Second only to animal attacks.)
Me?
I tripped on a rock Saturday during a mountain running competition. Landed face-first in the dirt...a nice, groomed, unintimidating patch of trail after I'd just negotiated a section of slick, vertical rock where I did not fall. (And thanks to the fellow racer who stopped, bent over me lying in the dirt and pointed that out. May all your blisters get infected.)
And I got -
A scratch on my left palm.
Right there. See it?...Look closer...No, there...Here, let me get in the light. Okay. See it now?...Wait, I'm in shadow...try again.
Sigh.
Not that I'm looking to get impaled, mind you. Or mauled by a bear. Or chased by a bunch of feral boy scouts. I'm just saying when you're lying in the dirt with a line of fellow runners streaming past you, you at least want to get up with something that might scar...or at least require a band-aid.
That's all I'm saying.
When a trail runner shows you his race photos, the first one will be of him standing at the finish line with blood pouring down his head, grinning like an idiot.
We all fall. Rocks, uneven ground, tree roots, rabid mountain lions, forest fairies. Eventually one of them is gonna get ya. And when it does, you want the evidence to be as impressive as possible. That's not a photo of a klutz who fell down and hit his head. No, no. That's a guy who battled the elements, knocked his head against a rattle snake-infested boulder, had his brains oozing out his skull, and most importantly, he still FINISHED.
It's a right of passage. Injuries are like medals of honor. Because seriously, if you're going to have to go through the embarrassment of taking a face plant in the dirt during a race in front of all your fellow runners, you at least want to have a good story afterwards.
I know of one local runner who fell onto a tree branch sticking out of the ground, impaled her thigh - IMPALED HER THIGH - and still got herself down off the mountain. I read about another guy who fell off a ridge while trail running in the wintery northern territories, impaled his shoulder with his ice ax, broke his leg in 128 places and still crawled back down to the parking lot.
(We're big on impalements. Second only to animal attacks.)
Me?
I tripped on a rock Saturday during a mountain running competition. Landed face-first in the dirt...a nice, groomed, unintimidating patch of trail after I'd just negotiated a section of slick, vertical rock where I did not fall. (And thanks to the fellow racer who stopped, bent over me lying in the dirt and pointed that out. May all your blisters get infected.)
And I got -
A scratch on my left palm.
Right there. See it?...Look closer...No, there...Here, let me get in the light. Okay. See it now?...Wait, I'm in shadow...try again.
Sigh.
Not that I'm looking to get impaled, mind you. Or mauled by a bear. Or chased by a bunch of feral boy scouts. I'm just saying when you're lying in the dirt with a line of fellow runners streaming past you, you at least want to get up with something that might scar...or at least require a band-aid.
That's all I'm saying.
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