I Offer An Apology for Comments on this Blog Made Five Years Ago

At times in my life I’ve been obnoxious, insensitive, even cruel. I’ve hurt feelings, sometimes badly. I suppose I can take solace in the fact that I’ve never physically harmed anyone and am reasonably certain I’ve caused no one any long-term damage. But still…..

Demon rum has contributed to some of the vitriol I’ve spit out. But in the nearly thirty-five years since I got sober, there’s been plenty of bile that I’ve spewed on people.

Through all the introspection I’ve done, I’ve concluded that I’m not a bad person and have done far more good than bad. My children, my nieces and nephews and their children, my wife and cousins and my late aunts, uncles, parents and grandparents all have or do hold me in high regard. Of the middle school students I taught I’d estimate that ninety per cent have fond memories of me and indeed many were inspired by the force of my personality and teaching. As an ESL teacher I believe myself to be even more popular. Most colleagues have liked me and enjoyed working with me although a few were stung by the kind of nasty remark I’m prone to making. I’ve had many friends and acquaintances and with most I’ve always maintained good relationships but that there are glaring exceptions hurts me to no end.

All of this came to mind when I read a blog post I wrote five years ago. In it I mentioned a memorial service I’d recently attended. I took the time to mention that I saw an acquaintance, there (one I’d always been fond of) for the first time in ten years. He was quite rude to me for no good reason that I can imagine. But I used my blog post to eviscerate him — by name. It was totally unnecessary on my part. (I'll spare you what I wrote.)

When I read the offending words on Friday I was shocked by my cruelty I didn't remember writing it and wondered at the person who did (me). I immediately removed the offending passage in what I suppose is a case of better late than never. The idea that I’d written that sent me into a depression that I’m only now emerging from. 

My sincerest though terrible belated apologies to Darryl Brock for my vicious and uncalled for words. He's a fine man and an excellent author.

If he chanced upon my words I doubt that he’ll ever forgive me. If he does, he’s a better man than I am.

My apology is without equivocation or excuse. There have been reasons over the years for my acid tongue or pen. I suffer PTSD as an abuse survivor, I myself abused alcohol. I’m on the bi- polar spectrum. None of this excuses anything I’ve ever said or written. I own it all. 

I will continue to try to be better and endeavor to be more careful with my words. That’s all I can do.

The Blogger Expounds on His Strange Love of Writing Tests

I like writing tests.

Does that make me weird? 

I’m sure that there are a lot of ways in which I’m weird, strange, different, unusual, atypical. Is taking joy in writing tests one of them?

Both in my former incarnation as a history teacher and now as an ESL instructor I find it challenging to write tests that are difficult but not impossibly so. It’s important that the tests correspond to the material covered and that through taking them students can discover not only how much they learned (or conversely failed to learn) but also that taking the test cements the knowledge they’ve but recently acquired. (I realize that the preceding sentence was overly long but I feel readers — both of us — can forebear it.)

I also flatter myself that my tests are “interesting.” They should not be entirely predictable. Certainly students should know what will be on the test but the wording of questions and prompts should be revelatory and help inspire revealing answers. “Discuss the causes of the Civil War” is a weak question. “Describe the main events leading to the Civil War being sure to highlight what you feel was the primary cause of the conflict.” That’s a bit wordy but a lot better than the first example. 

For an ESL vocabulary test the following is acceptable but uninspiring: “Use the word evolution in a sentence, be sure that your answer shows you know the meaning of the word.” Better would be something like: “What does it mean when something has evolved? Why is evolution an important process in life?”

Vague, general questions often inspire vague, general answers. Directed questions are more likely to elicit more thoughtful and and specific answers.

Of course a lot of tests primarily consist of multiple choice questions, especially grammar questions. Choosing the correct tense or the right preposition for a given sentence from choices a ,b and c. Those are fun to write. I try to make my sentences interesting. “Yesterday Bob _____ at the store for ten minutes when Lisa arrived. a) have been b) had been c) had gone. That’s okay but if you’re teaching the past perfect you’ve probably got an intermediate level class so you can go with something more interesting. “We  ______ at the party for half an hour when Tom arrived and ruined the evening.” Same response but a more interesting sentence. Right?

Now another confession: in addition to taking joy out of constructing tests, I also like correcting them. This has not always been true. In my my public school teaching days I’d have classes of twenty to thirty and would thus have a rather sizable pile of tests to grade at the end of the day. That could get tedious. I was also constantly disappointed at how the same students earned D’s and F’s. It was a rare if happy occasion when a struggling student exceeded expectations on a test. Facing a huge pile of tests I’d sort them. The ones that — based on reputation and how much was written — looked like F tests were put in one stack. The ones that looked like As were in a second stack and the rest in a third. I’d then breeze through the likely F exams (hoping to be surprised) then I’d tackle the likely A exams (hoping not to be surprised). The third stack — usually the smallest — was next and was more of a slog. 

In ESL I’ve always had either one or two classes (in semi-retirement just the one) so never have more than thirty tests, these days as few as six. 

I always note which questions had the most wrong answers so that I can review those in detail with the whole class. That’s another good thing about tests. They not only measure the progress of individual students but on classes as a whole. 

It is important to note that tests can be a reflection on a teacher as well as students. If an individual fails a test that’s on the students, but if you’ve got a rash of Fs particularly from students who usually do well, than either you didn’t adequately prepare students or you made the test too difficult.

At some point in reading this you may have thought: but don’t text books come with ready-made tests? In fact, aren’t there tests online and in books that you can just photocopy? The answer is: yes. A teacher can conceivably go through an entire career without ever writing a test and I’m sure many do. If I ever used a generic test it was back in my early days as a teacher and I have no specific memory of having done so. Some ready-made tests are fine. But far, far better to tailor your tests to a particular class (or group of classes) after all a good teacher occasionally (more than just occasionally is preferable) deviates from the prescribed material and curriculum. Plus using generic tests deprives you of the fun of writing your own. A teacher is simply not as invested in test she or she didn’t create. Make it your own. Make it fun. 

So that’s a lot more than I ever expected to write about tests and at that I could say a lot more and maybe I will in future. But first this:

In this blog post the author a) wrote of his love of writing tests b) discussed the migratory patterns of Canadien Geese c) extolled certain herbal teas.

If a class performs poorly on a test it could be a reflection on a) the weather b) the price of oil c) the teacher’s failure to prepare the class or having made the test too difficult.

What did the author say about using generic tests? a) it’s for the birds b) it’s okay but better to create one’s own c) it’s a leading cause of divorce.

I’ll have your tests back for you tomorrow. No homework tonight. Have a great rest of the day everybody!

The Author Gives Advice Because it's High Time

My kind of rabbit

It’s high time I again dispensed with advice. 

Hold on a second, what exactly does “high time” mean? I hear it all the time but don’t know how it’s any different than “low time” or “medium height” time. 

(The author now departs to seek answers, he'll return shortly, I'm sure.)

Here’s what I found out by using a computer function called “google.” 

“High time” derives from the allusion to the warmest time of day - when the sun is highest in the sky. High noon is another way of saying it. Shakespeare used it in his Comedy of Errors, 1590:

ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE:
There's none but witches do inhabit here;
And therefore 'tis high time that I were hence.

After more searching I discovered that Willie Shakes (as the great bard was called by his friends) did not coin the term which dates back as far as 13th century.

Now then… where was I?

Oh yes, advice.

1) When ruminating over your shortcomings, failures, missed opportunities, foibles and wrong roads taken, also be sure to take a second to celebrate your successes, your health, family, friends, accomplishments and all the possibilities that lay ahead. You’ll find a lot to be grateful for. Hard as it can be at times, being a glass half full person is far preferable to a glass half empty one. Also remember that bunny rabbits are cute although I don’t personally fancy the ones that are all white and have red beady eyes. Give me a gray or brown one with big ears and some personality.

2) Don’t spend too much time on the internet, particularly social media. It’s easy to get sucked into twitter and instagram and all that other nonsense and indeed I spend some time there myself. But moderation in all things. Don’t sacrifice time that you could be interacting with a live human being for scrolling through your twitter feed. Don’t gape endlessly at Tik Tok when there are books and poems to be read. Take a walk and bury your phone in a pocket. Go to the park, a concert, a lecture, a poetry reading, a piano recital, a ball game, a museum, a hike, a bike ride, a dance, a friends’s house. Host a barbecue, arrange a picnic, write an email to a friend, mediate, do yoga, exercise, clean the house, make love. Let your brain absorb more than 140 characters at a time. Live.

3) Cut down on the complaining. It’s too easy and too easy to get sucked into. Work environments are breeding grounds for complainers. I’ve wasted far too much of my time griping, grumbling, criticizing, bellyaching, lamenting, moaning, whining, bemoaning, bewailing, carping and deprecating. This is something that, again, is fine in moderation. But my god, so much of it is repetitious and unproductive. Is there something to be done about the complaint? Can you take action? If so, do it. If not, let it go. Get it off your chest and move on. Also, try not to abet others who are in a complaining cycling. Hear them out once then disengage from further bitching sessions, maybe suggest that they do likewise. If someone is a chronic complainer (and lord knows there are plenty of those about) steer clear of them, especially when they get wound up.

Now a few quickies:

4) Don’t engage in protected internet arguments with people you don’t know, especially if they are obviously intractable. And for God’s sakes don’t get yourself into a lather because there’s some moron who stubbornly insists that two and two is three. They’re not worth your energy.

5) If you’re in emotional pain, get help. Most folks don’t hesitate to see a doctor if they’ve got a physical ailment, but are reluctant to seek help when the problem is something like depression or anxiety. Many people self-medicate — with booze or drugs — others grit their teeth and bear their pain in silence. Don’t. There’s zero shame in getting help and you’ve everything to gain — such as happiness.

6) Don’t be late and don’t bore people. My two greatest fears in terms of human interaction are that I’ll be late or I’ll bore someone — or some people — while talking. This is particularly important in my role as a teacher. Making people wait is rude. Don’t do it. Boring people is tougher to avoid. What is fascinating to you may be of little interest to someone else. Know your audience, look for signs the other person is not interested, such as if they fall fast asleep while you’re describing a painful bunion you just had removed. 

I hope that helps. Thanks for reading this far. You’ve been great.

The Blogger Returns After a Nearly Two-Week Absence -- No Excuses Offered -- Various Topics Explored

Bob Odenkirk and Rhea Seehorn of Better Call Saul

The tenth of the month and still no blog posts. Okay, well, there's this one which raises the total to (gets out calculator) ONE. I’ve had a lot to say. No, maybe not, maybe I haven’t had much to say at all. I can’t tell which. Maybe a little bit to say. Maybe an average amount to say. In any case all my writing time has been focused on the novel which — as they say — is coming along. I suppose I’ve mentioned before about how much I enjoy the process. Yeah, I have. I  love living in the world I’ve created. I’m spending a lot of time with characters of my own creation. I know these people like they were old friends, which in a sense they are. In writing a novel it's paramount that the readers feel as though they know the characters as well. So they have to be “well-drawn.” I’m working on it.

Hey, did you know I’m getting a pacemaker? Yup. Within the next couple of months I go under the knife, so to speak. I’m fine about the whole thing. Anytime you have a “surgical procedure” there are risks but one feels more confident when the “procedure” doesn’t even require you to spend the night in the hospital and you can go running around again in a couple of days.

I have atrial fibrillation which means that the ole ticker has occasional flurries of beating too rapidly with occasional short pauses when it rests. It hasn’t kept me from doing anything, in fact I’ve been working out as usual. But it can get worse and that’s trouble.

Anyone else watching and enjoy Better Call Saul? One of the great TV shows of all time is ending next Monday. I’m on pins and needles (very uncomfortable). I’d write more about the show but it would mostly be a series of adjectives in the nature of “outstanding” “great” “amazing” “compelling” “fascinating.” Maybe — as I did with Breaking Bad — I can give a more nuanced assessment at a later date. It'll be hard to know where to start with a veritable universe like BCS's. So much credit (perhaps the lion's share) has to go to creator and show runner, Vince Gilligan. But the actors....Bob Odenkirk and Rhea Seehorn are (glowing adjective) but then so is the whole cast. 

Recently watched Licorice Pizza (2021) Anderson again. It was number two on my top ten lists of films for 2021. Drive My Car (2021) Hamaguchi was numero uno — when it became available on DVD I immediately pre-ordered a copy which arrived a few weeks ago. Re-watching these films affirmed to me that they worthy of the top two spots. I’ll not say more about either now as again I’d be rattling off a string of adjectives. One thing I took note of with Licorice Pizza is the obvious joy that director Paul Thomas Anderson took in creating the picture. His ebullience came through, making it a damn fun movie to watch. Drive My Car is a masterpiece. It's just under three hours long yet flies by.

Elsewhere in my life... I still have to endure the pain of depression. It’s a bastard. Everything in your world can be jake but that melancholia wraps its tentacles around you just the same. Then everything you’ve done, are doing or are going to do seems meaningless and stupid. The most pleasant of memories is shrouded in blackness and the good feelings that should imbue your spirit are blown into the ether. What a terrible affliction. Anyway, it’s not currently here so best to put it out of my mind.

Ending on a more pleasant note: puppies, ducks, kittens, moose, cool breezes, hot tea, hugs, kisses, fist bumps, breakfast, lunch, dinner, Better Call Saul, Only Murders in the Building, The Beatles, your favorite team winning.

The Blog and I Have a Chat

Me: Hi, blog, how ya doin?

Blog: Pretty good. So does this mean another entry?

Me: I guess.

Blog: You don’t exactly seem enthusiastic.

Me: It’s just that I —

Blog: It’s just that you’re obsessed with your latest novel.

Me: As a matter of fact….

Blog: Don’t feel bad, I understand. A novel is a big deal.

Me: Especially one like my latest that’s twice as long as anything I’ve ever written before. It covers a period of nearly eight years and has what I guess you could call a large cast.

Blog: Lot to keep track of, eh?

Me: Yup. Why just yesterday I realized that one of the characters —

Blog: Yeah, I don’t really want any details, I kind of thought this would be about me.

Me: You know I love you dear blog. You’ve been my faithful friend since I birthed you over fourteen years ago.

Blog: I’ve never doubted your love.

Me: I sensed there was going to be a “but” attached to that last sentence. If there’s anything more that you’ve got to say, spill it.

Blog: I feel like I’m starting to be an obligation to you.

Me: No.

Blog: Let’s look at how many entries you’ve had so far this year.

Me: Fifty-four. That’s not bad. I’m on pace to have close to one hundred for the year. About average.

Blog: Okay, now look at how many you’ve had each month. I’ll save you the trouble. Eight. Every single month. Like clockwork. Never seven or six, never nine or ten. Eight exactly. If you post this you’ll have seven for July with three days left in the month which will probably mean an eighth entry. That’ll make seven consecutive months of eight entires. 

Me: Wow.
Blog: Yeah, wow is right.

Me: So what do you think it means?

Blog: That either consciously or subconsciously you’re filling a quota. There’s no spontaneity to it, like writing here is an obligation. 

Me: I’ll admit that there’ve been a lot of times in the past few months when I’ve struggled for content, especially as I’m teaching a class every morning. 

Blog: Maybe we should take a break.

Me: A break? Won’t that be hard on you?

Blog: Oh, I’ll survive. There are 1,460 posts in the archive.

Me: I’ve been prolific.

Blog: Here you have been, on my sister blog, you’ve been pretty neglectful.

Me: I haven’t been writing enough poetry, that’s true.

Blog: I just want to get you thinking about things.

Me: Ya know, blog, you’ve always been really thoughtful.

Blog: That’s a reflection on you, after all, you’re the creator.

Me: Besides giving things a good think, what should I take away from this conversation?

Blog: Writing should come from the soul, the heart. Unless you’re a professional writer, like say on a newspaper, it shouldn’t be obligatory (email responses aside). Maybe start by NOT writing eight entires this month. Leave it at this one for July. Seven. Unless of course you’re inspired by something. Maybe next month you’ll write only five or six, maybe ten or eleven. But let it be organic.

Me: You’re right.

Blog: Good lad. By the way, how’s the novel going? When do you think it’ll be done?

Me: I’ve been at it since December ’20, closing in on two years. But I’ll be ready to show it to my editor in less than a month. So I’m finally feeling like there’s an end in sight.

Blog: Cool. The excerpts you’ve published here have been good so I look forward to seeing the full completed book.

Me: I’m loving the process. Enjoy every minute.

Blog: Good for you. Now have that kind of love when you write here.

Me: I will, I promise.

Blog: You’re the best.

Me: No, you are.

Blog: I guess we’ll have to agree to disagree.

Me: I disagree.

Blog: Oh stop it. (Laughs.)

Me: We crack each other up.

Blog: That’s as it should be.

Me: Later

Blog: See ya, pal.

The Mysterious Julie Yuan

A student at the university named Julie Yuan wanted to interview me for the school paper. She contacted me through my publisher as I otherwise made myself difficult to find. I didn’t grant interviews anymore having become bored with the repetitious questions. I also fancied the notion of becoming something of a mystery to my readers ala JD Salinger. After my first novel was published I’d happily spoken to every newspaper, magazine, podcaster, blogger and organization who requested an interview. But once I had three more critically-acclaimed, award-winning novels to my name I forswore book tours, festivals and press requests. It was suggested that I was becoming a crusty old hermit and I’d no intention of disabusing anyone of that notion. Yet I felt a certain loyalty to my alma mater and figured that this one interview, my first in ten years, would be the exception that made it a rule. I gave her my phone number.

When Julie Yuan showed up at my door I was immediately taken by how she managed to somehow be simultaneously cute and sexy. My wife had left me a few months prior so I’d been quite randy recently, but even so had no thoughts of seduction. She was approximately half my age and had the look of  a virgin. Maybe it was her being Asia-American that convinced me of her innocence. I’d give the young lady an hour of my time — as promised — nothing more.

But the hour-long interview stretched into two. After patiently answering questions about my writing process, influences, inspirations, and my love of privacy, we drifted into personal topics. Julie was now doing a lion’s share of the talking. I learned that she was twenty-years-old, had emigrated with her family to the United States from Taiwan when she was six, was an English major who wrote a column for the campus paper, had two older brothers one of whom had died in a skydiving mishap, the other was an optometrist. Her parents ran a produce store in the city. She even revealed that she had only started dating as a senior in high school. 

Julie further confessed to having had sex exactly once (ONCE!) then being “ghosted” by her seducer. “I’ve been leery of guys ever since.” I don’t recall what prompted her confession but I found it endearing. 

I didn’t end the interview with Julie when we strayed off topic as I should have. There was something beguiling about this sweet, sincere kid. She was clearly intelligent, if a naif.

When the conversation finally stalled I had my opening to see Julie to the door and wish her well. I’d enjoyed our conversation having had so few since Myrna left me, but it was time to get back to my labors. Yet…

Instead of making my excuses I said: “I’m rather hungry and don’t feel like cooking. Would you care to share a pizza with me?”

“Awesome, I’m famished.”

What have I done? I wondered. Surely it was loneliness that prompted the invitation. After so many nights alone, the company of a young woman would be a welcome change.

We continued to chat after I ordered the pizza. Then I made an even bigger mistake by offering her something to drink. “I have beer, wine, mineral water — ”

“I’d love a glass of wine,” she said with far too much enthusiasm.

I poured the girl a glass then opened a bottle of beer for myself. 

Julie made short work of her glass so — again, stupidly — I re-filled her glass. Yes, I was being a polite host but I was also getting the little darling drunk.

By the time the pizza arrived she’d had three glasses and I’d polished off two beers.

We ate companionably. My guest was now comfortable enough (or tipsy enough) to refill her own glass which she did repeatedly. In an evident effort not to be outdone, I had beer after beer, something I wasn’t used to. I was feeling the effects.

After eating, Julie rose, took me by the hand and led me back to the sofa where we’d conducted the earlier interview. Both of the following two sentences are true: There was something chaste about the way she held my hand. There was something erotic about the way she held my hand. But most of all I was struck by her boldness.

So used to being in control in my life, I was at a loss about how to feel and wondered what would happen next.

Rather than position herself at the far end of the sofa as she’d done earlier, Julie sat beside me. Our thighs were touching. I could smell her hair. I could smell her neck. I could smell her deodorant. I could — I swear — smell her sex.

Every fiber of my being was either telling me to stop whatever it was that seemed to be starting or urging me to sate my lust.

Fifteen minutes later, after fourteen minutes of passionate necking, we were in my bed, under my covers, not a stitch on between us, fucking like the world was on fire.

It’s impossible to compare orgasms, yet the first one I had with Julie Yuan unquestionably tops them all. Yes, I said the first one.

For her part Julie was totally satisfied by our coupling. This was expressed both by her cries of love and the unqualified praise she heaped on me in the aftermath. The flattery was most welcome.

I knew that I should have felt terrible guilt for what I’d done. It was indefensible. But I’d broken no laws and Julie had not only consented to the act, she’d instigated it. I had used a condom so an unwanted pregnancy was not a concern. But wasn’t it terribly wrong to fuck someone so much younger? 

I should have felt guilt — but I didn’t. Indeed I felt fantastic. I hadn’t had a lover since Myrna left and had begun wondering if I ever would again. Plus I genuinely liked Julie, ingenue that she was.

At my suggestion, Julie spent the night. This allowed us an encore performance before I fell into a deep, contented slumber. My first good sleep in weeks. All seemed well in the morning when we showered together then had breakfast (Julie made an omelet). We said our goodbyes with Julie promising to call. 

Yes, everything was fine. I had a lover, never mind her youth. Until such time as I met a more suitable companion I could satisfy my carnal desires with a supple and willing young woman who was beautiful and smart. Yes, there was the risk of her being hurt in the long run, but surely she was wise enough to know that what we had couldn’t last.

Inspired, I wrote prodigiously and brilliantly that day. I went for a late afternoon run, showered, opened a beer and waited for Julie to call.

She didn’t.

This was strange because she’d left me with the very definite impression that she’d phone in the evening. At 8:00 I called her.

No answer.

I tried again, this time leaving a message: “Julie, hi, looking forward to seeing you again. Call when you can. Hope you had a good day.”

Surely that would do the trick. 

I was growing drowsy while reading when I noted that it was nearly eleven and my new-found love hadn’t called. I worried that something may have happened to her but thought I should wait another twenty-fours before acting on my concerns. Anyway, she'd call tomorrow.

She didn’t

Instead of calling again, I texted. 

There was no response.

By mid-afternoon the next day I was desperate to see Julie again. I decided to pay a visit to the school newspaper office in hopes that they could help me locate her.

They’d never heard of the girl.

She’d lied about working for a college newspaper in order to interview me?

Oh God! You don’t suppose she really wrote for the high school newspaper and had lied about her age. I was in a panic. Back home I called the office of the high school newspaper. No Julie Yuan there. Thank God.

I looked up local produce stores finding one owned by a Victor Yuan. I called and asked about Julie.

Who? Victor asked.

You don’t have a daughter named, Julie?

You’re all mixed up fella, he told me.

What in the fuck?

Julie had told me a series of lies. 

Julie? Maybe that wasn’t even her name. Her outgoing message merely said, “hi, leave a message.” No name. Were I to launch an investigation into who and where she was I’d not have anything to go on.

I sat in my house as darkness fell. I was bereft. Victimized. A little bit angry, a lot sad. The odd thing was that whoever this imposter was, I desperately wanted to see her again. If she walked though my front door right then I’d have taken her in my arms then made love to her.

That conviction was soon tested when my phone rang.

“Hi,” she said cheerily. “It’s Julie!”

Such enthusiasm.

What to do? Confront her? Beg her to come over? Act the innocent. I couldn’t decide so simply said, “hello.”

“Sorry I didn’t call you back sooner. Been busy with classes and at the paper. Plus my folks needed me to help out at the store.”

The brazenness!

At least two of her excuses were bald-faced lies. It was too much, I couldn’t let this stand.

“Julie you don’t work at the school paper and you don’t have parents who own a produce store.”

There was a pause during which if it were actually possible to, I would have died of curiosity. Would she fess up and explain herself? Or compound the lies? Maybe she’d realize the jig was up and end the call.

But no. Julie Yuan (or whoever) was full of surprises.

“Can I come over so we can fool around?”

“I assume we’ll talk first.”

“For sure!”

“Okay,” I said meekly, realizing that despite it all I was weak at the knees at the thought of making love to this angel again.

“I’m right outside.” 

The next sound I heard was her knocking at my front door.

This is weird and interesting, I thought.

Julie Yuan walked into my house and without a word started kissing me. I was powerless to resist. 

She maneuvered me to the sofa, sat me down then pulled off her clothes, prompting me to do the same. The sweet innocent girl who’d interviewed me a few days prior had transformed into a seductress. I loved it.

We fucked on the floor, knocking over my coffee table in the process.

After, we wordlessly went to bed.

Finally she spoke. “Let me know when you’re ready for round two.”

“Who ARE you?”

“My name is Julie Yuan.”

“Is it really?”

“I promise.”

“Why all the lies?”

“I didn’t lie about you being my favorite writer.”

“Did you lie about having had only one previous sexual encounter.’

“Oh most definitely,” she answered with a laugh.

“That doesn’t surprise me given how…” 

“Given what?”

“Just the way you are.” (I meant in bed.)

“Thanks — I guess.”

“Why the other lies and what is your real story?”

“Hush,” Julie said while placing a hand gently over my mouth.

Julie Yuan never told anything more about herself. Not whether she had a job or went to school or where she was from or her actual age or where she lived. She visited several nights a week for three months. We always made love, we always showered together and she always made breakfast. But I learned nothing about her nor why she’d lied. I thought about going through her purse while she was in the bathroom but couldn’t bring myself to it. Why? Was I afraid of what I’d find? I accepted the mystery realizing that it added to my passion for Julie. My constant desire for her was all encompassing.

I had no idea where she went or what she did when she was not with me. She never answered her calls or texts. I thought of following her but it seemed too strange.

Finally one morning she announced: “I have to move on.”

“What?”

“I’ve had a lot of fun with you but it’s time.”

“No! Why?”

“Because it’s time, silly. You’ve been great. This has been great but it’s time.”

“I’ll marry you!” I was desperate but meant it just the same.

“You would, really?”

My hopes up, I said, “yes as soon as possible. Today, even.”

“That’s so sweet.”

“So what do you say?” I wasn’t in love so much as I was addicted.

“Let me go for a walk and think about it.”

I never saw her again.

A private investigator I hired couldn’t find a clue as to who Julie Yuan was or where she’d gone.

It was two years ago today that I last saw her. I received a postcard from Hawaii in the mail this morning. “Hi! Been thinking of you. We had great times. If you’re ever in Honolulu look me up. I’m still single and my name really is Julie Yuan.”

I’ll be on flight to Hawaii first thing tomorrow morning.

I Like Moose, Nobody Wants to See Your Wordle Score, Poets, Bergman, TV and the Ruination of a Sport, All in One Wild and Wacky Post

A moose.

I like moose and I’m trying to figure out why anyone wouldn’t. They're lovely creatures. Not quite majestic nor regal, even a little dorky in a powerfully-built sort of way. I understand that some people hunt them. Why? What kind of sicko gets pleasure out of killing a beautiful animal? If you need to hunt them for food, fine but otherwise just take their picture and admire them. I like looking at photos of moose and follow an account on instagram dedicated to posting them. They can be dangerous if provoked so don't provoke them. Also, don't try to feed them. Leave a moose alone and you're fine. I think they’re pretty cool.

Anne Sexton and Sylvia Plath are two of my favorite poets. Both committed suicide. Plath had multiple lovers before marrying, Sexton had numerous affairs while married. Both had abusive husbands. Both were trailblazers as poets and women. I’m reading about them now in a book called Three-Martini Afternoons at the Ritz: The Rebellion of Sylvia Plath & Anne Sexton. I find them fascinating, brave women who led tragic but meaningful lives. The book I'm reading about them is good. It was written by Dr. Gail Crowther.

Ingmar Bergman was married five times, had children with each wife and one with a lover, the actress and his frequent muse, Liv Ullman. In addition to Ms. Ullman, Bergman had affairs with Bibi Anderson and Harriet Anderson (no relation) who both appeared in many of his films. Strike the word monogamous from Bergman’s dictionary but underline insatiable. I've had my hands full with one wife and zero lovers on the side. How he managed it all while being such a prolific director is beyond me.

I’m loving the final season of Better Call Saul, one of the great TV dramas of all time. There are four episodes left. I anxiously await the appearances of Walter White and Jesse Pinkman. I’ve also been given to understand that Carol Burnett appears on the show. BCS is from the same people who brought us Breaking Bad so you know they won't disappoint in the finale. I'll be sad to see it end but certainly have enjoyed the ride.

Speaking of TV I’m also enjoying season two of the brilliant comedy Only Murders in the Building. Martin Short and Steve Martin (or Steve Short as they could be called) are howlingly funny and Selena Gomez as their fellow podcaster and crime solver is equal to the task of holding her own among two geniuses of comedy.

I’ve never heard a satisfactory explanation for why some folks post their Wordle scores. I’ve been playing since the end of January and never thought for a second to waste anyone’s time thusly. I often discuss Wordle with oldest daughter but other than that keep it to myself because frankly why should anyone care about my score? Yet you’ll see people posting their day’s result on Twitter. Might as well keep a public diary of when you clip your toenails.

One of the great loves of my life for many years was college football. I’ve been a fan of Cal football since I was a wee tyke (such suffering) and enjoyed the pomp, pageantry and most of all the traditions. But the sport has been systematically ruined over the past twenty-five years or so. All in the pursuit of more dollars. Rivalries have been ended. Conferences have lost their geographic meaning and been eviscerated. Bowl games have saturated the market and the older ones have lost decade long tie-ins with conferences. Kick-off times are often not decided until a week before the game and too many games are at night. The straw that likely broke the camel’s back is the PAC 12 conference (of which my beloved Golden Bears are a member) losing two of its original schools, U$C and UCLA, both of whom are moving to the Big Ten (giving them sixteen schools despite the name). The two southern California schools are two of Cal’s three rivals (along with Stanfurd). This will have a devastating impact on the conference as a whole and Cal in particular. The loss of revenue will be staggering. People in the know speculate that the Bears' only chance of survival (yes, it’s that bad) is to also join the Big Ten — if they are wanted there. College football is a mere shadow of what it used to be and it is looking to get even worse. The big schools will survive and prosper (the rich getting richer in the US? Who’d have thought it). The situation constantly reminds of the song, Look What They’ve Done to My Song by Melanie. “Look what they’ve done to my song ma, it was the only thing that I could do half right but it’s turning out all wrong…” The more things change the worse they get. I can’t even escape the pain and heartache of the world today through college football anymore. Bad news is everywhere. 

At least there are photos of moose to look at.

Honoring My Wife and My Great Love For Her

My wife in Mendocino November '79

If nothing else in my life I’ve learned what loving someone feels like. No one has ever loved a person more than I do my wife of thirty-five years.  One hardly knows where to start in describing her. Beauty. Kindness. Warmth. Wisdom. Wit. Sensuality. Intelligence. There’s that beautiful voice. That beguiling smile. Those warm greetings. Her culinary skills. Her understanding and compassion. Her encyclopedic knowledge of popular culture from the Sixties through today. Her political awareness. Her passion for comforting the afflicted while afflicting the comforted. The list goes on.

My wife has always wished to remain anonymous on this blog and on social media in general. I respect that wish (meanwhile I’ve been inclined to share anything and everything about myself.) Of course I’ve made constant reference to her over the years on this blog, often as “missus,” a term meant to be of endearment. 

Tomorrow is a milestone birthday for my “better half” one that ends in a zero (just the one). She wants no gifts, no special celebrations, nothing more than dinner out. This is a woman with great pride but no ego. While she takes her views seriously and has always worked hard whether in the job she’s retired from or in caring for the household, my wife has always deflected attention from her self. She is truly selfless. 

Besides being — in my estimation — the world’s greatest wife — she also has no superior as a parent. My daughters couldn’t have asked for a better more loving, supportive mother and wouldn’t, I’m sure, think of doing so.

I recall vividly the first time I saw my future wife in the Fall of 1978. “Tall, beautiful, hippie chick” was my instant assessment. I subsequently got to chat with her and concluded that she was one of those rare women who were “out of my league.” I was thus stunned when I later realized that she “liked liked” me. Rapturous. Courting her was no easy proposition for as much as she liked me, she was not ready to commit. We both moved at various times to other parts of the country (we met in Chico) me to Sacramento then Boston, she to Santa Barbara. It wasn’t until the Spring of 1985 that she joined me in Berkeley. Two years later we married, making me the luckiest man on the planet, a distinction I still hold.

There have been bumps on the road, most of my own construction. But, corny as it sounds, true love conquers all. As a couple we have survived my missteps and she has weathered my emotional struggles giving me strength, love and support. Being on life’s journey with her has been an incredible privilege and joy. 

I’m not giving her birthday present tomorrow because she doesn’t want one. I hope she will accept this heartfelt declaration of my love instead. 

A Streams Classic: Trying to Live Up to My Remembrances of the Past, The Sixties Redux

Jimi Hendrix at Woodstock

This post originally appeared in October 2012.

I gave a talk on the 1960s a few days ago. It was called: The 1960s, The Music, The Protests and Me. I felt good about it. I felt energized. I felt that I lived in a magical time in a magical place and seen amazing things happen. I'd seen hippies, the National Guard, tear gas canisters, the world through LSD. I'd heard anti-war chants. Beatles records on vinyl that I bought new for $3. I felt excited and hopeful and like all things were possible. I felt there was a chance to change everything. I grew to be disappointed that only some things were changed. I grew to appreciate that which did change. I grew angry and cynical and morose. I grew out of that to wax nostalgic and to re-visit Joplin and Hendrix and Neil Young and The Who.

I saw Watergate and said: that figures. I saw Vietnam end and said: it's about time. I saw Reagan elected president and said: oh no. I saw disco come and go and said: dance, dance dance the night away. I saw an end to my own over indulging and said: thank you.  I saw my children born and said: this is fantastic. I saw the U.S. invade Iraq and said: here we go again. I saw a middle school classroom for 18 years and said many many things. Now I see how things have been and understand some and not others. I am glad to be able to remember what I do and wish that I could have been a better passenger for the first decades of my trip through life. I learned to accept what I cannot change and not have regrets not have resentments and to try to be honest at all times in all things. I learned there are worse things than run on sentences.

The same view I had

I gave a talk on the 60s a few days ago. The Beatles were singing, people tripping, soldiers dying (when, oh when, don't they?) and a helicopter flew over my head pouring tear gas on us. I was in high school, cut class and headed for the demonstrations on the Cal campus. On the way through campus large men in bright blue uniforms in full riot gear hid behind shrubbery, they were as obvious as the sand in a desert. We chanted, we yelled, we exercised the U.S. Constitution. Gave that mother a good work out. Then a helicopter appeared with the white clouds flowing out of unto us. An indelible moment in a young man's life. Lo these many years later the sound of a helicopter has a special meaning to me and not a pleasant one.

We ran.

I escaped the clutches of arresting officers and made my way back to school, the day's lesson learned on a college campus.

I spoke of this the other day. I spoke of Woodstock, Altamont, the Domino Theory, Nixon, Johnson and the Haight Ashbury. I write of it now. I write of belief. So powerful to have a belief system and values. A code we live by and up to and with and never ever -- if we can -- ignore. If we fulfill our duties to ourselves we are doing all around us a favor. The Sixties formed me and gave me backdrop and a sense of what is important --- crazy crazy ideas like peace and love. And brotherhood and sisterhood and true equality and not tolerance but respect and holding your truths to be self-evident and not in need of facelifts. We who we are have us to become and to value and to hold dear and be and we be as we are this. This. Ourselves.

We are who we were.

I was young and smart and idealistic. 

I have a past to live up to.