Cleaning the Cache

A few days ago I took a pile of B-list belongings to a local charity and exchanged them for a tax receipt. Gone went the kind of wardrobe items that were beyond repair. Gone went the small TV that has been in my closet for three years. Gone went three pair of shoes that I loved wearing so much that the heels broke off – and even then I had them replaced, though the shoemaker warned me they would never be the same (he was right). Gone went the silk dress from Chinatown that – I’m not ready to talk about that one yet.

Living in a relatively small apartment keeps me aware of the amount of stuff I have, and though by nature I am a collector of things, I have to be choosy. The Trixie Beldens on the bookshelf will be with me forever. The Batman action figures, probably not. I can’t say how much longer I’ll hold on to the dress I wore to the Sigma Chi dance in 1989 or the fake leopard fur coat I bought later that same year. Neither gets worn but both represent something intangible that I seem to find valuable.

My need to donate, to assess what I’ve surrounded myself with, is more than charitable. It’s like clearing the cache on my computer, dumping  the bits and pieces of my web browsing history that slow up the computer’s performance or keeps old web pages visible instead of updating with newer versions. It’s a chance for me to let go of something that might be holding me back, to free up the energy that’s attached to it. It’s my theory that by letting go, we make space to let something else in, something that might otherwise go unnoticed. Opportunity or good fortune, or a pair of shoes with a Cinderella-like fit, on sale for 90% off.

I, for one, want to be ready.

Critical Mass

I have a friend who has sworn off movies that get a D rating (I believe the movie that prompted this rule was Daredevil).  I have no such rule, as can be noted by my choice of movies to see in a theater (Burlesque? Ocean’s Thirteen? Sex and the City 2???)

My Lesbian Biker Hat (or, the power of labels)

As I prepared for an upcoming trip to NYC, hearing reports of 43 degree weather, I weighed the need for a hat. Considering I live in SoCal, the hats in my closet are more sun-prohibitive than cold-prohibitive, but a careful inventory left me with three distinct choices:

Flute Lessons

I took flute lessons in grade school, and I imagine that when I was starting out, I was like every other grade-school instrument-playing kid: a challenge to the patience of my instructor. My lessons took place once a week, during the school year, and the practice I invested in learning my craft from week to week was, let’s just say, defined minimal.

Learning to be Flexible

The movie Easy Come, Easy Go features the musical number “Yoga is as yoga does”. It’s one of my favorite silly songs from an Elvis movie and not just because he mentions pretzels. The setup is that Elvis stumbles into a yoga class in pursuit of a girl and very quickly discovers that he doesn’t fit in.

Director's Cut

Have you ever rented a movie that proclaims itself to be the “Director’s Cut”? And if it’s a movie you’ve seen before (more than once) have you noticed what was different? Have you ever wondered why it wasn’t released like this to begin with?

Stupid is as Stupid Does

I had a math teacher in eighth grade who charged his students a ten cent fine for making a stupid mistake on a test.  Things like adding four + three and getting twelve.  Forgetting to carry the one.  Solving an equation for X instead of Y.  Ethical or not, a year’s worth of ten cent errors from the class bought us a pizza party in the spring.  From this, I learned two important lessons:


1)      Stupid mistakes will cost you
2)      If you make enough stupid mistakes, you get pizza

For the purposes of this blog, I’ll focus on point #1.

If Age is a State of Mind, Why Do My Joints Crack When I Stand Up?

I have been told that I don’t look my age.  I’ve also been told that I don’t act my age.  But lately, my body has made a point of reminding me that I AM my age.*  If I were to stand up right now, something would snap, crackle, or pop.  Maybe all three.  And the problem is, there’s not a darn thing I can do about it.

Mayhem is the New Marlboro Man

There are definite emotions connected to the idea that you are no longer a part of the target spending demographic that most commercials are trying to reach.  Annoyance, at stupid ads that other people might think are funny.  Exasperation, that you have to sit through this stuff, waiting for your show to return.  Anger, that advertising execs have no idea who you are. 

And then, just when you start to question if your opini

on is still relevant, along comes Mayhem. 

You Can't Look Tough When You're Holding Cheetos

Last week I was sitting at an intersection in West Hollywood, waiting for the light to change. A guy strode across the street in front of me. His look: heavily tattooed, black jeans, chain on the side, black boots of a combat nature. His head was shaved. He leaned forward, as if he was headed to a place of importance, or like he knew his destination point would be a better place once he arrived. All in all, everything about him but his left hand said, "I'm a seriously focused dude and you don't want to mess with me."

They're Talking Behind My Back!

I generally write first person because it comes so naturally to me.  Plus, my characters get to discover info when I do, which makes for a nice element of spontaneity.  But lately, as I sit down to figure out what exactly is going on in my manuscript, I've noticed something weird going on.  The other characters have been getting together when I wasn't looking!

Chillin' With My Decision (and the half-melted butter)

Earlier today, as I was repairing a broken shelf on my refrigerator, I found myself thinking, “if I had known that I’d still be in this apartment after four years, I would have bought the refrigerator I really wanted instead of this piece of crap.”  Only, four years ago, when I moved to Hollywood, kicking off a new life in a new apartment with a new job, my decisions were based more on a cocktail of frugality and a possible cut-my-losses-if-this-is-a-mistake plan than the innate Capricornian belief that it’s best to invest in quality.  My apartment didn’t come with a fridge, and I knew if I ended up moving, whatever fridge I spent money on would most likely not move with me.  I bought the opening price point model from Sears, on sale, and that was that.  But had I known…

It Started With A Gallon of Yellow Paint

A couple of months ago I got the itch to paint my dining room yellow (1) I also wanted to spruce up the office, which is next to the dining room, but I didn’t want a yellow office.  I wanted an aqua office.  And as long as I’m talking about what I wanted, I wanted a round doorway like the kind you start to believe are very common if you watch a lot of movies from the sixties.

Yeah, right.

Time for Something New

I've been blogging here, pretty much every Tuesday, for a couple of years now, and while I like the chance to expound upon whatever it was that struck my fancy over the previous week, it seems like it's time for a change.  My initial motivation for blogging was to teach myself deadlines, get comfortable sharing my writing with the world, and try to connect with others in the blogosphere.  I accomplished those things. 

Detective and Buyer: More Alike Than You'd Think

An interesting thing occurred to me this past weekend while I was attending Homicide School.  that is, the similarity in skill sets between a detective and a retail buyer.  Sure, you have two very different jobs that have two very different intentions and outcomes (also very different wardrobes.  Refer to a fashion buyer's outfit as "plain clothes"? Never!) but consider a couple of similarities: