Thursday, September 18, 2014

Not going gentle.

I saved, permanently, my dad's voice messages today.

It was the hardest thing I've done since his funeral.

See, if I didn't save them, there was no need to save them.  There was the fantasy that there would be more of them.  That these were not so precious.

The loss of my father's voice is as difficult for me as the loss of my father.

Next week: ny prep.

Wednesday, September 10, 2014

A voice in the wilderness.

I have a dilemma.

I need to change to Verizon.  Because AT&T sucks.

But before I can do that, I have to back up my phone.

But before I can back up my phone, I need to permanently save my voice messages from Burt.
Which I haven't been able, emotionally, to do.  For almost 13 months.

Instead, I'm ordering in Italian (food) & drinking chardonnay & watching the Adriana episode of the Sopranos.  B/c it's easier.  In a way.

On Hello & Good Buck, the roller coaster.

Next week: Forget it Holly Jake, it's Chinatown.

Saturday, August 9, 2014

I'm with the banned.

I've made something else I'm gonna have to ban from my apartment:

Coq au Vin.

It took about 18 pots & pans, a cheesecloth bouquet di garni, and special wine from the Rhone Valley that the Whole Foods wine guy helped me pick out.

8 hours later, I'd eaten half the contents of my Le Creuset—a meal that was purportedly enough for 4 people.  I had also picked up the chicken in my bare mits (not very French) and sucked every last morsel of meat from the bones.
It's too good.  Banned.

Today I will hike in Redwood Park and think about what I've done.  And then I will go home and eat the other half of the Coq au Vin.

On Hello and Good Bucka glimpse into dating.

Next week: Yo Yo plays the Bach Suites.

Friday, August 1, 2014

Coulda, wood-a, shoulda.

I've been wondering what's wrong with me.  I went to Redwood Park & realized I'm coming up on the 1st anniversary of my dad's death.

You remember the stuff you were doing a year ago.  For instance: I was in Moab, for some godforsaken reason.  I was in Moab when my dad was slipping, when he was forgetting his words.  When I got back to Oakland, he was days away from falling, days away from hospice.  We would talk on the phone and he'd cry.  He'd hang up on me.

I never want to go back to Moab, ever again.  But I do feel like going to Redwood Park.  A lot.

On the new blog, a kind of coupling.

Next week: dunno.