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About a year ago I stopped by the campus health clinic because my ears felt like they had sucked in all the water from Niagara Falls and so I figured I had another ear or sinus infection and would need antibiotics. The doctor told me my ears were fine, they would clear up on their own, but my blood pressure was extremely high.

The next day I returned to the clinic for a blood test to check my cholesterol, which later turned out to be really high, too. The doctor gave me a once over and told me in a superior tone that I needed to exercise more. Then he referred me to a nutritionist.

After that I became Mr. Health Freak. I stopped eating foods with too much sugar. No more brownies, no more Hostess cupcakes, no more drenching my pancakes with boysenberry syrup. I stopped using salt, sugar, drinking sodas, eating scoops of fudge from a jar, and I lowered my coffee intake to two cups a day as opposed to three an hour.

A few months after that I dropped in for another blood test. My cholesterol had gone down significantly and the blood pressure had dropped to a relatively safe zone. But the doctor told me I still needed to exercise. Rats, I thought.

Then came summertime.

After my trip to France, where I completely disregarded everything above and topped it off with McDonald's cheeseburgers everyday (because I'm not the biggest fan of French food...sorry to those in France who read this blog), I came back to the States and paid another visit to the health clinic. Let me tell you, it wasn't pretty.

Of course I got really angry. All that work and I was back to square one. And so what did I do? I said, No way am I going back to that clinic again. They must've screwed my test up! Those bastards just want my five dollars! But then I started actually feeling the effects of the high blood pressure. Usually after eating. And then at night in bed I would literally feel my heart pounding in my chest to the point that it was impossible to sleep.

So I decided to go back to my vigorous nutritional regime and I donned my Mr. Health Freak cap again and started eating oatmeal every day and I cut out all the sweets... But what really helped, and what prompted me to write this blog that has now become entirely too long, was the exercise machine that my mom and her husband, Rick, gave me as a graduation gift. It's called the Gazelle, and I love it! Since I've been using it my heart no longer tries to burst from my chest cavity like that creature on Alien, my stomach has visibly tightened, my legs are now trés Schwarzenegger, my arms are Popeye-esque, and my face no longer looks like an albino pumpkin.

I've never felt healthier!

Weekly Tally...

I had planned to begin this yesterday but it slipped my mind. I don't know why, it's not as though I have a life or anything. Anyway, every Monday I'm going to report the number of words I've written for my novel. The goal is 60,000 words before August 23rd. I think I can do it. But maybe keeping a tally on my blog will help me meet that lofty mark.

I generally break up long works in word documents of 6 chapters each, so here goes:

• Chapters 1-6: 10,064 words; 53 pages
• Chapters 7-12: 11,742 words; 61 pages
• Chapters 13-18: 691 words; 4 pages (in progress)

Grand Total: 22,497 words; 118 pages

Okay, back to writing!

Anyone Up for a Swim...?

Okay, there have now been two shark attacks off Florida's coast. And this recent one was a young boy who was fishing in waist-deep water. The shark nearly severed his leg!

No way, baby! I just barely got over my fear of swimming in the pool at night. You won't catch me in these shark infested waters.

Me: A Local Celebrity...Not!

Apparently someone at the Fresno Bee (local newspaper) happened upon my blog concerning Junebugs and decided to mention it (and link to me) on the Bee's website. Don't I feel special. It's actually pretty cool, as well as revolting. You'll see what I mean when you check it out.

The Next Day in the Life of a Writer...

An update on Doritos chick: I didn't have to resort to evil measures to claim my desk back because the employees at CSUF sort of unintentionally fixed the problem. You see, they're building a new library and so the old one's coming down. But first they need to pack up the books and send them to a warehouse. Apparently my desk was in the way, so they removed it. It's no big deal because I found a much better spot on the fourth floor where absolutely no one goes. So not even Doritos chick can find me now, the little harlot.

A Day in the Life of a Writer...

For the past three weeks I've gone to the CSUF library at 10am and left at 5 in the afternoon. And every day I sit in the same desk on the second floor in a corner of the stacks hidden behind about thirty rows of books. The reason I sit at this same desk is because it is the ONLY desk by a window overlooking the Peace Garden which has an outlet for my laptop. And since my laptop battery has a life of roughly two hours, I MUST sit at this particular desk.

Also for the past three weeks an Asian girl has sat at the desk just in front of me. And since there is no wall behind her, she doesn't have an outlet. But this isn't a problem because she doesn't use a laptop. Rather, she spends her time crunching numbers on a calculator and sneaking bites of potato chips even though it's forbidden to eat in the library.

A few days ago, Monday to be precise, I showed up at the library at my usual time of 10am and guess who was sitting at MY desk?!? Yes, that rotten little potato chip cruncher! I couldn't believe it! I was happily rounding the corner, all set to write a new chapter in my novel, when I noticed MY chair wasn't pushed in and there was a bright red backpack hanging off the back.

So, naturally, I was pissed. I sat in front of her but it was difficult to concentrate; all I could think about was the nerve of that little floozy who'd filched my spot. And to make matters worse I could hear her crunching happily away behind me as if to rub it in.

The next day I showed up an hour earlier and sprinted up the stairs and past the many rows of books to my EMPTY desk. I was going to do a little victory dance but then I remembered the camera in the corner and decided to do all my celebrating internally. And boy was I! Unfortunately, the little Asian thief never showed so I was deprived of the excessive gloating I had planned for her

Today, however, was a different story. I showed up at 10am and the smiley Doritos chick was back in my spot. So once again I sat in front of her and seethed for a good twenty minutes before I could get into my story. So tomorrow I plan to show up early again. I might even bring some fart spray. Oh yeah, and maybe some gooey yellow slime that I can spread all over the desk. That's it! I'll pretend to be really sick, sneezing and coughing and farting. Then I'll cover the desk in slime!

Doritos chick is going down!!

Bugs, She Bugs, It Bugs...

BUGS:

It must suck to be a bug. Normally I watch out for them while I'm walking. I've even come close to throwing my back out just to avoid stepping on an ant. It just sucks for them. But today I was wearing flip-flops and power walking to the library (yes, I write on Sundays, too) and I felt something wet and gushy under my big toe. I instinctively kicked off my flip flop because it felt so grotesque, like stepping on a rotten grape (this happens a lot in Fresno). Then I saw the damaged carcass lying prostrate on the sidewalk. He was a wreck and I couldn't tell what he used to be--perhaps a beetle. His little black feelers were wilted and his damaged legs were clawing uselessly as something white and gooey oozed from his stomach. And I thought: I did that. So I imagined he was a terrorist and continued on my merry way.

SHE BUGS:

Shannen Doherty really is a jerk. When I was a glorified extra on Beverly Hills 90210, I heard all the horror stories about Shannen and thought they were probably all just rumors started by jealous girls. Supposedly she refused to film one day because there was an extra who was wearing a blouse that she'd worn on a previous episode. She refused to come out of her trailer until the girl changed shirts. So this one time I was taking advantage of the excellent snacks off the set and when I was full I tried to exit the room through a door that swung both ways. Unfortunately someone was pushing on the other side. Double unfortunate was that Shannen was the pusher. And when she saw me she gave me the nastiest look I think I've ever received in my life. I remember looking back as she stalked off and thinking I could give her a swift kick in the ass right now. But then I sort of wanted to keep my job.

IT BUGS:

Something CapnJack wrote in the comments section made me think a bit about the slang we use and how it evolves over time. I guess once you're out of high school it's kind of difficult to stay "with it." Like when I was in school I said things like gnarly, radical (later shortened to "rad"), totally tubular, gag me with a spoon, for sure. If someone was put in their place you told them they'd been "faced" or "facial scrubbed." And this was almost always accompanied by a hand over the face. Sometimes kids would offer their hand out to shake but at the last moment they'd pull it away and say, "Syke." But then there comes a point when you're just not cool if you continue using those words. That's how you can go from being totally cool to a major dweeb. I don't know about you but I find it hella messed up!

New Orleans or Bust...

Well, it's official. Petra and I are going to drive more than halfway across the country for a decent croissant. Well, our ultimate destination will be the French Quarter in swanky New Orleans. But there will be plenty to see along the way.

The trip begins in beautiful Fresno (cough) where we'll be heading out at around 8 in the morning. In other words (because I know Petra so well) we'll hit the highway around 11. It's about a ten hour drive to the Grand Canyon and we plan to hang around there for a couple of hours before hitting the road for another four hours of driving (yes, I'm serious and Petra is nuts!). Mind you, I'm talking desert driving in the middle of July so we are both slightly out of our minds.

We'll be staying over somewhere in New Mexico--probably Albuquerque, which I think is totally cool because it's where Bugs Bunny always ended up when he was trekking blindly under ground. And if you don't know what I'm talking about then, my friend, YOU ARE DEPRIVED. And you should give up your American citizenship right now and go live in Cuba.

From Albuquerque (and I cut and pasted that word because no one in their right mind should have to type it more than once in a lifetime) we will be on the road for another ten hours before we reach Dallas!! There, Petra and I will hook up with some of her friends and I will pretend that I'm in my early twenties for a few nights. And in case you're wondering, I have been practicing my dance moves in front of a full length mirror. And it's hella difficult to exorcise those geeky 1980s moves. I keep catching myself trying to do the moonwalk and flipping bangs that no longer exist out of my face.

Anyway, then a bunch of us are hopping in the car for another 8 hour drive to the mouth of the Mississippi!! Woo hoo!! And we'll stay in New Orleans for 3 or 4 days. Once we're back in Dallas I'm taking off. But screw that driving crap, I'm taking the plane. And I should arrive back in Fresno just in time to serve jury duty. Yes, those sons of raisin farmers sent me another damn summons!

Be Careful What You Wish For...

I can't tell you how many times I used to wish that I had thinner hair. I hated the way it would flare out at the sides and stick up on the top. People used to call me Alfalfa. Hairstylists groaned whenever they saw me approaching their station.

As I grew older, I started finding strands of black hair on the shower floor (and not the curly kind either). At first I figured it was because I was more observant than my younger days when I had an attention span equal to a gnat. But then I started noticing that my hair was becoming coarse like a horse's mane.

By the time I reached thirty I could see my scalp. That was when I did an about face and earnestly began wishing for my hair to return. Unfortunately it took a good twenty years for my initial wish to be granted. So now I find myself debating whether to try the newest hair growth tonic or pay a few thousand dollars for the Ken doll plugs.

During the same period that I was wishing my hair away, I was also suffering from skinny boy complex. No matter what I did I couldn't gain weight. And believe me I tried everything: fifty dollar bottles of Muscle Man, egg and peanut butter milk shakes, you name it I ate it. But I was a lost cause. And with my unruly hair I basically looked like a human dart.

That's when I started telling people how I wished that I could get really fat so I could lose weight because "losing weight was so much easier than gaining it." Boy did I regret that one. So at about the same time that my hair was committing follicle suicide, my gut was slowly creeping over my belt. At first I was happy: "Look," I would brag to my friends, "I can pinch something!"

Unfortunately the creeping belly turned into an all out Indy 500 and I started looking at myself in the mirror with utter horror. Now I practically kill myself every morning doing push ups and crunches just to stay reasonably slim. I miss the days when I could eat anything and not risk losing my belt buckle in a mass of blubber.

From now on, I promise to think before I wish. Like...I wish I would sell a short story to a magazine one of these days; I don't foresee any future trauma from that wish. And...I wish the jurors would acquit Michael Jackson. I mean...oops...

See what I mean.

Weird But True Story #1...

I must've been in the seventh grade when my friend Robin Pountney and I decided to try to meet each other in our dreams. It was during this time that the Freddy Krueger movies were all the craze. They were hella scary, but they were also extremely cool. To be able to go to sleep and hang out with someone in your dream then wake up and compare stories! That is as long as Freddy wasn't in them.

The problem was how to do it. We decided that in order for it to work we would each have to be thinking of the same place right before we went to sleep. Then we would surely dream of that place, and if we were both dreaming of the same place then we would see each other in our dreams. What could be cooler than that?

So because we were concocting this scheme in the middle of his driveway, we decided that that would be the place we'd meet. His dad had a large blue boat with a trailer attached. On the trailer was a hand winch used for launching the boat into the water. It looked like a large spool with a crank on one end, about the size of a bowling ball. Anyway, we decided the winch would be the object we focused on that night.

We said our goodbyes and eagerly headed to our homes. It was probably the first time I wasn't told to go to bed. I was so damn excited to fall asleep that it was actually pretty difficult. I kept tossing and turning, my inner eye focused on that spool of cable attached to the back of the trailer. Sometimes my mind wandered off and I'd quickly envision the winch again. I remembered wondering if Robin had fallen asleep yet. Did he forget to think of the winch? Was he already there in his dream without me?

I woke up that morning and it took me a moment to remember mine and Robin's plan. When I did I was instantly disappointed. I hadn't dreamed of the boat or the winch. Our clever scheme turned out to be a huge failure. I don't even think I dreamed at all that night.

Here's the strange part: It must've been about two years later. I had a dream that I was over at my grandma Posey's house with all my family sitting around me. It must've been my birthday because there were all sorts of presents around me. My grandma handed me a present and you'll never guess what was inside. It was the hand winch.

I woke up that morning all weirded out. Robin hadn't been in the dream but somehow the image of the winch had stayed in my brain all that time, waiting for just the right moment to make its long-awaited appearance.

Logitechnical Difficulties...

This is strange writing my blog in the morning. I was planning on a new entry last night when I discovered that my keyboard no longer worked. It's one of those Logitech cordless types so I figured the batteries had simply died. But when that turned out not to be the case my mind started coming up with all these outlandish scenarios, like maybe the keyboard got infected by some new virulent virus that sucked the life out of people's hardware. So I checked my printer and mouse for any signs of the peculiar infliction. Needless to say, they were just fine.

I finally decided that perhaps it was simply the keyboard's time. And I tried to recall the last word I typed on it before it petered out. I hoped it was a good one like love or money or sex, and not something boring like the or and or, worse, a measly period. No, that just wouldn't be right for my faithful friend. After all, we'd spent countless hours together pounding out a whole novel, not to mention a slew of short stories.

Then I perked up, realizing that a dead keyboard meant I get to buy a new one! So I started planning my shopping excursion, recalling all the times I stared lustily at someone else's nifty looking keyboard, only to return to my plain old Logitech. Now it was my turn--I could buy the new state-of-the-art keyboard loaded with all those fancy buttons that did God knows what.

So this morning I reached underneath my computer desk to unplug the Logitech receiver when I spotted a loose cable. I stared at it oddly, wondering what the heck it was for. I'm sure you've guessed already. Yeah, stupid me. And now I vaguely remember accidentally unplugging the sucker while trying to retrieve my memory stick from the back of the CPU. Oh well, it looks like I'm stuck with my ancient, but faithful, Logitech.

Errr....

LOVE MONEY SEX LOVE MONEY SEX

Rowling for Concubine...

I've been possessed by the Muse lately and I've come up with a new and exciting story idea for a novel. So every morning I head out to the university library with my laptop and write my little heart out. I used to write in cafés but then I'd get really annoyed whenever kids came in to jabber and giggle. I learned to really despise happy Asian girls. Then I thought to myself, What a grump you've become. You're barely in your thirties and you're already sneering at cheery young people!

So I got hold of myself and switched to a venue that guarantees absolute quietness. Not only that, the university has a pretty damn good wireless connection. This is excellent, for whenever I'm stuck and need to do research, I simply hit "connect" and I've the world at my fingertips, not to mention all the real live books.

Speaking of cafés, (holy tangent, Batman) I got the café idea from my good buddy J.K. Rowling. OK, we're not really that close. But a couple of years ago, when I was inflicted by Potter-itus, I decided to take a little trip to Edinburgh, Scotland. I'd read some place that J.K wrote a good portion of the Potter books in Nicolson's Café. So, of course, that was my first stop.

I had just finished writing a novel and decided it would be super cool and nerdelicious to start the sequel in the same café J.K. began her billion dollar franchise. As I walked up the old wooden steps all I could think about was that J.K. had walked these very planks. Only then she was a big nobody like me.

I was a little upset to find that the café had become a slightly fancy restaurant, but that didn't stop me from asking the hostess which table J.K. called her own. The girl gave me that oh-dear-god-it's-another-freak look, but she was nice enough to point out several tables and even mentioned that J.K. had just been there the other night for a benefit dinner. I started trembling.

I sat down in the chair and looked out the window onto a furniture store and wondered how many times J.K. had done the same thing. And did she ever think of me? I kept turning around, waiting for her to come running in, saying, "There you are, my love, my darling American. Let's make beautiful stories together." I was prepared to offer myself up as a concubine, accepting a lower status in her happy home.

Needless to say, J.K. was a no-show and I never got the opportunity to become part of her male-harem. But I did write the first few pages of the sequel and I did drink a cappuccino and I did ask the hostess to take a picture of me.

Scroll down for a pic of Nicolson's café and one of me sitting in J.K.'s chair.

Edinburgh 2 

Edinburgh