I don’t know which to blame-my new relationship with drugs, or merely the passage of time. In any case, I find myself all of a sudden obsessed with the insignificant.
One of the perks of writing an occasional column for The Malibu Times is the recognition I receive from strangers. About a year and a half ago, I wrote a piece on my lower back and to this day people I don’t know stop me at the market and ask, “How’s your back?” Lately, I say fine. My doctors have finally decided to prescribe OxyContin, the heavyweight drug that prompted the Western Hemisphere to pray for Rush Limbaugh. (By the way, a heartfelt “thanks anyway” to the lady who recommended cherry juice for spinal stenosis.) Oxy is the mother of painkillers, but the side effects are staggering. I’m not just talking about your usual Internet information: drowsiness, anxiety and death. The warning should include: Beware of preoccupation over nothing.
While aboard the treadmill at the gym this morning, I was simultaneously reading “Writing Down the Bones,” by Natalie Goldberg (I refuse to submit to doing nothing while doing nothing), a book for writers interested in becoming better ones. Fifteen minutes into my workout I came upon a concept that I felt was essential to remember. Here I am in my pocket-less sweats, racing to nowhere, and I have nothing on which to write myself an emergency note. Of course, I can always turn off the machine, step away for a moment, go to the reception desk and ask for scratch paper and pen. But that entails re-booting the monster, the original 12-step program. Whatever happened to “On/Off?” Or, if I’m feeling particularly alert I can hop off while the machine is running and hop back on again. In either case, I run the risk of failing to get my heart rate up in the moments I’ve allotted, and then it behooves me to start over and remember minutes I have left so that I don’t waste one split second more than is required by my medical staff.
Suddenly, two things occur to me, one on the heels of the other. One, why not simply dog-ear the page? And two, why is it so distasteful for me to dog-ear a page?
They’ll say about me after I’m gone: Look at those books on his shelf and not one little bitty dog-ear, what a guy.
By the way, the concept I was so anxious to remember in the book had to do with the importance of starting to write without knowing where you’re going.
Welcome to the treadmill of my mind.
The idea of blueberry fettuccine doesn’t merely give me the willies; it assaults my heritage. The normal person listening to Carlos offer the specials at Guido’s on a given night will probably just chuckle into his Scotch and consider the next item. But not me. My aesthetics gnash. And if I could, I’d summon my grandmother from the Big Stove in the sky and lead her into the kitchen by her apron strings to punch-out the chef. Blueberry fettuccine, I ask you.
Often, Suzy the Significant and I have breakfast al fresco at the Malibu Kitchen, which is a pleasant experience except for the excruciating metal chairs. Notice, only a few are equipped with cushions. Is it because the ownership is invested in rewarding the first in line and punishing the rest of us? Or is it that the chairs (especially the green ones) once bereft of the cushions look as if they’ve been dropped from an airplane?
I find it impossible to decipher the faucet in the men’s room at Casa Escobar. It’s New Age Mexicano and keeps this gringo guessing up, down, in, out, left or right. Also, the toilet flushes at its own discretion, which I find disconcerting and never timely. However, during Sunday brunch last week (very nice once the music stops and conversation is encouraged), I locked the door, bent over double at the risk of destroying what back I have left and closely examined the mechanism. I happened to locate a tiny rubber nodule smaller than a frijole, and when you even think about touching it the acoustical issue intensifies and the entire restroom implodes. Make a note.
One can no longer find an imaginative greeting card in Malibu since the closure of Thee Foxes Trot.
Allow me to conclude this piece by saying a brief public goodbye to a pal.
Spooky Duke, a 9-year-old Russian Blue pussycat, companion of longtime Malibu resident Paul Mantee, has died prematurely from complications of kidney disease. He was slate gray, sleek as a panther and weighed nine pounds at the top of his game. The Duke, as he was referred to by those who loved him, will be fondly remembered by family, friends, The Drain Brain, the TV repairman and various representatives of Charter Communications. Friend to dog and cat alike, The Duke’s favorite pastimes included bird mauling, rose eating and tiptoeing at 6 a.m. across Mantee’s testicles. He will be missed.