Scribbles and Photos

Among my obsessions, men have figured large. There was the Irish contractor who showed up on my doorstep to bid on my apartment renovation. Seamus. The kind of man that made my knees weak. I obsessed about his bid for a week and whether he would be the lowest bidder, would I be able to justify hiring him? His bid was low enough. We dated, we fell in love, we broke up. And then I obsessed about that -- what had happened, what had we done wrong? I've come to realize that somethings were just not meant to be. I've also obsessed about my work -- oh, ok, I obsess about my work in the present tense. That obsession varies from day to day. Some days, it's will I ever be able to get everything done? Most days, it is about are we doing the right thing? Could we be doing better? Could I be doing better. A dear friend gave me a copy of Bright Dawn in the hopes of curing this particlar obsessive behavior. That's an uphill battle though -- learning to love my shoes, to love what I ha...

Today, the family and friends of a wonderful man gathered graveside on a beautiful early autumn day to say good bye. Somewhere in NYC, a baby was born and an old woman died. Today, I puttered around putting my apartment back together while watching a riveting match featuring Roger Federer and Novak Djokovic. Five sets and a king was dethroned. Today was a beautiful day in the neightborhood, and there is the rub. This morning was that kind of early autumn morning that should make you glad to be alive. I don't like these kinds of mornings so much anymore. They remind me too much of September 11, 2001. The day that New York and the world came to a grinding screeching halt. It's hard to imagine it, some nine years later, but on that day we just stopped. We stopped traffic. We stopped planes.. For moments on end, we all stopped breathing as planes hit buildings and those buildings fell down. It didn't feel like it would be that kind of day when I woke up that morning. The city h...

Recently, I stayed in the Paris Violets room at the Madonna Inn in San Luis Osbispo, CA. Yes, the same Madonna Inn that houses the wonderful dancers from a different era and the Safari Room that I wrote about in my last post California Dreamin' . On the face of it, the Paris Violets Room is not nearly as mad as the Safari Room. That is, until you notice that the paintings in both halves of the room are wired for light and once those lights are on, you are transported back to some '50s Parisian fantasy. The paintings are like something Lucy and Desi would have had in their bedroom on I Love Lucy . This side of kitsch now, that side of elegance then. This is not going to be a post about those paintings although they will help to set the mood as we stroll back in time to my very first trip abroad somewhere shy of 30. And if you are anywhere close to the Madonna Inn in California, you should stop by if only to use the pink sugar shaker to sweeten your coffee in the Cop...

Tonight, I took a shower in the waterfall shower at the Madonna Inn in San Luis Osbispo, CA. The Madonna Inn is mad genius at work -- every room is done up to a different theme and we just happen to be staying in the safari room -- home of the aforesaid waterfall. The Inn is also home to a passionate group of the most wonderful dancers who clearly spend many a night here dancing to the tunes of Hank and Frank at the Gold Rush Steakhouse. Well into their 70s and 80s, this group of regulars knows how to cut a rug -- in heels and shiny wing tips. From the swaying white-haired vixen whose gentleman friend did not dance to the tiny man with the widow's hump twirling around the floor with his hand on his partner's butt -- they were like seaweed gently wafting along in the tidal pull. One could imagine them at home in the Rainbow Room in New York -- waltzing as easily with the city aglow behind them as they twirled under the pink chandeliers. This is a place that is ...