April 4, 2010
March 31, 2010
March 25, 2010
"Oh, you can't follow the signs like everyone else, can you?" The man yells at me across the three lanes of Union Avenue, a one-way city street that works its way through downtown Pasadena.
The light has just turned red and I am on my hybrid bicycle, methodically rolling in circles in the far right lane, just in front of a few cars. Unfortunately, I'm not one of those masterful urban riders that can stay upright on their bike, remaining perfectly balanced while waiting for the light to change colors. But since I'm determined to remain in my toe clips between lights, I roll in tight circles instead of taking a foot off the pedal.
Surprised by the yelling, I turn to see an older gentlemen, a fellow rider, sitting on his bike and glaring disdainfully in my direction. He is dressed in half biker outfit, half mountain man outfit, an anomaly that I can't help but notice with fascination. His shirt is a tight fitting jersey material with bright colors, so the vehicles coming up behind will take notice. His pants are of the heavy cargo nature, with bulging pockets and cuffs so wide you can barely see his sneakers. He wears an old helmet, one that I might have seen my Father don when I was a kid. His thick beard and wire-rimmed glasses make him look older than he probably is. I'd still peg his age at sixty-four.
"Huh? What?" I say confused, half wondering if he's actually talking to me.
"Oh, you're too good for the law, are you?" He shakes his head back and forth in a look of disgust. His eyes mock me. They seem to reveal something deeper, like a universal anger with young people.
I look into the cars idling between him and myself and peer into several drivers seats, begging someone to give me a look that says, "I know, right, that guy is an idiot." But it seems it's just him and me out here on the street, a different fraternity altogether from the car people.
"Huh? What?" I ask with my eyes narrowing together, my face scrunching up in complete state of bewilderment.
He laughs back, deriding my inability to assess the situation.
This is the longest light ever.
I have no idea why he is scolding me, why his demeanor is so harsh. Did he mistake my silly riding circle as a precursor to cycling through the red light? Did he notice my no-hand-signal lane change a few blocks ago?
"I'm stopped, waiting for the light." I say almost apologetically and immediately I wish I could say something much bolder and more spirited.
"Oh, so you're one of those guys who knows it all!" Maybe all you need to know about this man is that he starts every sarcastic rant with a drawn out "Ohhhh." The kind of "oh" that requires you to wave your palms back and forth.
The opposite crosswalk is finally counting down. I watch it tick from ten, nine, eight and as it winds down, my anger ramps up. I want to yell back something fierce, something that will shut this guy up. I want to rebuke his public display of contemptuous madness. I want to ask him if he's the bicycle police, and start that question with an "oh." I want to zing this guy so bad that he won't mess with another rider again. I want to do it just as the light turns, so I can ride off victoriously.
"Huh? What?" THIS is my anticipated zinger.
As the light turns go, I can hear my sixty year-old foe giggling as he pulls away.
We ride together, on opposite sides of the one-way, for one more block until I make a right turn towards the library.
________
Prompt 1 of the workshop...
"Oh, you can't follow the signs like everyone else, can you?" The man yells at me across the three lanes of Union Avenue, a one-way city street that works its way through downtown Pasadena.
The light has just turned red and I am on my hybrid bicycle, methodically rolling in circles in the far right lane, just in front of a few cars. Unfortunately, I'm not one of those masterful urban riders that can stay upright on their bike, remaining perfectly balanced while waiting for the light to change colors. But since I'm determined to remain in my toe clips between lights, I roll in tight circles instead of taking a foot off the pedal.
Surprised by the yelling, I turn to see an older gentlemen, a fellow rider, sitting on his bike and glaring disdainfully in my direction. He is dressed in half biker outfit, half mountain man outfit, an anomaly that I can't help but notice with fascination. His shirt is a tight fitting jersey material with bright colors, so the vehicles coming up behind will take notice. His pants are of the heavy cargo nature, with bulging pockets and cuffs so wide you can barely see his sneakers. He wears an old helmet, one that I might have seen my Father don when I was a kid. His thick beard and wire-rimmed glasses make him look older than he probably is. I'd still peg his age at sixty-four.
"Huh? What?" I say confused, half wondering if he's actually talking to me.
"Oh, you're too good for the law, are you?" He shakes his head back and forth in a look of disgust. His eyes mock me. They seem to reveal something deeper, like a universal anger with young people.
I look into the cars idling between him and myself and peer into several drivers seats, begging someone to give me a look that says, "I know, right, that guy is an idiot." But it seems it's just him and me out here on the street, a different fraternity altogether from the car people.
"Huh? What?" I ask with my eyes narrowing together, my face scrunching up in complete state of bewilderment.
He laughs back, deriding my inability to assess the situation.
This is the longest light ever.
I have no idea why he is scolding me, why his demeanor is so harsh. Did he mistake my silly riding circle as a precursor to cycling through the red light? Did he notice my no-hand-signal lane change a few blocks ago?
"I'm stopped, waiting for the light." I say almost apologetically and immediately I wish I could say something much bolder and more spirited.
"Oh, so you're one of those guys who knows it all!" Maybe all you need to know about this man is that he starts every sarcastic rant with a drawn out "Ohhhh." The kind of "oh" that requires you to wave your palms back and forth.
The opposite crosswalk is finally counting down. I watch it tick from ten, nine, eight and as it winds down, my anger ramps up. I want to yell back something fierce, something that will shut this guy up. I want to rebuke his public display of contemptuous madness. I want to ask him if he's the bicycle police, and start that question with an "oh." I want to zing this guy so bad that he won't mess with another rider again. I want to do it just as the light turns, so I can ride off victoriously.
"Huh? What?" THIS is my anticipated zinger.
As the light turns go, I can hear my sixty year-old foe giggling as he pulls away.
We ride together, on opposite sides of the one-way, for one more block until I make a right turn towards the library.
________
Prompt 1 of the workshop...
March 30, 2010
March 26, 2010
Attempting to share parenting responsibility has not always been smooth, especially when Stella's routine during the first year fluctuated by the fortnight. When you factor in the amount of naps, the amount of feedings, when the naps take place, how long the naps last and her movement capabilities, it was almost impossible to come up with a plan for us to share the daily load. The number of schedules and scenarios we drew up and attempted to follow were staggering, like trying to find the combination of a three number lock.
I'll take her before nap 1 and after short nap 3. You have her in between naps and before dinner. I bathe her, you put her to bed. If she takes two naps, we'll switch at lunch and again before dinner. A month later it was flipped again. Etc, etc, etc.
It would have been helpful if those damn baby books summed up life in the first year more clearly. "If you're looking for a neat little schedule, GIVE UP IMMEDIATELY."
But now, suddenly, she seems to be following a pattern. Up at 8:30, down for a nap at 1, bath at 7, bed at 8. It occurred to us recently that she's followed this pattern for nearly a month and doesn't seem to be giving it up.
Our desperate scheduling schemes have morphed into Kari taking her until naptime and me taking her until dinner, which means Kari is done at 1pm and I can get extra time to work while Stella naps. We also started alternating nights of giving her a bath and putting her bed, which means one of us is DONE at 7pm every night. Bliss.
We know this new routine may not last very long, so we're enjoying every minute of it.
I'll take her before nap 1 and after short nap 3. You have her in between naps and before dinner. I bathe her, you put her to bed. If she takes two naps, we'll switch at lunch and again before dinner. A month later it was flipped again. Etc, etc, etc.
It would have been helpful if those damn baby books summed up life in the first year more clearly. "If you're looking for a neat little schedule, GIVE UP IMMEDIATELY."
But now, suddenly, she seems to be following a pattern. Up at 8:30, down for a nap at 1, bath at 7, bed at 8. It occurred to us recently that she's followed this pattern for nearly a month and doesn't seem to be giving it up.
Our desperate scheduling schemes have morphed into Kari taking her until naptime and me taking her until dinner, which means Kari is done at 1pm and I can get extra time to work while Stella naps. We also started alternating nights of giving her a bath and putting her bed, which means one of us is DONE at 7pm every night. Bliss.
We know this new routine may not last very long, so we're enjoying every minute of it.
March 24, 2010
I won the Young Author's award in elementary school. My little masterpiece was titled "Baseball Fever" and centered around a young boy who lived and breathed baseball only to have a Mother who despised the game. The idea for this story came from a book I had read only a few months earlier. That book was titled "Baseball Fever" and centered around a young boy who lived and breathed baseball only to have a Father who despised the game.
Despite my innocent plagiarizing and complete unoriginality, the process of writing and editing and imagining acted as a catalyst for me. I was hooked, having found something that drew my zeal as much as trading cards or the uncharted forest behind our house did.
As the story goes, the depth and consistency of my writing always seems to coincide with the depth and consistency of my reading. During boyhood and high school, my stories involved adventure and sports because that's what I was reading. In College, studying religion, my reading took a textbook and non-fiction turn, which meant term papers and essays on matters of theology. Following College, I wrote sermons. Mixing scripture with historical context, culture and other ancient texts is one thing. Making it applicable and accessible is another. While I no longer preach today, I am indebted to what it taught me about perseverance, deadlines, rough drafts and how to push through the blinking cursor.
It wasn't until moving to Los Angeles five years ago that I really discovered fiction and creative non-fiction. Suddenly I was introduced to riveting memoirs and breathtaking novels and memorable travel essays - writing more beautiful than I had ever experienced. I devoured as much as I could, from Hemmingway and Steinbeck to Krakauer and Klosterman.
This, of course, has shaped my own writing immensely. The creative and technical bar has been raised considerably and I have found myself struggling to keep developing my craft ever since. This is one of the reasons I'm so excited about this workshop. I long to be in closer proximity to other writers and to polish my skills.
I'm currently working on an essay about living in Downtown Los Angeles and several ongoing pieces about being a new father.
Also, I no longer write books based on other books.
____________________
I'm officially part of my first writing workshop...this is the intro we all had to write that answered questions about our writing history. I put it on the blog more for my own archives than anything.
Despite my innocent plagiarizing and complete unoriginality, the process of writing and editing and imagining acted as a catalyst for me. I was hooked, having found something that drew my zeal as much as trading cards or the uncharted forest behind our house did.
As the story goes, the depth and consistency of my writing always seems to coincide with the depth and consistency of my reading. During boyhood and high school, my stories involved adventure and sports because that's what I was reading. In College, studying religion, my reading took a textbook and non-fiction turn, which meant term papers and essays on matters of theology. Following College, I wrote sermons. Mixing scripture with historical context, culture and other ancient texts is one thing. Making it applicable and accessible is another. While I no longer preach today, I am indebted to what it taught me about perseverance, deadlines, rough drafts and how to push through the blinking cursor.
It wasn't until moving to Los Angeles five years ago that I really discovered fiction and creative non-fiction. Suddenly I was introduced to riveting memoirs and breathtaking novels and memorable travel essays - writing more beautiful than I had ever experienced. I devoured as much as I could, from Hemmingway and Steinbeck to Krakauer and Klosterman.
This, of course, has shaped my own writing immensely. The creative and technical bar has been raised considerably and I have found myself struggling to keep developing my craft ever since. This is one of the reasons I'm so excited about this workshop. I long to be in closer proximity to other writers and to polish my skills.
I'm currently working on an essay about living in Downtown Los Angeles and several ongoing pieces about being a new father.
Also, I no longer write books based on other books.
____________________
I'm officially part of my first writing workshop...this is the intro we all had to write that answered questions about our writing history. I put it on the blog more for my own archives than anything.
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