Words

I've been thinking a lot about the power of words in the last month. I've temporarily lost my ability to find pleasure in writing, an activity that's helped keep me sane during this very difficult year. And I've become hyper-aware of how much good and evil a few well -- or ill -- chosen words can do to a person. I found myself paralyzed by hurt and depression caused by someone else's words, unable to write about it, unable to write about anything else.

Being separated from friends and family during the holidays didn't help. Neither did the constant low-grade worry about Brian and his future, and the fact that this was my first Christmas without him in 15 years. We talked almost every day, probably as mutually emotionally supportive as we've been since I left. And that helped. But for the first time in my life, I really understood on an emotional level just why people get suicidal during this time of year.

Supportive words from Mom, Lisa and Willy P. made things better. A gift package from Maureen, including premium quality baking supplies so I wouldn't be forced to do my Christmas baking with cheap cocoa, a funny card making fun of, yet acknowledging my pitiful state, that helped too. And T.C. made me laugh with his succinct, sometimes pithy, usually accurate, and always supportive commentary on my life.

And if Dave were a book, he'd be Hot Chocolate for Dana's Soul, for all the times he listened to me cry, rage, or just whinge my way through December, for all the advice and words of comfort he gave me. And for sitting through Zombie 3, Day of the Dead; Contagion, and The Dead Next Door just because I needed a dose of holiday zombie cheer to perk me up.

Bottom line, words matter. They can hurt or they can heal. Be careful how you use them. Relationships can dissolve in an acid bath of deliberately worded cruelty, be it verbal or written.

Be damned sure that you have your facts straight before using words to sit in judgement on someone else.

If you use words with intent to injure, be prepared to accept the consequences of your actions.

Don't be afraid to apologize. Knowing when you're wrong and being able to admit it shows strength of character, not weaknesss. Don't wait until the apology is so diluted by time that it has no real meaning any more.

For those of you who really don't care about the consequences of your verbal knife throwing or poisoned pen...I still hope you have rich, full lives. I just won't be a part of them.

And for those of you who've gotten me through the hardest year of my life, I owe you lots of nice words and a cessation of whinging for 2006.

Hmmm...

For some reason, Flickr.com insists on posting the Worst Author Photo ever twice. Like there aren't already enough chins in ONE posting...

Oh well, double your pleasure!

Worst Author Photo ever

Worst Author Photo ever
Originally uploaded by zhadi.

Worst Author Photo ever


Worst Author Photo ever
Originally uploaded by zhadi.
My favorite bad author and what is truly the worst author photo ever taken in history. The 'Am I not sexy' was added by my writing partner, T.C., when he found and sent me this photo...

Is this another procrastinatory tactic on my part because of writer's block? Well, not exactly. I have several things I'm writing about, including: Dogzilla on the beach & George's Zoo; The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, and what those books meant to me as a kid; more wine weekend events; and stuff.

I'm just having too much fun watching Don't Look In the Basement, a truly amazingly bad movie made in the '70s, to write too much. Plus there's the finale of Survivor on in a few minutes. The rest of the weekend has been spent with two and three hour walks on the beach (Dogzilla was part of that), and...and...well, lots of other stuff. Really!

So please admire the many chins of DBP...I don't want to give his real name just in case he googles himself. I may mock him, but I'd feel lousy if he found my post and had his feelings hurt.

But dang...why would anyone put this on the back of a book?!

Worst Author Photo ever

Worst Author Photo ever
Originally uploaded by zhadi.

My favorite bad author and what is truly the worst author photo ever taken in history. The 'Am I not sexy' was added by my writing partner, T.C., when he found and sent me this photo...

Is this another procrastinatory tactic on my part because of writer's block? Well, not exactly. I have several things I'm writing about, including: Dogzilla on the beach & George's Zoo; The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, and what those books meant to me as a kid; more wine weekend events; and stuff.

I'm just having too much fun watching Don't Look In the Basement, a truly amazingly bad movie made in the '70s, to write too much. Plus there's the finale of Survivor on in a few minutes. The rest of the weekend has been spent with two and three hour walks on the beach (Dogzilla was part of that), and...and...well, lots of other stuff. Really!

So please admire the many chins of DBP...I don't want to give his real name just in case he googles himself. I may mock him, but I'd feel lousy if he found my post and had his feelings hurt.

But dang...why would anyone put this on the back of a book?!

Whining about wine, part three...

The next stop, Reverie, while picturesque, did nothing to cure my sober condition. Off the beaten path on Diamond Mountain (near Calistoga), Reverie is a family venture with a small yearly production. The grounds and buildings (homey structures surrounded by redwood trees) are a complete contrast to the stately grandeur and elegant landscape of Darioush. We were greeted by Andrew, personable son of the equally personable owner, Norman Kiken, and ‘Steve’ (not his real name), Reverie’s marketing manager. Andrew was a hoot, laid back, irreverent and funny. I didn’t care much for Steve, on the other hand, who had a supercilious manner that let everyone know that he knew much more about wine than anyone else present.

He was also very stingy with the vino, pouring tastes that barely wetted our whistles. Yes, I realize they have a small production, but c’mon! This was a busload of serious oenephiles ready to buy wine, not a bunch of tourists looking for a free buzz. And it took forever to get to the tasting portion of the tour. More often than not on the Spring tour, we were given a glass of wine (usually Sauvignon Blanc or Chardonnay), if not immediately, within 10 minutes of walking in the door of most wineries (and no, it didn’t take me long to develop a sense of entitlement).

We had our first taste of Reverie wine, their ASKiken Red (named after Andrew, btw), sitting in a clearing surrounded by redwood trees. The scenery was idyllic, bringing fairy circles or druid ceremonies to mind (depending on how one’s mind works), and the wine, scant taste of it that we had, was delicious. We had lunch at Reverie as well, in a picnic ground next to the redwood clearing, and then we were attacked by these huge, nasty, homicidal bugs, with Basil Polidouris music playing in the background and Denise Richardson had this perpetual freaky toothpaste ad smile, and…and…

…er…

Did I mention I’m watching “Starship Troopers” while writing this? Oh well…

…it COULD be “Showgirls.”

ANYway, lunch was served buffet style on two wooden picnic tables, an assortment of cold cuts, cheeses, fruits, roasted veggies, a veggie salad with cashews, pasta, breads, patés, cookies, and brownies. With lunch we were both introduced to the owners of Dyer Straits, an even smaller winery up the road. They served their 2002 ‘Field Blend’ Cabernet with lunch. Rich, lush, would love to taste it again in a year or so. And the Dyer’s, Bill & Dawnine, were both delightful individuals (I know, that sounds pompous, doesn’t it? But they WERE delightful!), making the rounds as we ate, answering questions, being generally sociable. And, as Billy pointed out, while we didn’t have a lot of the cabernet, considering how very small their yearly production is, they shared a generous portion with our group.

Next stop…and next post…Chateau Souverain…

Fast Times

I’m sitting here in my room trying to work on the wine weekend post. Despite (or maybe because of) liberal amounts of Holly Creek Merlot (and I DO drink fucking merlot as long as it’s good, thank you very much!), inspiration is in short supply. Instead of turning out literary Eagle’s Peak, I’m writing Two Buck Chuck. And NOT the first batch OR the Shiraz (which ain’t all that bad, if truth be told). Nah, I’ve got uninspired third run Charles Shaw Merlot going here. Not sure why, but every sentence I’ve written on Girls Gone Wine, Part Three, has been stilted, pretentious and boring. Pretentious AND boring. That just ain’t fair.

So tonight I’m watching Fast Times At Ridgemont High, a coming of age movie that most of you have probably seen, starring a chubby cheeked Jennifer Jason Leigh, Phoebe Cates (before she landed Kevin Kline, the lucky bitch!), Sean Penn (before he landed his first punch on a member of the paparazzi and made Shanghai Surprise with Madonna, the shmuck), Eric Stolz (before he spent most of Anaconda unconscious, smart guy), and assorted other now fairly well known actors playing students of Ridgemont High.

Ridgemont High. Known to some of us as Clairemont High. Clairemont High, on Ute Street in the San Diego neighborhood of Clairemont, my high school. And 1979, my junior year, was the year that 20 something writer Cameron Crow infiltrated the senior class of Clairemont High as a student.

I read the book before I saw the movie. Recognized 90 percent of people used as inspiration (singlely and composites) for the ‘fictional’ characters. This included ‘Brad, ‘ Stacy’s brother and fast food king. I dated ‘Brad.’ He had his sister ask me out on the date. I worked with ‘Stacy’ (well, I worked with at least half of Stacy since some speculate her character was a combination of two Clairemont students) at Hickory Farms in University Towne Center (played in the movie adaptation by the Encino/Van Nuys Galleria). My love life with her brother lasted for two dates; he got mad at me when I wouldn’t go out with him and his parents for Chinese food one night. I had the stomach flu (yes, I really did!), but this feeble excuse didn’t any ice with the fast food king.

My friend Judy (loosely disguised as ‘Jodie’ in the book) was annoyed because of a scene in a Jacuzzi at the ‘after prom’ in which she supposedly touched Damon’s dick underwater. If Judy says she didn’t do it, then she didn’t do it. She and I were both kinda geeky in Junior High, but I like to think that while we retain our inner geekiness (like a chewy nougat center in a chocolate), we both grew a glossy, more socially acceptable outer shell. I know that Judy did; she was exotically gorgeous without any self-conscious awareness of the fact. Her sister dated my brother. But that’s another story.

While many things about the book and subsequent movie are fairly accurate, most of the real kids that Crowe used as models for his characters were semi-geeky. They weren’t the popular kids, the ones with the prime spot in the lunch court. My personal theory is that Cameron Crowe was one of us (a geek) in high school and wanted a chance to do it all again as one of the ‘in’ crowd. So he wrote his admittedly hilarious book about the people that he hung out with during his year as a mole at Clairemont High, making those kids (and thereby himself,) popular.

I never really liked high school; graduated a semester early just to get on with the rest of my life. But watching Fast Times At Ridgemont High, while I would go so far as to say that they were the best years of my life (NOT even close), makes me think fondly about my years at Clairemont High.