and there was only one other baby in the hospital.

I've been reading Denison, Iowa by Dale Maharidge. The subtitle is "Searching for the Soul of America Through the Secrets of a Midwest Town." When discussing which town to use for this book, Maharidge says:

[I]t became rapidly clear that this book had to take place in Iowa. One reason was that the state is geographically in the center of the nation. Another reason was its neutrality. Many Americans have built-in prejudices against certain regions and states. "Alabama" said to a northerner conjures stereotypes, just as "New York" uttered to a southerner evokes another type. And to southerners and easterners, "California" has, well, its own baggage. Iowa's neutrality is why so many fictional stories from popular culture are set in the state:The Music Man, The Bridges of Madison County, Field of Dreams.

Iowa definitely is neutral. I'm actually reading this book and I have to keep reminding myself that the town isn't in Idaho or Ohio, as all three state names play a game of musical chairs ignorance in my mind. I've driven through Iowa. About a year ago. And I can't conjure one single image.

The book is really interesting though. I like the writing well enough, even though it is clearly coming from a more cosmopolitan person than any in Denison, which is unfortunate, in a way. Denison is described, maybe not in facts but in tone, as a miniscule town. When I read that it had a Wal-Mart, I thought, Oh. I guess it isn't all that small.

I am reminded that I live in the sprawling metropolis that is LA. Not only that, but I live in the valley. If Manhattan were an animal, it would be something like a cat, with long claws, balled up and ready to pounce. Los Angeles would be a sleeping St. Bernard, legs and feet carelessly spreading out all around him.

I took a ride through Laurel Canyon with my boss today. He doesn't have a lot of respect for the double yellow lines...as in, traffic should always stay to the right of the double yellow lines. He is much more creative than that. The car was in reverse for about a fourth of the time I was in the car. Oh, yeah, and we were lost.

As we rode along (before going into the hills), he pointed at various drugstores and coffee houses and told me what the lots used to hold when he was a boy. And it occured to me that this was a man who never really left his hometown. I know he's lived elsewhere and travelled, but that isn't the same. The comfort that must bring him startles me. I started getting these weird panicked feelings about going back home for my birthday...

I'm never going to see the places I grew up in ever again. Not really. There are more new businesses in town, more houses dotting the highway. Seeing those things gradually, like my boss was able to do, at least means that you're in the loop.

I did a couple of image searches for my hometown...and the results were almost spooky: the courthouse, the stained glass windows of the church I grew up in, a guy I went to high school with, the parents of a girl I knew, Main Street during the parade, etc. Things so familiar, but totally foreign.

Maybe I should read some Thomas Wolfe. Somewhere I have a memory of a professor saying, You can't go home again. You really can't.

it's easy to believe when you drive a mercedes.

Okay, I'm just going to say it: I'm bored. If I were about fifteen years younger, I would fear saying that out loud because I'd probably be told to clean something. Not that our apartment couldn't use a little, um, help, but today is my day off. And somewhere along the line I invented the plan of doing "something fun" on my days off.

Today has been kind of a drag. Which means, tomorrow better rock or I'll be going back to work on Wednesday in the same bad mood I left with yesterday.

My job really isn't that bad. I swear.

Today I felt like I was busy for a good portion of the day, but when my mom asked me on the phone what I'd done, I couldn't come up with anything. The truth is, at one point this morning I was sitting on my living room floor at the coffee table with a bottle of Elmer's glue, a 64-pack of crayolas, a stack of loose leaf paper, and a pair of scissors. Draw your own conclusion. (Bear in mind, the only two children I know are roughly 2000 miles away.)

I don't understand how I can love reading so much, have so many books I haven't read, and still have times when I don't want to read anything I own. It's very similar to the "I have nothing to wear" problem. I want something new. Something I've never touched before. These other books? I think some of them have missed their window of ever being read.

new in the children's section.

Did you know urban babies wear black?

i had a bad day.

I don't think I could've counted how many people bothered me today. So, to all the people out there who witnessed me slowly losing my cool by way of causing it to happen, I offer this:

Yes, I work retail. No, you're not better than me, Ms. Ladyonthephone. I'm not sorry I could not read your mind as to exactly how you wanted your book to enter the red plastic bag that I didn't even have to give you. I haven't read, nor have I even heard about every book in existence, a fact that does not determine my level of intelligence.

I had to stop and buy gas ($2.85 for regular, by the way, not that I'm complaining--I'm made of money, after all) on my way home. In the process of pumping gas, two different people asked me for money.

The first was this girl, probably about twelve years old, who weakly went through an entire description of what organization she was with and what great things it was doing for kids like her (whatever type of kid she may be, I really don't know) and how they're going to Yosemite and did I want to buy some of the items she had to sell? She had a couple black boxes strapped to a little miniature dolly (like Deb in Napoleon Dynamite, only not as colorful). But I honestly had no cash. I was at the "pay with your card" thing. She didn't seem to mind. And also didn't seem surprised.

As I was starting to pump my gas, I saw this woman off toward the edge of the parking lot, maybe on the sidewalk, in jeans and a white blouse with a black sweater over it. I remember thinking something vague and typical about being overweight and, in general, not that great of a dresser. But really I was preoccupied because the nozzle was sort of slimy.

And then the woman walked over to me. And her face looked hard. Like a woman in a Dorothea Lange photo. Her lips were chapped. She wasn't thin; she was skinny. The black sweater I'd vaguely thought was pretty, is pilled and ragged. She asked if I could help her out by just giving her some change. I told her I didn't think I had much, but that I'd check in my car after I was done filling up.

I couldn't do it while the gas was pumping, because every gas station in LA has these ridiculous springy things over the nozzles, which I suppose are somehow intended to be better for the environment, but actually cause the hose to shoot out of the car. I haven't gotten gas without getting some on the ground in over a year. (And we wonder why the supply is low. Every little bit helps.)

So the tank is full, I get in my car and scrounge around for change. I can see her floating around, hoping I haven't forgotten and not wanting to appear desperate. I tell her I don't have much and it's the truth. She says she'll take anything. I think I found, maybe, 38 cents. And I drop it into her hand.

And my fingers, just for a second, touch her palm. There is no moisture.

In the same gas station, I think every other car would cost more than mine and every single person was dressed better than I was. And I find myself wondering if it was just because I was at the first pump that she asked me, or if there's some sort of societal understanding that rich people are sort of scary. Not necessarily that someone else wouldn't have given her 38 cents, or hopefully more, but that maybe she was just as intimidated by the people there as I was. I reminded myself that when I first looked at her I thought something along the lines of I look like crap. I don't belong.

I wonder if she could tell.

pity comes too late, turn around and face your fate...

the double wattled rain cloud.

It rained! It was cloudy almost all day, sprinkling off and on.

John and I went to the zoo. In the rain, yes. The animals come out more when it's not so hot and sunny. You know, when it isn't so "Southern California." The hippos especially were really active--one of them actually walked up the side of the pen with her front legs and stood there eating the plants beside us. It was pretty exciting.

disjointed.

I watched the Emmys tonight. Because I love Ellen. And the prolonged tribute to Tom Brokaw, Dan Rather, and Peter Jennings made me cry. Like a baby. Even though two out of three are still alive, none of them are on the news anymore. And even though I shouldn't really care, I do. They were there, in my dorm room, when I heard about the tragic things going on in our country while I was in college. Like when I went to sleep thinking Al Gore was going to be president, then woke up in the middle of the night, turned on the TV and cried myself back to sleep. Like when my sister called me on a Tuesday morning four years ago and said, "Laura, you need to turn on your TV. Something bad is happening in New York." And then later, when John and I were in our weird transitional period in LA, living in my grandparents empty house, and Bush won again.

Would it be too unbearably cliched if I said something about how my parents weren't there, but when the whole world seemed to be crashing down (that is, I discovered Politics) it was nice to see a friendly face?

Probably. So. Anyway.

Oliver Platt and Hank Azaria both lost, which disappointed me.

I finished Bee Season. I liked it a lot, but the ending was nothing at all what I expected. In fact, the whole second half of the book is very different from the first half.

my head is spinning.

I have a cold. In fact, right now as I type, I'm having one of the weird, symptomatic hot flashes that having this particular cold entails. I feel like my face is going to explode. Either because I'm so freakin' hot right now or because my air has no escape, save for my mouth. Therefore, for two days I have resembled a teenage boy, mouth agape, playing Nintendo.

The good news though, is that I'm just a little less than halfway through Bee Season by Myla Goldberg. Every once in a while, I feel the need to actually finish a book, any book, and choose one and push all else aside. Bee Season just shoved everything out of my way. I was seriously considering hiding in the history section and reading one of the store's copies today. I'm really into this book.

To my surprise, Google has much to say about Myla Goldberg, including the fact that the Decemberists wrote a song about her. What was that?! That's right, the Decemberists wrote a song about Myla Goldberg (whose author photo was really the driving force behind me actually reading this book because she's sitting on a stoop in a baggy, black dress and black-and-white-striped stockings with clunky black shoes). And. Because Jim is much cooler than I am and got John and I into the Decemberists, I've heard this song repeatedly, but without making the necessary connections, and it's on my computer right now! Maybe it's the hot flashes talking (or the cold medicine), but that's so cool to me!

I'm somewhat disappointed to find out that Bee Season is already being made into a movie. First, this shows I didn't jump on this wagon quite soon enough. And, I don't really think I agree with one of the casting choices. Plus, this is only going to interfere with my own cast, inside my head, which stars the author (as seen in her back-of-book photo) as the eleven-year-old main character, one of my ex-boyfriends circa age 14 (because he can play the guitar) as the older brother (who is actually 16 or 17), and two unknowns in the parts of Saul and Miriam, the parents. Not to mention that now people will be tempted to watch the movie instead of reading the book. I know, because I would be if I hadn't already started it. At any rate, it comes out in November. You have to time to read the book first.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to blow my nose and lay down under the ceiling fan.

i'll be your cinderella man.

Today's the anniversary of the day John and I arrived in California.

To celebrate, I went to work. On a Sunday. Like I do every Sunday.

There's this older gentleman that comes on every Sunday evening, who's nearly deaf, which means he's loud. He has a huge jaw, and wicked sense of humor. He's also an artist, which mostly amounts to him pouring over art books for a couple of hours and drawing anyone near him into an impromptu oral critique. My analyses usually sound like the one I offered today on a book about Soutine, "That's a lot of trees." Aside from his occasional tirades about the Civil War (he might be related to Sherman of burning-Atlanta-to-the-ground fame: a yankee), Japanese interment Camps (better safe than sorry, he would say), and political or social issues in general (remember, he's loud), he's quite funny and pleasant.

Another one of our frequent customers is this incredibly effeminate man, I'd guess to be in his late 50's, who gets his kicks telling dirty jokes that are usually also racially or culturally stereotypical, and, of course, offensive. He calls me a "dear, dear, child" and "oh, dahhling" and is actually a nice man, when he isn't trying to be funny (which he isn't) or touch me. He's big on hugs. And no worries if you're behind the counter--he can always pat your face.

Both of these characters were in the store at the same time today. I don't know if I've ever seen that happen before. They're both attention hogs...and can get pretty jealous.

Sitting in the office, I could hear the "oh, dahhlings" starting and the art discussion becoming more one-sided as my co-worker clearly retreated behind the protection of the front counter. I pictured these two customers, one in his fifties and the other in his sixties or seventies, having an all-out brawl. In a ring. I pictured the former wearing a blue silk boxing robe (perhaps with "The Artiste de LA" embroidered on the back) and bright blue gloves hopping up and down with his high shoulders slumped in front of him, that savage jowl poking out, and his white hair falling down in his face. The latter I pictured dressed similarly, only in pastels ala Richard Simmons, and teasing his opponent, only to retreat back into his corner and giggle. The Artiste de LA hates that sort of thing! He would be positively livid. In fact, being sort of a homophobe himself, he'd probably back out of the fight altogether.

It was at that moment, when I accused a customer of backing out of the boxing match in my brain, because he might think a man who calls me "dahling" might be gay and therefore not like him, that I realized the following things: 1) I'm really hard on conservatives. 2) I know nothing about boxing. 3) I have either entirely too much imagination or not enough real thoughts in my head to keep it otherwise entertained.

summer's over now.

John and I left California for the first time since our arrival last September (the 4th, actually, we have an anniversary soon) on Sunday. We drove as far as Barstow Saturday night, then went the rest of the way to Williams, AZ, on Sunday. We met my parents there, who were, by then, experts of the neighboring town of Flagstaff. They shuttled us around to the very cool Lowell Observatory, where Pluto was discovered, and Walnut Canyon National Monument.

The next day, we rode a steam train to the Grand Canyon. We stayed the night and most of the next day at the canyon before riding the train back to Williams.

On Wednesday, we visited Sunset Crater, NM, and Wupatki, NM, both of which were really beautiful and very interesting.

In other words, we saw a lot. And it was all educational and inspiring and beautiful...all the things the National Park Service is all about.

I didn't want to go home. More accurately, it all made me want to go home, but not back to California.

I heard crickets. They sang me a lullaby.

I. Saw. Stars. A whole sky of them. I literally cried when I saw how full the sky was with stars, rather than smog and light. I saw the big dipper and the milky way.

It's always been easy for me to romanticize the place where I'm not going.