Sweating windows. Ice everywhere. Unsuspecting, I sat on the couch next to a strange man. A strange man making strange noises in a coffee shop. The noises sounded like a small man was trapped inside his mouth yelling for help! However, the cries were muffled by the man’s lethargic tongue, flopping around in his mouth making lazy noises like a walrus as he read a colorful pamphlet. As I imagined the little man frantically trying to climb out of this man’s throat, I began clearing my own. Finally the man began coughing, and with him, I coughed with a tremendous sense of relief, as I imaged the little man flying to freedom like a trapeze artist. It was at this moment, this circus of coughing, when she walked in the door. [read more]

Generally speaking, I make a habit of not flirting with the women that come into the coffee shop. I figure the last thing they want is a barista fumbling over his words, screwing up their soy latte, while trying to learn their age and marital status. On Friday nights, one specific woman that I don’t flirt with comes in to study. She’s working on her PhD and spends several hours cooped up in the back of the shop by the restrooms, buried in her Roman Architecture books and laptop. She comes in, goes to her table and begins studying. Then after about forty-five minutes, she comes to counter to order her drink. Double cappuccino. She then returns to her seat and quietly disappears for several more hours. [read more]

I cannot write. I cannot write. I cannot write. I cannot write. I cannot write. I cannot write. I cannot write. I cannot write. I cannot write. I cannot write. I cannot write. I cannot write. I cannot write. It’s here, somewhere inside. It’s here. I know it. I feel it. Trying to get out trying to break forth and declare whatever it is that compels it. What are you? And why do you linger so? Why do you fester and ask more of me than I am willing to give? I cannot find the words for you. I cannot mask what I do not understand. I cannot write. I cannot write I cannot wirte I cannot write I cannot wirte I cannot writeicannotwriteI cannotwirte i cannot writeicannotwriteicannotwrite

St. Athanasius the Great? Prove it, I thought to myself as I began preparations for tonight’s meal. As it turns out, he has. A huge advocate for Christian Orthodoxy, Athanasius was quite tenacious about preserving the divinity of Christ (Word of God) as one pillar of traditional Christian beliefs. Arianism, a common popular belief of the day, suggested that Jesus was not fully God, but rather a creation of God. Athanasius, so adamantly opposed this that Champion of Christ’s Divinity became one of his many nicknames.
[read more]

I fell. Thrice, I fell. Graceful? Don’t be fooled. Falling is never graceful, only funny. I walked to Caffé Medici this morning to snuggle with an espresso, and before I knew what was going on, I’m looking at the world from a quadruped’s point-of-view. Unwilling to try and play it off, I dropped my head, laughed, and only after finding appreciation in the moment, pulled myself up like geriatric. In case you didn’t realize it, today in Austin, it’s snowing.

[originally posted June 12, 2006]
I would rather be nowhere else on earth than where I am right now. Griffith Park in Los Feliz. Tucked away in the hills of Beverly, this park has several off-set nooks of grass where I come to hide. I hide from people. I hide from the city. I hide from the world, and I hide from myself. The trees all around provide a shady blanket while the grass is soft on my feet, which are now bare, reminding me of a childhood spent playing out doors, and a longing for living life in the front lawn. The smell of the grass still evokes wonderful and haunting memories that have long since past, and it reminds me of my first love – soccer – which is all at once beautiful, violent, triumphant, and tragic. [read more]

So, big news for American soccer (talking about the world famous sport, not the adjective for jobless North Dallas women with a rock the size of their breast implants). David Beckham (currently playing for Real Madrid) just signed a five year, $250 million dollar deal with the LA Galaxy, MLS’s 2005 champions. What’s the big deal? Picture Brett Favre going to play football in Slovakia. It’s so big, it’s confusing, and I’m willing to look past the fact that this new salary dwarfs all previous MLS salaries (50x over), because I love this sport as if my own child. It’s a new precedent. And for this, Beckham, I love you.

Traveling through a mist of huddled memories.  This is what my last several days have looked like since visiting my hometown.  Old streets.  Old smiles.  Old ideas.  Old feelings.  I visited the Montessori school where my mother taught and where I split open my chin climbing a tree.  I visited the old Catholic church where I first heard God’s gentle tug on my young heart.  I visited my childhood home where I played in the streets.  I visited my youth and with it, mournful corners of my heart.  Today, more than ever, I’m convinced that location is paramount to experience.

So last night, some friends and I sat at The Draught House, formerly the Draught Horse, and talked about the enigma that is dating. Are we all single? Yes. Are we all pushing 30? Yes. Are we all smarter than shit? Yes.

I represented the proverbial male (and did a damn good job). They, the proverbial female (in likewise glorious fashion). There was finger-wagging, table slapping, Oh no, you did not just say that mockery, and are you gonna blog about this reservations; however, at the night’s end, the only thing we could toast was the fact that dating in 21st century America is nothing but a clusterfuck.

Here’s to a good porter and making fun ourselves.  Here’s to you, ladies.

I’ve updated the reading things page again.  Just started a new novel about a boy in Afghanistan and also discovered Anne Lamott is putting a new book out real soon.  Oh, happy day!