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SCARIER

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SCARIER

I just finished A Gentleman in Moscow for the third time. I like the ending so much that I immediately reread the last forty pages. I've never read the great Russian writers, so next up is Anna Karenina. It's a big book. I have trouble with big books. Everyone raves about The Count of Monte Cristo but I couldn't get through it. Someday I will go back and start from page one with a different translation, but for now the Count is on my list of failed attempts to read classic books.

It mirrors my own failure to finish writing a novel.

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FORCE OF NATURE

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FORCE OF NATURE

Home from Mammoth yesterday. I'm back in the splendor of my backyard, looking over at the mesa on the other side of Trabuco Canyon. The air is warm and smells of late summer. Light morning breeze. A vase of sunflowers to my right. A couple notebooks on the table. All manner of stone paperweights (from the soon to be late, great Stone Brewery) holding the tablecloth in place. a penitent Sadie curled up at my feet.

Penitent? We'll get to that.

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TRADITION AND TRAILS

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TRADITION AND TRAILS

One tradition when I come to Mammoth is to stop at Roberto's for Mexican food. I have the same thing every time: a duck taco with rice and beans, and one of their specialty margaritas. The one I like is called "Herra-the-dog" because it's made with silver tequila. So that's the way I ordered it the other night: "Herra-the-dog, rocks, salt."

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SAME TIME NEXT YEAR

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SAME TIME NEXT YEAR

I didn't go anywhere this weekend.

After filling the summer with flights from grief (literally), I cancelled a New York trip to see the USA National Track and Field Championships and attend a Foundation board meeting. Stayed home to coach the long run, watch the Tour for hours at a time, and sit on the porch with a good book. Maybe crack a few beers….

MOWGLI

MOWGLI

If you have read Kipling's The Jungle Book, you know that the character of Mowgli is not the cuddly kid from Disney's animated version. He is, in fact, a stone-cold tiger killer who prefers to walk around naked. Mowgli divides his loyalties between civilization and the Indian wilderness.

The killing and naked parts are not the reasons I earned the nickname Mowgli a long time ago but it became applicable back in my journalism days, when I divided my time between raising a family in suburban Orange County and writing missives from far-off places….

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NOT THIS TIME

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NOT THIS TIME

I received my lottery results for the London Marathon this week. The memo line said simply "Are You In," which reminded me of an old joke about sex but also got my heart beating fast. It sounded so promising. As I opened the message I truly believed I had beaten the odds and scored a coveted bib for the 2027 race.

WATCH PARTY

WATCH PARTY

Apparently, I like people.

I went to the Angel-Red Sox game Friday evening with longtime pal, John Burns. Great seats. Violated my pledge to not attend another Angels' game until Artie Moreno sells the team. Those seats were just too good to quibble about. Took solace in the bare-chested fan group shouting "Sell the team!” from the upper decks. I hear you, brothers.

I left my phone in John's car. Another casualty of grief is forgetfulness, I am told (I've been researching. It's a real thing).