One might think that because I have a blog I know things.

Here's a couple things I *don't* know, but that everyone else seems to. We recently lost the only movie star I've ever seen at a book fair, Dennis Weaver. Many have lumped him in with Darren McGavin and Don Knotts and are more convinced than ever that "death comes in threes."

It might, or it might not.

The thing is, I'd be more confident if I had a base line or starting point. My problem with this whole three buisness is that as far as I know Dennis Weaver may be number two or one as easily as number three. When did the counting start? I'm too lazy to go back to my birth date and count all the celebrity deaths, and I'm not even sure that the start of my existence is when I should start counting.

Also, on a person note, I'm as saddened by losing Otis Chandler as I am by most actors, but I don't know if he qualifies as the beginning of another morbid threesome.

The other thing I haven't made my mind up yet about is this whole Dubai port fiasco. The one thing I've learned, or had reaffirmed, is that a large chunk of the population doesn't read and comprehend as well as I'd like. It irks me no end to read message board and blog entries about "the US selling its ports to the Arabs." As I understand it, ports are not being sold and never have been. The companies that *run* the ports are most often foreign-owned anyway, and a big English company is being bought by one in the UAE. I think it's akin to Sears being bought by Ikea.

Lots of people go on and on about "less than five percent of the containers are being inspected," but I'm not sure how valid that argument is. Whenever I go near a port city, like our Long Beach (which I think is run by a Korean company with the curious American President Line name), I see bazillions of those containers, if not more. I don't know anything about global commerce or interstate shipping, but I have a hunch that if all those containers needed to be inspected all over the world, global trade would screech to a halt.

Which means none of my Swedish Meatballs or Spanikopita would arrive fresh.

And, it's not a valid argument, but whatever it is that they're doing about keeping WMD out of my backyard seems to be working.

One thing I *do* know is that it's rainy and cold right now. Not only am I getting frequent hazardous weather notices but what's worse is that the winds are coming out of the east, which means the planes are taking off over my home. Damn. That's noisy.

The two homes I was watching last week were equipped with competing satellite services for their televisions. One had DirecTV, the other the Dish Network, and while they are as different as Daisani and Crystal Geyser waters, I was able to render them both unworkable.

All it takes, see, is accidentally pushing the wrong button and being unaware of both what you've done and how to fix it.

Still, I was able to view some of the Olympics, and I'm now more conversant with curling than I was before. My parents were raised in Northern Minnesota and most of our family still lives there. I don't know if my parents ever curled, but one aunt did and was rabid in her devotion.

Curling, I'm afraid to say, is a great deal more technical than it needs to be. This is true of most everything, and I credit our age of specialization for that. Now that we have so much knowledge, it's possible to drown in any subject. Not only are our lives influenced by what we consider important, it becomes our reality. There's no such thing as a hypochondriac who doesn't follow medical breakthroughs.

Anyway, one of the commentators likened curling to "chess on ice," which pretty much accounts for the thrilling spectacle. What struck me, first, was that the sport (?) is played pretty much by younger people. There's a few people in their fifties, but nearly everyone looks to be no older than thirty-five. Sure, the rocks are heavy (about forty-two pounds), but I don't think that explains it.

The second, and more disturbing, feature is that in spite of the sport's name, the rocks don't really curl very much. You slide this heavy rock down ninety feet of ice and at the end it curls a bit because of the rotation, but it's nothing dramatic. They make a big deal out of blocking rocks, of starting off the rock with the correct amount of weight (speed), but it's pretty much just what you'd think: Sliding rocks toward a target.

No, I wouldn't be as accurate as these Olympians are, but I'm firmly convinced that this is more a pastime than a sport. That's true of billiards and bowling, too, and the rule of thumb is anything you can participate in while enjoying beer and cigarettes isn't, really, a sport.

They make a lot of strategic decisions, few of which seem to have any noticeable effect on the play. This may be where the specialization comes in, since I think people have studied and played this game for years and years. I'd really like to see how some team inexperienced with the evolved knowledge of how to play, but as skillful in rock placing, would do against these acknowledged "experts."

I just wonder how they'd fare if, instead of "having" to take out the guarding rocks, someone just went ahead and tried to score points and play the game as simply as it started.

The Winter Olympics are full of things that I don't consider sport, but I watch 'em, anyway.

I'm nearly done with my time watching two houses, or to be precise, one house and half if one duplex, only they're both technically duplexes. The house, where I've been before, actually has a unit on the bottom, but that's where the man of the house has his office and work space, so there's no tenant.

I've been dividing my time between the two places with the result that each are getting only about one-third of my attention. The remaining third is being syphoned off by the ether, and I keep thinking about kids and families. I'm told that when a second or third child is born the eldest doesn't lose any love but that the parents make some more and everyone gets their own flavor and equal share.

I've occasionally had multiple pets so I can attest to men being able to do this, but I have my doubts about women. It's been my experience that women can be quite generous about giving love, but not for very long. After anywhere from a couple months to a couple years they seem to have their fill of it and wander off to seek it elsewhere.

I've broken one heart in my life. It wasn't pretty.

Still, when it comes to love and all things relationshipy, I'm very immature and inexperienced. I guess I start well, can attract and momentarily capture someone's heart, but I don't have the legs or depth to make it last. Invariably, all my relationships end up the same "Let's move on," but I caution you not to think that (in my case, at least) that the destination is anyplace better or desirable.

I honestly don't think these women have wanted me to suffer, but they're all unified in wishing me to suffer the lack of them. It's the little things I end up missing the most, the small shared things. Her hand is as receptive to holding as it ever was long as it's not me doing the holding. Her playful gestures are still there, just not directed at me, and that's the part I hate.

You'd think I'd be used to it, but you'd be wrong.

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For some, Valentine's Day is all about passion, but not for me.

It's not that I have anything against passion, or its cousin lust, it's just that right now I'd feel I was stepping on the Italian feet. They're personifying passion with the Olympics, and I'm willing to give them their day.
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But Valentine's Day has come and gone. I know it's a crass, commercialized holiday, probably invented by DeBeers and Hallmark, but I still enjoy it. I think it's touching that we have a day set aside to remember and reassure each other on a personal basis. I've yet to meet anyone who dislikes being recognized, who doesn't want to feel desirable and worthwhile, and if it takes a date on the calendar to accomplish that, I won't complain.

As manufactured as it may be, I need reminding. I'm not always as good as I should be about supporting those near me, at explicitly letting them know how much they enrich my life, and I often rely on logic to do the work of my heart. "If I didn't like you I wouldn't be here" may be my thought, but that's small coin, indeed, for humans who need to feel accepted.

I'm not sure there's a greater need than to feel wanted, to be picked from the masses and acknowledged as someone special, to hear that, yes, we matter. The day may not be about chocolate candies and roses, about buying genuine leather fanny packs or multi-tools, but it should be a day when we remind those around us that they're the ones we've chosen, that they're the ones we wish to spend our time with, that they're the reason we enjoy life.

I hope you all had a great day, that you were told you're wanted.

I'm a creature of programming, and when the Olympics come around I have to watch. Even the Winter ones.

I'm one of those who enjoy the Olympics but hate the emphasis on USA. I know it's good for ratings, but I try to enjoy the pure spectacle of sport, which is harder every year. The network coverage (this year it's NBC) knows that more people will tune for hockey and ice dancing, that the desirable demographic is all over snowboarding and freeform skiing, and that American audiences want to see Americans do well.

I, of course, am different.

I've been on skis once in my life, but there's no coverage of snowplowing. I've never been on ice skates but read Hans Brinker and the Silver Skates when I was young, so there's a little connection there. About the closest I've come to any Winter Olympic sport is having shot a .22 rifle at some cans in the desert, so I'll be all over the biathalon. Them's my homies.

Since I can't, really, relate to the sports and wince whenever the US celebrates some senseless victory over countries who compete without the obvious advantage of multi-national corporate sponsors and arrogance, the countries I root for are mostly those associated with women I've known.

To that end you can expect me to be watching Croatia, Italy, the Dutch, and France to do well, as well as every country that sent fewer than five people.

The emotional coverage had me blowing my nose for the first fifteen minutes, until they switched to some lame reports on the USA training program and interviews with our hopefuls. I guess no one in the rest of the world is interesting to the Americans, and that makes me sad. It doesn't take much to make me get all stuffy, just pictures of Italy and the sounds of the language, the tears and smiles of the contestants, and the proud looks as they march into the stadium.

My ex taught me to see how well the countries dressed, and I hope if she saw it she was pleased with the silver Italian suits. I know! I expected blue, too! I was glad to see the Mongolian athletes wearing their fur caps, and if any PETA idiots complain, shame on them. My guess is the people in Mongolia, somehow, have managed to figure out over the past thousand years living in the mountains how to keep warm.

Interesting fact: I don't think they're participating, but the people from Ivory Coast are called "Ivorians."

I'll be watching for the Italian blue, the Dutch orange, and the Croat red and white checkerboard, and you can count on me muting the TV whenever the USA! USA! chant fills the stadia. I loved how the Italians used opera, how the hockey rinks aren't bill boards, and how delightful Italian sounds when spoken by a native.

A last note: I really wish Bob Costas and the rest of the American announcing crews would listen. "Giorgio" is two syllables, not three or four. There's no "ee" sound anywhere in the name, and it's simply jor-joe.

Another six weeks of this weather and I'll be crispy brown!

When I was about twenty I started closely following Groundhog's Day. No, I never was living in an area that had to worry much about winter, but that's when I became truly aware of the phenomenon. My first reaction was disappointment, since I'd never seen any groundhog and had little chance of ever being near wherever he was pulled out, but I soon realized the groundhog wasn't the important part.

The shadow is, and we have perfectly fine shadows in Los Angeles, ones more suited for our local forecast. I'm not sure how far Phil's predictions go, but it's a long way from where he is to where I am, so I began checking for *my* shadow on the same day he sought his.

That lasted all of two years, then I realized any shadow would do and just looked out the window. If there were distinct shadows, there'd be more winter. If, on the other hand, the lighting was perfect for taking pictures, diffuse and even, then I could expect an early spring.

It turns out Phil sees his shadow about two-thirds of the time, so it's not all that chancy.

The other good thing about Groundhog Day is it gives me a chance to brag. Perhaps my greatest, most lasting, and serious brush with greatness has to do with that movie. For a few years I was quite good friends with the guy who was the Production Designer for that movie (which gives me one degree of separation from Bill Murray!). I've run across a few people in the business, but none that I knew as well as I did David, and none who had their name on the screen before the movie.

He also did the PD for Taxi Driver and some others. After GD, he moved to New Mexico and we no longer have anything to do with each other, but for awhile, I was close. He had a great loft in downtown LA, filled with art supplies and scripts. Very Hollywood.

Anyway, today was so hot I drank over a quart of water and rarely urinated. It was *that* hot.

I don't know what I'm talking about, but the results I come up with make me cringe and hate myself.

The first thing I did after buying my latest bicycle was to go to REI and get a little bottle carrier and bottle. That way I could hydrate myself when riding, or at least masquerade as a real rider, the type who need to do that. At home I fill my little bottle from a five gallon bottle of bought water, which I refill using old milk containers from a nearby market.

This water issue has intrigued me for years. Someone smart once wondered if the necessity of everyone lugging around bottles of water was somehow related to the increased use of anti-depressants, which cause dry mouth. Maybe so, but I still get a chuckle out of people sitting around meetings, each with his or her own little water bottle.

Over one billion people on this planet don't have safe water to drink. I do, but instead of contributing to those who need it, I spend my money on "better" water. As it turns out, we're spending $100 billion dollars a year on bottled water, and only fifteen billion on helping spread decent water to the rest of the world. Even that amount, a small portion of what we spend on designer waters, will only halve the problem over the next ten years.

I'm not a communist, not exactly, but sometimes very much an egalitarian. Those of us who have decent water turn our back on it, to the detriment of the world. The amount of fuel needed to produce the bottles for our chic and exotic water would power 100,000 cars for a year. Worse, that water all comes from somewhere. Those who depend on it locally are finding their streams and water tables depleted, and for what?

Bottled water isn't any healthier than tap water. I can ignore the transportation costs that get added by moving it to my market by enjoying the status it gives me to drink it. And, think how good it is for everyone on the planet when I toss the empty out! It either marinates in the earth for a thousand years or else gets bundled on a ship and shipped to China to become a fleece throw blanket! No energy used there, either!

I'm not making much money now, so $100 billion dollars is a lot for me. The fact that my enjoyment of a nice glass of fancy, cool water is adding horribly to the planet's woes, is doing nothing to create a decent life for the one-sixth of our population who endure bacterial-infected, muddy, water, just shows how much better than I am than those who choose to live like that. Maybe I'll toss 'em a quarter, but I'll probably forget all about it come tomorrow.

You can read more, here.

Each day I think of many things to blog about and, following my plan, wait until late in the day to create the entry. Then, when it's finally time for me to blog, I'm involved with something else or otherwise prevented.

Today's no exception, but there's a little difference. I'm filled to my back teeth with things I wish to say, but they're all things I've been told not to blog about. Not that they're necessarily wrong, just that they're not very interesting, not even to me. The good blogs, the ones I enjoy, never have entries like the ones I envision.

I hope you all enjoyed your weekend.