I'm not a bad cook, or maybe I am. I don't know.

I've been fixing things and eating them for years, but many are the same things, ones I know how to cook. Of course, when I make something new that I like, I end up making it a lot and then forget something that I enjoyed in the past, but that's the way it goes.

When it rains and I'm home, I make chili. When I'm ill, I make chicken soup, but that's about the extent of my rituals. Everything else is catch as catch can, but I usually try to make something quick. Most famous, of course, is my Asian Fajitas Surprise, which can be just about anything. Thus, the surprise.

Today it was hot, damn hot. Unseasonably hot. "Turn on a fan and leave a cotton rag in the freezer" hot. I knew I'd be hungry around dinner time, hungrier than a salad, so I thought I'd make a cool and filling pasta salad. The thing about pasta salads is I've never made one before and have only eaten them once or twice in my life, so I don't know much about them.

I could look up a recipe, but that's no fun. I just remember that they were cool and had fusilli in them, a pasta I don't think I have, so I made mine with mostaccioli, which was handy. The centerpiece was going to be brocolli, but when I looked at it, it had spoiled.

Hmmm, I thought, now that a ton of pasta was cooking. I had sugar peas, celery, bell peppers and decided to cook those, but then decided the celery would be better raw. (It would add "texture")

It looked a bit weak and I considered tomatoes, and still might, but I looked in the freezer and found some emergency peas and carrots. I steamed the veggies and by the time the time they were done the pasta, naturally, was a solid lump in the collander. That's easy enough to fix, and into a big bowl went most of the pasta and most of the vegetables, cooked and otherwise.

Then, I dumped in what was left of my salad dressing, an amount that's probably excessive, and put it in the fridge to cool down. The pasta and veggies that didn't fit in the bowl went in a smaller bowl, with no dressing. A couple hours later I was hungry, but the salad wasn't cool yet. I just took the smaller bowl out, dumped in oil, vinegar, whatever spices I grabbed and seasoned it with salt, pepper, and parmesan cheese, and the result was ... filling.

I'm not sure it's a real pasta salad, so I think I'll call it my Pasta Salad Surprise. Eating like this it's a wonder I didn't die years ago.

I'm not a bad cook, or maybe I am. I don't know.

I've been fixing things and eating them for years, but many are the same things, ones I know how to cook. Of course, when I make something new that I like, I end up making it a lot and then forget something that I enjoyed in the past, but that's the way it goes.

When it rains and I'm home, I make chili. When I'm ill, I make chicken soup, but that's about the extent of my rituals. Everything else is catch as catch can, but I usually try to make something quick. Most famous, of course, is my Asian Fajitas Surprise, which can be just about anything. Thus, the surprise.

Today it was hot, damn hot. Unseasonably hot. "Turn on a fan and leave a cotton rag in the freezer" hot. I knew I'd be hungry around dinner time, hungrier than a salad, so I thought I'd make a cool and filling pasta salad. The thing about pasta salads is I've never made one before and have only eaten them once or twice in my life, so I don't know much about them.

I could look up a recipe, but that's no fun. I just remember that they were cool and had fusilli in them, a pasta I don't think I have, so I made mine with mostaccioli, which was handy. The centerpiece was going to be brocolli, but when I looked at it, it had spoiled.

Hmmm, I thought, now that a ton of pasta was cooking. I had sugar peas, celery, bell peppers and decided to cook those, but then decided the celery would be better raw. (It would add "texture")

It looked a bit weak and I considered tomatoes, and still might, but I looked in the freezer and found some emergency peas and carrots. I steamed the veggies and by the time the time they were done the pasta, naturally, was a solid lump in the collander. That's easy enough to fix, and into a big bowl went most of the pasta and most of the vegetables, cooked and otherwise.

Then, I dumped in what was left of my salad dressing, an amount that's probably excessive, and put it in the fridge to cool down. The pasta and veggies that didn't fit in the bowl went in a smaller bowl, with no dressing. A couple hours later I was hungry, but the salad wasn't cool yet. I just took the smaller bowl out, dumped in oil, vinegar, whatever spices I grabbed and seasoned it with salt, pepper, and parmesan cheese, and the result was ... filling.

I'm not sure it's a real pasta salad, so I think I'll call it my Pasta Salad Surprise. Eating like this it's a wonder I didn't die years ago.

Over the weekend, without breaking a sweat, I may have let down all kinds of people, including myself.

I went to a book fair in the fair city of West Hollywood, which sits right next to Beverly Hills. It was in a park, but not in the swimming pool, which was vacant but looked inviting nonetheless. There were tents set up all over the place, mostly to shield local book sellers from the weather. They may have been expecting rain, but what we got was unrelenting sunshine.

Out in the parking lot there were tons of used, cheap books, most of which I wouldn't have bought as new. There was a great little book written by J. Edgar Hoover talking about Communism that I considered, but the line to pay was too long for just one book. I don't know if it was in West Hollywood because of the subject matter (West Hollywood is a gay, liberal stronghold) or the author. Sadly, there was no picture of the author in a dress.

There was much going on in the Bodhi Tree tents. That's a local bookstore / supply store for New Age, occult, transcendentalism, paranormal goods. I've bought things there in the past, but this time steered clear of the aura cleansers and their ilk.

I went, mostly, to see one of my friends speak at a panel and was pleasantly surprised to see a few others there. They're all music people, a subject that makes me nearly as nervous as plays. I don't feel adequate when talking about music, not at all. Although I love listening to it and played a few instruments, it's an intimidating thing for me. I don't know anything about music, hardly any of the people or legends, and everyone else is so worldly I don't ever have anything to contribute to the conversation.

But that's not the point.

After the panel I panicked and, like the four year old I often resemble, I fled without saying goodbye or anything. I just took off. I rode to a nearby bustop in the heart of Beverly Hills, a block or so away from famous Rodeo Drive, I think, and waited for the bus to take me home. I thought I'd entertain my blog readers with a series of famous people I saw but I quickly realized two things:

1) I don't know very many famous people.
2) I can never recognize anyone.

When I'm out with friends and someone famous is in the restaurant or whatever, it's always the duty of the person I'm with to recognize the famous person. After doing that, I can see them, but not before.

I saw lots of very nice cars that may have had celebrities in them, but none of them had signs telling me who was inside. It may have just been rich people.

So, I can't relate any big star sightings, have yet to apologize to my friends for bolting, and on the way home I learned that my debit card had expired a few days prior when I went to pay for some groceries.

I hope they've put them away by now since some of them required refrigeration.

Over the weekend, without breaking a sweat, I may have let down all kinds of people, including myself.

I went to a book fair in the fair city of West Hollywood, which sits right next to Beverly Hills. It was in a park, but not in the swimming pool, which was vacant but looked inviting nonetheless. There were tents set up all over the place, mostly to shield local book sellers from the weather. They may have been expecting rain, but what we got was unrelenting sunshine.

Out in the parking lot there were tons of used, cheap books, most of which I wouldn't have bought as new. There was a great little book written by J. Edgar Hoover talking about Communism that I considered, but the line to pay was too long for just one book. I don't know if it was in West Hollywood because of the subject matter (West Hollywood is a gay, liberal stronghold) or the author. Sadly, there was no picture of the author in a dress.

There was much going on in the Bodhi Tree tents. That's a local bookstore / supply store for New Age, occult, transcendentalism, paranormal goods. I've bought things there in the past, but this time steered clear of the aura cleansers and their ilk.

I went, mostly, to see one of my friends speak at a panel and was pleasantly surprised to see a few others there. They're all music people, a subject that makes me nearly as nervous as plays. I don't feel adequate when talking about music, not at all. Although I love listening to it and played a few instruments, it's an intimidating thing for me. I don't know anything about music, hardly any of the people or legends, and everyone else is so worldly I don't ever have anything to contribute to the conversation.

But that's not the point.

After the panel I panicked and, like the four year old I often resemble, I fled without saying goodbye or anything. I just took off. I rode to a nearby bustop in the heart of Beverly Hills, a block or so away from famous Rodeo Drive, I think, and waited for the bus to take me home. I thought I'd entertain my blog readers with a series of famous people I saw but I quickly realized two things:

1) I don't know very many famous people.
2) I can never recognize anyone.

When I'm out with friends and someone famous is in the restaurant or whatever, it's always the duty of the person I'm with to recognize the famous person. After doing that, I can see them, but not before.

I saw lots of very nice cars that may have had celebrities in them, but none of them had signs telling me who was inside. It may have just been rich people.

So, I can't relate any big star sightings, have yet to apologize to my friends for bolting, and on the way home I learned that my debit card had expired a few days prior when I went to pay for some groceries.

I hope they've put them away by now since some of them required refrigeration.

I'm amazed. The Internet police have failed to take away my blogging license in spite of my failure to post anything for awhile. I would have expected some sort of inactivity freeze.

But the point is, I've been thinking. The other day it was revealed that gorillas in the wild fashion tools (well, at least a walking stick used to check water depth). I remember a few years ago hearing about monkeys or chimps using a stick to capture ants, too, so it looks like the lower rungs of the evolutionary ladder are catching up with us.

Then again, I often wonder if homo sapiens aren't getting dumber and less apt. My parent's generation didn't need directions on ground beef, reminders for upcoming doctor visits, insulting signs alerting them that they should duck or notice such obvious things as holes, water, or rises in the ground, but that was a generation that could smoke and drink at the beach. And, bring their dogs.

We're so much smarter now we can hardly do anything on our own.

I live in what's considered a developed nation and can go weeks and never be farther from another person or sign of civilazation than I can walk in less than five minutes. Still, a good percent of the population sees fit to carry water around with them, as if they're constant danger of dehydrating. It makes sense in New Orleans, I guess, but potable, plentiful water is a fairly basic commodity. I've never tried, but I bet I could crawl up anyone's doorstep and beg for a glass of water if I were in danger of transforming into bleached bones.

It's been said that this constant need for water may be due to the high incidence of anti-depressant medications, but I don't know if there's ever been a real study done. I sometimes carry water on my bike, but that's as much for show as any real, unsatisfiable need.

It doesn't have anything to do with intelligence, but people need to carry a bunch more stuff around with them, too. It's hard to see anyone coming or going from most places who aren't weighed down with back packs, messenger bags, belts and pockets stuffed with devices, or satchels. The other day on the bus I saw the most heartbreaking thing: a man clutching a large, plastic ziplock bag with "Patient Belongings" written on it in large white letters. In it he had a newspaper, the type of item we once carried in our hands. Is this all he has to carry things?

I can take some comfort in knowing that those growing up now might suffer hearing loss younger than I am because of their decision to plug into their own world rather than the supplied one, but I'm sorry I won't be around to see what we evolve into.

My guess would be something with pockets. If nothing else, those would be handy for keeping track of the all the new warning labels that are certain to come.

I'm amazed. The Internet police have failed to take away my blogging license in spite of my failure to post anything for awhile. I would have expected some sort of inactivity freeze.

But the point is, I've been thinking. The other day it was revealed that gorillas in the wild fashion tools (well, at least a walking stick used to check water depth). I remember a few years ago hearing about monkeys or chimps using a stick to capture ants, too, so it looks like the lower rungs of the evolutionary ladder are catching up with us.

Then again, I often wonder if homo sapiens aren't getting dumber and less apt. My parent's generation didn't need directions on ground beef, reminders for upcoming doctor visits, insulting signs alerting them that they should duck or notice such obvious things as holes, water, or rises in the ground, but that was a generation that could smoke and drink at the beach. And, bring their dogs.

We're so much smarter now we can hardly do anything on our own.

I live in what's considered a developed nation and can go weeks and never be farther from another person or sign of civilazation than I can walk in less than five minutes. Still, a good percent of the population sees fit to carry water around with them, as if they're constant danger of dehydrating. It makes sense in New Orleans, I guess, but potable, plentiful water is a fairly basic commodity. I've never tried, but I bet I could crawl up anyone's doorstep and beg for a glass of water if I were in danger of transforming into bleached bones.

It's been said that this constant need for water may be due to the high incidence of anti-depressant medications, but I don't know if there's ever been a real study done. I sometimes carry water on my bike, but that's as much for show as any real, unsatisfiable need.

It doesn't have anything to do with intelligence, but people need to carry a bunch more stuff around with them, too. It's hard to see anyone coming or going from most places who aren't weighed down with back packs, messenger bags, belts and pockets stuffed with devices, or satchels. The other day on the bus I saw the most heartbreaking thing: a man clutching a large, plastic ziplock bag with "Patient Belongings" written on it in large white letters. In it he had a newspaper, the type of item we once carried in our hands. Is this all he has to carry things?

I can take some comfort in knowing that those growing up now might suffer hearing loss younger than I am because of their decision to plug into their own world rather than the supplied one, but I'm sorry I won't be around to see what we evolve into.

My guess would be something with pockets. If nothing else, those would be handy for keeping track of the all the new warning labels that are certain to come.

Today, in a little over two hours, I lost count of the number of new experiences somewhere around six.

It was, for me, dentist day, and I got to meet my student dentist, whose name is Shervin. I have a loose tooth (note spelling), which I expect to get worse, so I signed up to be a candidate for dental students at UCLA. I was accepted, and today I went down for my first visit.

They explained that the process may take some time, and they aren't kidding. Today I had an exam that lasted over two hours and was more thoroughly examined than at any time in my life. I can say for a fact that no one has ever seen the underside of my tongue quite as well, nor as long.

One cool thing was the slowly spinning plate x-ray that covers the whole mouth. On my preliminary check-out, about six weeks ago, I was seated in a chair with one plate on each side of my head. The plates revolved slowly, maybe fifteen seconds, and today I got to see the results. I look a lot like a monkey undergoing g-force testing.

In addition to have my tongue wrapped in gauze and pulled every which way and having no fewer than three people simultaneously staring into my mouth, my skin was checked, as were my lymph glands, blood pressure, pulse, and breathing rate. Also, I got to close my eyes and respond to some sort of tactile sensation test. Another doctor, Tiffany, administered this one. She stroked my cheek with a cotton swab and said "soft," then poked the other one gently with a toothpick and said "sharp." I had to close my eyes and answer correctly what she was doing as I was stroked and poked all over my face, and I'm proud to say I got them all right.

I also had to sign some papers acknowledging receipt of a four page, 137th generation copy of a list of dental materials and their properties. I'm glad I'm not a woman since they're more apt to have an allergic reaction to nickel.

I also completed the most detailed medical history inteview I can ever recall. Of course, I got many of the dates wrong, but I didn't attempt to explain to the students that five or ten years no longer represents a huge percentage of my life. It all happened "a while back." No other dentist, ever, has noticed the scarring of my lower lip, the result of having been hit by a car some time around 1980, and that produced a lengthy explanation of the suture scars that I didn't even know still existed.

Also, I was distinctly aware of a generation gap. Before Shervin or Tiffany were even walking on the planet I was up and doing things, and in those more innocent times, doing things that earn you a lot of raised eyebrows nowadays. It was the late sixties, dammit, and we didn't know any better.

The students were concerned about some things in parts of my mouth and gums that I didn't even know had names, but when the Professor arrived to check over their work, they were told that it "sometimes happens, but to keep an eye on it." Since I can't, I expect them to do just that.

The good news is everyone's convinced I'm in reasonably good health. No, I don't know the names of all the things that are wrong, but I'm not worried about most of them, either. I don't expect dentists to worry much about my knees, but, as I said, these University Dental Schools are nothing if not thorough.

I may not see Tiffany again, but I offered my condolences that she'd lose access to all these neat gizmos when she went into private practice. She seemed to understand, but Shervin promised to call me soon with a day and time for my next appointment.

It looks to be three or so visits out before anything actually starts happening. I guess the second thing these students learn, after how to greet a patient ("Hi! I'm Shervin!" - Extend hand) is paperwork. Only after then can they begin practicing on me.