Tag Archives: bacon

The Blue Lollipop

blue lolly

I have spent the past few years trying, with some success, to cultivate a sense of gratitude. I don’t mean Pollyanna gratitude: “Thank you so much for the one legged blind teddy bear that smells like old dog! It’s the best Christmas present ever!” No, what I mean is more a sense of finding what is unique or at least special about my life, my family and friends, the things I live my life among, and loving them for what they are, giving them the value they deserve. It’s also putting envy into perspective. I will always be envious of some things: people who are tall, people who can do math, people who can eat eggplant, people who can sing or juggle or Magic Eye. I know I will never have or be those things but I can envy those people without actually wanting to be them. I can see something beautiful in a store and enjoy its beauty, bask in it even, without wanting to own it, pleased that it exists but not needing it in my life, allowing my magic credit card to rest.

So now I am trying to find gratitude in the fact that I had my final radiation treatment today. There will be no more solitary morning walks to the hospital, no more taking off my shirt and lying on the table while people whose names I don’t know draw on me with magic markers. No more waiting in the pink paper line, no more pulling out my magic credit card and paying the bill, day after day after twenty-five days.  I can sleep in. I can take my time with morning yoga, finally start to work back toward where I was when this all began. I can finally start scrubbing the map of Arizona off my chest.


(As a side note, one radiation treatment costs just about the same as a 1200 gram bottle of organic Acacia honey. Given a choice, I’d rather have the honey. Extra irony: my credit card is magical because it can somehow withdraw an unlimited amount of money from my bank account. The organic honey store only accepts cash.)

When I was dressed and opened the curtain, the radiation room was deserted. There was nobody to say good-bye to except the horrible machine but we had never really made friends. It felt strangely unfinished, like I should get a lollipop or a balloon, something to mark yet another passage through the surreal world that my life has entered.

So I walked back home, just another day, and got to work on the script for a program I will direct next week. In the program, three teams compete to make the springiest food they can come up with. One makes a gelatin-and-starch-based, multi-textured pudding (ugh), another makes a sticky rice ball seasoned with tomato and basil and topped with fish (blech) and the third, the crown jewel, is a blue, bacon-flavored lollipop made of mochi and swathed in mustard-flavored cotton candy. I kid you not.


Monkey Boy was minding his own business, having a nice nap in front of the kerosene heater, when I barfed on him. And then I realized I had something more to be grateful for. Nobody will ever force me to eat a blue bacon-flavored mochi lollipop swathed in mustard-flavored cotton candy. And as wild as my imagination may be at times, it will never go that far. For that, I am also grateful.

Back Street Blues

I had to haul my weary behind, and the rest of me, out of bed at 7:00 this fine Sunday morning and take FOUR trains to go supervise an audition that began at 9:00. I firmly believe that no one should have to work at 9:00 on a Sunday morning, but that is the nature of the beast when one is freelance. A friend working full time recently said, “Gosh, being freelance must be great. You can work when you want to.” “No,” says me. “I work when THEY want me to. That’s not the same thing at all.”

The English part of the audition was done by 9:30. It’s a good thing that I love the Back Street Boys because I wouldn’t take this kind of sheiss from anyone else, at least not without becoming colossally grumpy.

Now, before you go getting yourself all worked up, it’s not the BSB you’re thinking of. It’s a production company called Back Streets. The name was taken from a Bruce Springsteen song. I would take the Boss over a boy-band anytime, but when I first started working with them, the company was just three guys, so I started calling them the Back Street Boys and the name kind of caught on.

They did finally hire a young woman, and a director we worked with a while ago pointed out that they’re actually the Back Street Middle Aged Men and a Girl, but let’s not quibble.

So I gave a mighty sigh and headed back to the station. I rode the same four trains to get back home, by which time I was mightily hungry since I can’t eat that early in the morning. I treated myself to a brunch of blueberry pancakes and bacon because bacon, like warm cake, makes everything better.