Our Journey with Prince Pt. 1 - The Welcome to America at the LA Forum 2011

I never would have thought I would meet the love of my life because of the musical love of my life. But, sure enough, I met L almost three years ago over a shared appreciation of the much-maligned Prince. At a company poker game, she announced her belief that Prince hadn't recorded anything worthwhile after 2000, and I set out to prove her. Sure, he hasn't put together a complete album since, perhaps, 1994's The Gold Experience... but there has been some amazing tracks over the past 15 years on albums such as The Rainbow Children, LotusFlow3r, Musicology, 3121.... it doesn't reach the peaks, but there have been more than only valleys.

Anyway... we bonded over Prince's live version of "Joy in Repetition", and the last 2+ years has featured bemoaning and cajoling over our inability to see our mutual musical legend together. We missed two high-profile opportunities, at the Avalon post-Oscar show and the Nokia Theater, and started to wonder if we'd get another. Prince's enigmatic performance choices didn't make it any more certain we'd ever get the chance, especially since he spent much of the 2000s in LA, but had appeared to have quietly fled the LA scene. When he announced his Welcome 2 America tour in NY, and then proceeded to not announce a national tour, we thought another opportunity would pass by.

But in Prince's inimitably inexplicable manner, he announced he was coming to LA. Not for one show, but for 21 of them at the LA Forum, the crumbling arena that was the site of so many famed concerts, but now was largely used for the occasional rock show and frequent religious revivals. Needless to say, we jumped at the opportunity. When Prince further announced that 85% of the tickets would sell for $25, we knew this wouldn't be an one-time affair. It was a chance to make up for lost time.

We didn't know then that our love of Prince would lead to 5 shows in 4 weeks, one of them in the most intimate of settings imaginable.

We started on April 14th at opening night. My fast trigger finger on the hateful Ticketmaster left us with riser seats just off the tip of his glyph-symbol stage. Though we sat next to two extraordinarily stoned young hipsters, one of whom threw up over our whole row midway through the show, it was everything we could've possibly wanted - and twice as much as we could have imagined. Prince put tickets on sale two days before the show, and it was only 2/3rds full. This allowed us to wander wherever we wanted during the show - our view got better and better throughout.

But more notably, Prince was in salesman mode. Not by pitching the other shows, but by knowing that word-of-mouth is the best way to generate crowds. How do you do that? By playing a 4 hour show with 6 encores, that never seemed to end. It just went on and on, and L and I spent the final 90 minutes of the show standing right next to the stage, underneath Prince as he played guitar on a heartbreaking version of "Sometimes it Snows in April", because launching into a blistering version of "Laydown", one of those tracks that proves that Prince can take a mediocre recorded cut and turn in into a live classic with astonishing ease.

After four exhausting hours, we were hooked. We talked the show up to everyone who would listen, and waited with itchy mouse fingers on Ticketmaster for the next show.

I decided that taking Z to the next show was essential. Not because a 6-year-old loves Prince that much, but out of that selfish paternal need - I wanted to be that cool dad who took his kid to a hip, cool show, and have him look back 10 years from now and be able to tell his friends, "Yeah, my dad took me to see Prince when I was six". He may not appreciate it now, but that will make for some great cocktail conversations later in life.

Z loved the experience - the walking with the crowd, the being out late, the energy. The music itself was a little overwhelming, and he spent the first half of the show with his hands over his earplug-filled ears, but then he loosened up, amazed at Sheila E's powerful drum solos. When Sheila kicked over her cymbal, Z curiously asked why, and I had to respond "Because she KILLED it!". His mind was sufficiently blown. Show #2 in the books.

Show #3 was with my best friend P, and another close friend that I've bonded with Prince over for the past 10 years.

Show #4 at the Forum started with dance pit tickets, but we moved to prime seats just off the side of the stage. Janelle Monae was the opener, and while I had been dying to see her, it doesn't seem like her material is best served by an arena. In a club she'd probably be mind-blowing, but her high-energy, insanely ambitious stage show came off a little flat in the cavernous arena.

While the length and freshness of the April 14th show wasn't quite matched (and that show is already becoming known as "legendary" among Prince fans), it was nonetheless a stunning show. Prince was perhaps the most high-energy of any of the Forum shows, and we were treated to an intense version of "Shhh", and a non-stop display of guitar theatrics and Prince moves that left the audience shrieking like teenagers. Prince had the audience in his hand, and he knew it.

The show closed more than three hours after it started, but not before Prince brought out a special guest: Stevie Wonder. It was Stevie's birthday, and no matter how old he may be, the audience graciously appreciated the appearannce, and were treated to "Superstition", with Prince taking the side of the stage on rhythm guitar, as Stevie played harmonica and then keyboards. It was a true treat, and again reconfirmed just how special these shows have continued to be.

The LA Forum set lists mostly had a similar template each time though some skewed a more guitar-heavy (such as playing the B-side "She's Always In My Hair") as the second track of a Friday show. Prince would play covers with more regularity than his own tracks, with "Hollywood Swinging" becoming a nightly dance-party on stage, appearing more frequently even than "Let's Go Crazy".

"Glamourous Life" with an ageless, sexy-as-all-hell Sheila E appeared more frequently than "Sign O The Times", and was never a remote disappointment. In fact, it was a regular highlight, leaving the audience nearly as sweaty as Sheila herself.

One of the more surprising aspects of the shows was how some of the least expected tracks could be have the biggest impact, such as the aforementioned "Laydown" or a mind-blowing version of "The One" on May 13th. Dedicated Prince fans know better than to complain about his song performance choices though. How can a fan possibly have all your wishes granted when he has at least 200 songs he could justifiably play - not even counting the 20% of the songs that are covers. You get what you get, and you can expect that you'll love it. All of it.

Here's a list of all 66 different songs we heard over 5 separate shows. Yes, 66. Not counting samples.

Of all the big-venue shows I've seen Prince put on (the Bowl, Staples, Nokia, etc.), the Forum shows have far and away been the best he's put on. It's been pure joy - both for Prince and the audience. Sharing these concerts with L have been the greatest musical experiences I could imagine.

The dedication and enthusiasm we brought to these shows as a couple were only outdone by the enthusiasm, energy and grandiose perfectionism that Prince brought to the stage every night.

But even these amazing performances at the Forum weren't the peak of our Prince musical journey this month. The peak came somewhere else entirely...

Next Up: The Troubadour

If you want some more official, published reviews, here's some reactions to the LA Forum shows.

OCReloaded

LAList

The Owl Mag

Rolling Stone

Appetite for Deconstruction

The Live and Loud

New Houses and New Beginnings

Feels like it's been a long time coming, but L and I have finally moved into a house together. We discovered the most perfect not-so-little three bedroom in Westchester, CA, a tiny residential community where kids ride their bikes all the time, and you have expect a neighbor to bring you a freshly baked apple pie. There aren't many communities in LA like that.

We instantly made the house our own, despite the fact that it's only previous resident was a 90 year old woman we've named "Dorothy", who owned the house since 1948. I presume that she raised her family there, and we are now renting the house through a management company. Everything is original and impeccably maintained, and amazingly solid. They really knew how to make things in the 1940s. We are putting our touches on it, from shelves on the walls to searching for a new dining room pendant lamp, but we instantly felt at home.

One of the most satisfying things was seeing how much Z loved it. He's an urban city dweller, and has spent his scant lifetime in condos and apartments. I hadn't yet had the opportunity to give him grass and green, and now I do. We went to Home Depot, bought a board and some nice climbing rope and built a homemade swing in the backyard. He helped sand the board and keep the rope straight while Dad was working. When it was all put together, the smile on his face was utterly captivating.

The smile on L's face when she comes in each day is equally captivating, and she's adored making use of our rather over-sized kitchen, which even fits her beloved leather couch. We had our second Thanksgiving together, and are making a home. A home that we hope to be in for a long, long time.

It's where we are meant to be.

Dream Journal - Suburban Houses of Mirrors

For the last 6 months or so, I have been having a ridiculous amount of dreams. Almost nightly I will have 3 or 4 separate dreams which, like most people, fritter away and disappear the moments after I wake up. Sometimes I piece together my oblique, highly detailed narratives for my girlfriend though, who marvels at the bizarre crap that comes out of my subconscious. My dreams are heavily populated by characters, locales, and incident, though little of it has any direct connection with my daily life.

Like last night, for instance.

I was at the edge of the street down the block from my house in Wauwatosa, Wisconsin (I grew up in a suburb of Milwaukee). A row of non-descript suburban houses that you'll find anywhere. Not unlike below.

I know exactly what block this is, and it looks exactly the same, and completely different. Because instead of the usual 10 feet between houses, they are all packed close together. What's more striking is that every house is pristine white. The sideboards, the roofs, everything. It's a giant line of medicinal blahness, and you wonder why on earth anyone on this block would agree to turn their street into an IRS hallway.

Until I move down it. Quickly. Maybe in a car, maybe a bike. Suddenly I'm hit by an explosion of light passing each house, a kaliedescope of colors. It turns out that all of the front doors are set into a recessed, exterior foyer about 10-15 feet back from the front of the house itself. Each door on the block is a different color - red, blue, purple, yellow, etc. And coming out from each door is a V-shaped structure leading to the house's edge, splaying outward, and the V's are entirely lined with glass. Which causes a house of mirrors effect with the front door, reflecting and radiating the light in all different directions. An absolute explosion of color that completely changes your perception of this drab, white, antiseptic street.

It's kind of a crazy carnival of colors, and not what one would consider "classy". However, it's so genuine and full of life that it can't help but be inspiring. It's just oozing life and energy, like a Tim Burton movie where you don't understand how these people live, but you respect their utter dedication to the process.

But why this particular suburban block, that I have no actual affinity or connection to? I haven't thought of it in years, and nothing notable ever happened to me on that stretch of pavement. Maybe my subconscious is just suffused with the Arcade Fire's remarkable album, "The Suburbs". Each day or week I seem to be alternatingly obsessed with a new track. Currently, I adore the near-closing track, "The Sprawl 1 Flatland lyrics, which reminds me of a Spielberg version of the suburbs, circa "E.T.". Visions of kids on their bikes late at night:

Cops showing their lights
On the reflectors of our bikes
Said, do you kids know what time it is?
Well sir, it's the first time I've felt like something is mine
Like I have something to give

The idea of finally having ownership of something... your life itself, as a kid is something that you typically think of as a college psychology. However, those lyrics perfectly capture what it feels like the first time you get out of your house, staying out past your bedtime. Doing nothing, but it's still the most important thing in the world to you, at that moment.

We will see what moments my next dreams bring.

Lucky to Be a Failed Screenwriter

I sit with my glass of wine (the charmingly labeled bottle, Pinot Evil), my 5 year old sleeping in the next room. Watching the documentary TALES FROM THE SCRIPT, I consider how unbelievably lucky I am to be a failed screenwriter.

It's gratifying to listen to successful, (sometimes) famous screenwriters, discuss their craft, and hear that they view the profession and the process in exactly the same way that I did. They managed to make it work. I, however, did not. "The price of getting into the film business... is figuring out your path... How are you going to get over that wall?". I guess I never had the wherewithal to build the right kind of ladder to get over the wall, though I scrambled and scrabbled to varying degrees of recognition and rejection. "Nobody wants your stuff", William Goldman says.

I never got over that wall, and I eventually had the good luck to get a copywriting job. The irony is that screenwriting is the economy of style - it's architecture and structure, rather than florid prose. It's not poetry. It's mechanics with style. I ended up writing online marketing ads that show up every day when you search for Google, which makes the notion of screenwriting as economy almost absurd. It's 70 characters, all in. No story. Little creativity.

But it turns out it was creative. Creative in the way that it causes you to work with people, learn new skills, and discover talents you didn't know you have. My career has since flourished, and while I do some writing in my job, here and there, I'm no longer a writer.

The energy that entertainment has is, of course, undeniable. I was getting gas today next to Sony studios, looking at the water tank, and remembering the naive enthusiasm I had the first time I walked on that lot for an internship... "Oh my god, I'm in Hollywood. This is where IT happens".

Or it's where it doesn't happen. And even if it does happen, it goes through so many twists and turns, and ups and downs, that it leaves you hollowed, not remembering where you began - or why you began - to begin with.

But, yeah, whatever, you fucking whiner. Go back to Iowa. That's the message of the guy who didn't get it done. The failure. The one who walked way.

Yeah. All very true. And I'm not crying in my soup, and I'm probably making more money now than if I actually did turn into a "working screenwriter" (unless you make that million dollar sale kind of thing, etc.). And I don't want anyone to whine for me, because I love not having that feeling like you're chasing it every day. Chasing down people to like you, to validate you, to invite you in the room. To make you feel like that phone call is the most important thing in your day, in your life.

And listening to old screenwriters in a documentary... successful, impressive writers, that story doesn't change. Granted, I'll have to worry about ageism (as in Hollywood), unemployment, companies failing, etc, etc, etc. But when I walked away, I realized that I didn't want to spend every day in my life begging for that one phone call each day that makes me feel like a validated human being. "You have to get a hit EVERY time you're up to bat".

I've validated that for myself just fine, thank you, and I don't regret it at all. In fact, I barely miss it. Barely.

I just wish I had a good movie idea to write...

Worth the Effort

You think should be easy, but they aren't. Even something as seemingly simple as a vacation can be exceptionally complicated. There's travel issues, like spending 180 minutes in a Days Inn in Dublin, Georgia, which was 179 minutes too long. There are family issues, such as an unneeded drama between siblings that drags in my wonderful girlfriend. There is the frequent social ineptness of family members, such as a mother who wants to talk about nothing but my ex to my girlfriend - not exactly a way to engender a feeling of togetherness or connectedness. Suddenly what is supposed to be relaxing becomes fraught with drama and emotion. Not exactly the way you envisioned things going.

But somehow life is always like that.

Life is hard. Challenges are waiting for you every day when you wake up, and they're still lurking under the bed when you drift off to sleep. But that doesn't mean life is like a box of chocolates. Rather, it's like this:

A mango.

One of the most time-consuming pieces of fruit to eat. The peeling process is a pain in the ass, and it usually takes at least a minute, if not two, to successfully strip it of its rubbery shell. When you do, it's often overly juicy, which makes it hard to hold onto during those final swipes of your peeler. I have had more than one mango squirt out of my grasp into the garbage can below. Nothing that a little water can't solve.

Then you have to cut the mango. It never cuts very easily. When you see the Mexican fruit vendors do it, you start to suspect they might be using lightsabers rather than knives - it's never been that easy for me. You usually get a decent amount of fruit from two sides, but then you hone in on the others, and the whole thing kind of collapses around you, juice dribbling off the cutting board, yielding few treasures. You start to wonder why you bother. A banana's sitting over there, and by now it would've been eaten.

Then the mango's cut, but you're a pulpy, juicy mess, and you still need to get it all into a bowl. Do you wash your hands before grabbing a bowl, knowing that you'll get the bowl sticky? Or do you take the time to wash your hands and then fill up the bowl with that orange-yellow goodness? You choose the latter, but then you're inevitably going to get messy again, swiping the fruit into the bowl with the knife that's covered in goo. Then, if you want the mango to be really perfect, you need to put the whole thing into the fridge for awhile - chilled is better than room temperature.

Goddamn, getting to eat a fucking mango is a giant pain in my ass.

While it's already a piss-poor analogy, life is similar to the the preparation of a mango - it's filled with all the preparation, all the mind-numbing details you don't want to deal with, challenges that you don't anticipate when you first start, and there's frequently a sense of delayed gratification.

But then you eat it. And holy shit, all of the effort that goes into it is forgotten. It's all worth it. Because that mango is filled with flavor, texture. It warms everything about you, and makes any meal that you're eating all the more enjoyable.

And when you share that mango with the person that you adore, who you love in ways you can't even describe, it's the difference between just eating the mango, and savoring it. The challenges that got through to reach that point still exist, and they're still there, but they seem negligible, and they don't detract from the pleasure of that mango. Because you're eating it together. You both understand what it means to have gotten to that point, and to be in that place. Even if some of the mango juice dribbles down your chin.

Sprains, Sickness and Death

Not the greatest of weeks, one has to say, looking back on it.

It started by a ridiculous ankle sprain playing soccer with my kid. He's not very experienced, and I still have to endlessly remind him not to try to step on the ball to stop it. You trap it with your foot. Yet, there we are, at the park, and what do I do? I step on the ball. So predictable you could set your watch to it, my ankle rolls, and voila, I'm groaning in pain on the ground. I could barely walk the next day, and thought it may have been broken. Amazingly, I made a remarkable turnaround the next day, and after some minor hobbling, have been ok.

Meanwhile, L has suffered from a horrible cold all week, and was sick much of the week. While she's kept a stiff upper lip, it's definitely hurt our typical rhythm, and we haven't been quite as in sync as we usually are. The general, low-grade but pervasive stress has taken a toll on the week.

Then yesterday, my uncle died. He was beloved to me when I was a little kid, but we had fallen out of touch, and I hadn't been in contact with him for some time. My dad's younger brother, and the closest of his siblings. He was also a gargantuan wall of flesh who you couldn't even remotely accuse of taking care of himself. So when he has a heart attack while driving to play golf with my dad, at the age of 54, you can't be surprised. The truck crashes into a tree, but he was likely already dead. Leaving behind 3 girls between the ages of 18 and 25. Heartbreaking. My dad adored his flawed, but eminently likable brother, and it leaves my grandfather without a caretaker. I don't know what they're going to do about that.

I fly to Dayton, OH for the funeral tomorrow morning, and I will miss L terribly. I was so looking forward to us getting back in our groove this weekend, but alas, it will have to wait. Instead, I must go comfort family members, both dear to me and those that I haven't communicated with in years. It's bound to be a surreal weekend, and I won't have my special someone beside me to go through it all.

Just because

Yes, it's been slow around here these days. Especially for my one follower.

I haven't had the time or energy to be writing about all my happy moments - of which there are many - because I am too busy having them. When not having said moments, I'm overwhelmed with work. It's been a time of transition in my professional world, all of which are good things - more responsibility and all of that - but it's been most of what I'm thinking about when I'm not with L.

So, I'm deeply, deeply sorry to be offending my meager audience out there - all those people who drop in from the Netherlands, Russia and Encino - but...

Yet, along those lines, it's worth considering whether or not my blog is played out. I never started it to be read, or to garner an audience; if I had, I would've chosen a subject more interesting - or at least scatalogical - than myself. I would've thought about things like "linkbait" and "top 5 posts" to garner all those backlinks and readers that blogs need to get. That was never an interest, and the people who dropped in were like niggling little thoughts in the back of my consciousness - you know they're there somewhere, but you're not quite fully aware of their presence. And the blog was started as a necessary therapeutic outlet more than anything else. The guy who has never kept a journal could only do so if he was typing. And isn't everyone doing everything in "the Cloud" these days anyway? We don't seem to think or speak if it's not "in the Cloud". So... there was that.

But I haven't really needed a therapeutic outlet as of late. I haven't been to see my therapist in at least 9 months, which I somehow feel guilty about, because I feel like the only reason to go see her is so she knows I'm in a good, happy place. This blog has always been my online therapist - listening, taking it in, and not judging me in any way. There's a woman who also doesn't judge me, and when I need the outlet, she is there for me.

Saves my fingers the effort, which can then be used for other things...

Endings and Continuations

I'm not one for end of the year ruminations, recriminations or reclamations. Libations, yes. Those other 'ations', not so much. Generally a navel-gazing waste of time, in my view.

That being said, it's 11 pm on New Year's Eve, and I'm all alone. Not in a sad, woe is me way, but L has gone out to a fancy Beverly Hills party with a friend, and I'm here as the little one sleeps. Earlier in the evening we had my best friend and his family over for sumptuous steaks, and stage-diving by two four-year old boys into a mound of pillows. A nice, low-key way to end the year for the parenting set. Granted, L isn't officially part of that set, but she was game nonetheless. That's exactly why I wanted her to go out though; so she could get some enjoyment of the social set, while I wile away at home, thinking of her.

And thinking of her just leads to my end of the year thoughts. Which, as I said, tend not to be verbose or self-involved. Needless to say, it's been an amazing year in so many respects, and the experiences and milestones are indelibly imprinted in my mind, and elsewhere. But simply...

I'm grateful and hopeful, and believe that life is good.

Happy New Year.

Wine in the Mexican Countryside

There's a rooster crowing in the Mexican countryside. Centered atop a hill within a nearly barren valley, twenty miles from the coast, rests La Villa Del Valle, a romantic retreat opened 5 years ago by two charming British ex-pats. The husband, Phil, is a conassuieur of social behavior and wine, so it would only have made sense that he discover a way to disappear from the regular world and start a winery, which serves as the backbone for this exquisite bed & breakfast.

L had heard of Del Valle from a Daily Candy email, probably 4 years ago, and kept it tucked away in her email box, a hovering dream waiting to come to life. It's not an inexpensive place to go, so it remained a semi-distant wish, until some money dropped into our laps in the form of a movie-gambling game run by my best friend and I, which I happened to win for the first time in 14 years. When I won in September, it was the easiest decision in the world to use the ill-gotten spoils to come here.

With my son on a vacation of his own, the perfect opportunity presented itself in the days before Christmas. Family is coming for the holiday, which meant no hectic airport travel, and the right time for such an escape. As for the escape itself, La Villa del Valle is just north of Escanada, which is itself about 70 minutes south of Tijuana. American fears of murder and death south of the border are greatly exaggerated, as long as you don't come down here as a cocaine trafficking mule. And, tempting though it was to make some pick-ups for some dudes on Hollywood and Vine, we're just a normal young couple. Who got our car searched by the Mexican military anyway. The 19 year old soldiers were friendly and unthreatening, however.

Turning off the 1 just before Escanada, you drive up Hwy 3, turning off onto a jagged dirt road amidst a long stretch of highway construction (good to see that Mexico has the funds for major roadwork). The car bounces along past a few modest homes, farms and dried wineries (December is not prime wine season), and you start to wonder where this place is. The beautiful scripted signs keep you pointed in the right direction, however, at each and every fork. An elegant invitation beckoning you further into the countryside.

Then it appears: a yellow stone home of significant size perched atop a small peak in the valley, ringed by semi-distant, verdant mountains. Turning past the gate, you drive up to the house, which looks like something out of Italy, with its huge stone archways and a giant wooden front door that is never locked. Friendly family dogs welcome you, quietly eager to show you the way. They quickly become your friends and guides to the exteriors of the property.

Inside, Alejandro, the home's manager, warmly welcomes you and gives you a tour of this sumptuous yet eternally tasteful country paradise. What most strikes you is how every detail was so carefully considered, from the tiles on the stairway to the fact that there are no locks on the bedroom doors. It is just that type of place - you are welcomed into the Gregory's home, and you treat it as such. L comments frequently that, were she to have this kind of money and opportunity, this is exactly how she would style something. She points out the amazing use of depth and space, as the Gregorys fill every room with art and objects at different levels, from the hanging metal lamps, which have a Morrocan/Spanish feel, to the frequent mirrors and stunning artwork. The first night we ballparked the decorating of this home at a massive amount of money, though perhaps with the endless Mexican artisans in Baja California, that number was much lower.

Settling into our beautiful, warm room, we look out over the valley from our balcony, and the question of the weekend sets in: what do you do with yourself when there is nothing to do? This is a wonderful question to ask, which I never allow myself to ponder, so this is a vaguely discomforting notion to me. But it's a wonderful habit to get into, and we threw ourselves into that amusing challenge with gusto. There's a cocktail hour at 5:30, where Alejandro brings wine made here to the guests, along with an organic botana (snack). It turned out to be a remarkable carmelized onion mixture within a chard leaf. A short while later, we had the recommended first night dinner at the house. This is a one-night affair, because it's a pretty pricey meal, charming though it was. It's a four course meal, where the first two courses were probably the best, especially the creativity of the ostrich spring roll. The entree and dessert were a little underwhelming, though one understands why the house chef is described as "visionary" - everything we ate was unexpected and original. Just not sure that all of it "worked".

After dinner, we retire to our room to drink more wine, talk about futures, people's attitudes towards marriage, and how our own opinion of those rituals have changed over the years. The Gregorys wines - especially their cab - are phenomenal, but at $25 a bottle, wasn't what we were going to spend the whole weekend drinking. We popped open our own, and had a wonderful evening.

After a wonderfully authentic and spicy breakfast, Saturday was spent lounging around, going to the gorgeously crafted pool to relax, read magazines and books, and do absolutely nothing. We wandered the estate, finding a stone labyrinth. When you first hear there's a labyrinth, you think hedges and getting lost. Instead, it's a deceptively simple circle of 6 inch high stones that you follow around to the center. There are no wrong turns, and you kind of wonder why you're walking around like a semi-homeless person following the path. But the longer you do it (it takes around 5 minutes), the more you realize this is a manifestation of creative energy that comes from living away from it all - the less time you spend on your self-imposed "to-do" list, the more time you have for free thinking. Reaching the center of the labyrinth, only 15 feet from the exterior edge, it doesn't seem pointless, but rather, serene.

We drive for an early dinner, hoping to make it back for cocktail hour, but the directions we're given to some restaurant with the word oranges in the name is deceptively complicated because of the heavy road construction. We eventually grow a bit worried and turn off onto a winery road to check out La Casa de Dona Lupe, thinking it's a restautant. It is, to the extent they make pizza to go (take THAT Domino's!), but more specifically, it is a shop of organic jams, jellies and aromatherapy products. And old Dona Lupe, a 75 year old woman, sits behind the counter, bagging your purchases, while her beautiful daughter, mid-forties, shows off how smooth her skin is from the products we're buying. They give us more exact directions, and we find the restaurant, where few speak English, but the food is good. More wine back at the del Valle, but watching "Coraline" on my computer is waylaid by other interests...

Sunday we head to Ensenada after L and I have a game of bocce ball. The shopping district is quiet, and we can't find much that really interests us, sadly. It's a somewhat underwhelming town, but when we get munchy, we stop for margaritas and nachos, and to watch the first quarter of the Packer game. Heading back to Del Valle, we pick up an early dinner of Mediterranean lamb, and then make cocktail hour, where we sit with the Gregorys and some friends of theirs, talking for a couple of hours over multiple glasses of wine. That Phil keeps pouring demonstrates that they enjoy our company, and we're not unwanted in their gorgeous living room after the close of the traditional cocktail hour. We eat our dinner and cheese-filled apple pie in bed, before retiring early from a evening of heavy wine consumption and rapturously sensual delights.

We don't want to go home, though we must. We'll head back via Tecate, and prepare for the rest of the holiday week, along with the arrival home of my little guy, who I can't wait to have a visit from Santa. Provided no one else dies this week (the weekend was cast under a shadow by the news of two deaths leading into the weekend, one quite impactful and important to our lives), it should hopefully be a wonderful holiday.

Levels Rising

2009 has featured a tremendous capacity for dealing with stress. It's amazing how being happy, being in love, and feeling hopeful and optimistic can leave you with strong reserves to deal with stress. It's been a great year in that regard.

That being said, the last couple of weeks have left me a little more frazzled than I would prefer. It's all work related, not lifestyle focused. We just tacked on a major element to our new work endeavor, which comes directly from my old department, while demanding that we set up entire new operations on our end. It's a big, crucial initiative that I'm currently carrying on my shoulders, and I spend my nights dreaming of spreadsheets, and my mornings waking up with my first thoughts about what work-related things I should be doing that very moment. Brushing my teeth I'm game-planning my agenda, and by the time I have my coffee, I'm already three steps ahead of what I should be doing.

All of this is theoretically great in terms of experience and career, but the plan is to be hiring someone to take on many of these duties I'm pitch-hitting for. That plan was set in motion, aspiring to make the process smooth and easy in terms of a resource, but due to something as mundane and insidious as company politics, it got blown to smithereens. Lots of people ended up doing things in a far less than optimal way, and my agenda gets compromised badly as a result of it, and who knows if there will be later political fall-out. A really unfortunate circumstance that's ultimately going to cost my company a fantastic employee, and me the ability to keep the ship moving forward smoothly and quickly. While I've felt like a superstar at times this year, this was something that I felt I could deliver, and I failed. That's a bummer.

So I've felt more than my share of work-stress for the past few weeks, and I feel badly that I've burdened L. with it. She doesn't deserve it, and though I don't feel that I've been a bad guy at all, she knows that I'm preoccupied, and not as focused on us as I'd like to be. So that's a shame, and I don't want it to be that way. It makes me realize that I'm not perfect when it comes to coping with stress, but then again, what does that mean: to be perfect when it comes to stress? Isn't the very nature of that to upset the psychological apple cart and not be able to be perfect? I still think that I'm generally better than most in that regard, but I'm not sure what all the coping strategies and mechanisms are, from person to person.

And, on top of that, my wonderful L. is in some far away place called Fresno tonight. Fresno. The word itself sounds like abandoned drive-ins and Chinese restaurants called Oriental Palace. But I hope that she's having relaxing family time with her father, and that moments like these help build a stronger bridge between them, which may not have been consistently stable and strong through much of her life. It's good that she's doing it, and me being away from her for a night isn't much of a price to pay for that.