my own worst enemy

I don't avoid cliches at all costs like writers are supposed to do... they have value, and are cliches for a reason. I just suspended my netflix account because I find I'm just not getting anything done. I am reading this wonderful book, "The War of Art," by Steven Pressfield. It's all about overcoming resistance; creative blocks that keep us from getting our work done. I realize through its reading the discipline I have sorely been lacking. This must change. I must change it. My biggest time and energy suck lately has been sitting on my ass in front of my computer watching tv reruns, movies, documentaries, youtube clips... AAAAAUUUUUGGGGHHHHH!!!!! I feel like a loser and I hate it! And so I've decided, as the wholesome smell of Irish steel cut oats cooking fills my apartment, that I have to write, every day, no matter what. And you, my dear reader, will just have to suffer through this drivel that covers whatever great work lies dormant within me. I beg your indulgence until I get to it... 

oh, the wacky week I have been experiencing...

life is just showing up all over the place! and it's not being very friendly, lately, in some areas, I must say. it occurred to me today, because I have been experimenting with letting my hair grow out in its platinum glory, that maybe I look at myself in the mirror and see "old," whether I'm aware of it or not. and so i decided today to go back to dyeing it dark again. amazing how difficult it can be to allow ones own image of oneself to change. i keep telling myself i'm just not ready to go gray yet... especially in Los Angeles, where there is so incredibly much attention paid to one's outsides, that sometimes I go a little overboard in only paying attention to my insides.

ever the rebel without a clue!

maybe i'll post "before and afters"... we'll see.

anyway, the reason i started this particular subject, was to lead to yet another cool insight i just had while watching sexy Lindsay Crouse in House of Games... and there's this poker game scene in which Lindsay is supposed to tell Joe Mantegna if the other guy played with his ring... that was his tell, apparently... while Mantegna's character left the room to pee. he comes back in, she tells him, yes, he played with his ring, Mantegna calls the bet... and loses the hand!!! WTF?! and it dawned on me that it is impossible to spot a tell only within the confines of a poker game. it's gambling. this can be exhilarating and/or scary, depending who you are. add in the raising of stakes and all the puffed up chest guy stuff that goes on during poker games, and you're in for a potentially nerve wracking evening.  all kinds of little tics might pop up, and if you don't have any context other than poker into which to place those tics, you may be getting it wrong.