January 28-29

Still attempting to recover from my quick NY trip. Spent most of Monday wandering around the house in a daze. On Tuesday awoke early to prepare for dentist appointment. It was a huge success-- no cavities. Had brunch at the Farmer's Market with an old friend, then bought like 200 stickers for Baby, who's currently into stickers. I don't know what I was thinking. I also shopped for sausage supplies for Wife, who is making elk, venison, wild boar and buffalo links for Superbowl. Each type of game will be in a separate sausage, in case you were concerned. For some reason Baby went bananas from 8:15-10:00 PM before falling asleep in the Big Bed. Now I must go to sleep after making sure I don't have any outstanding moves to make on Scrabulous.

The Metaphysics of Barney

"Barney is a dinosaur from our imagination, and when he's tall he's what we call a dinosaur sensation."

I'm still trying to wrap my head around this. Kids in Barney play with him when he's a little stuffed animal and without the use of any magic words he just springs to life, returning to his inanimate form after singing a plethora of arcane nursery rhymes and teaching valuable lessons about fire safety and dental hygiene and the like. I can kind of understand if you are part of a group playing with him when he is little you could imagine him turning huge collectively, but it is still weird that everyone imagines him in the same way and he leads them instead of them deciding what he might be doing. It also strikes me as odd that all adults in the show simply accept Barney at face value as if he is part of their collective imagination as well. They don't ever appear to see him in his stuffed form but only happen upon the scene after he is sensational, as if the children's imagination is so strong they telepathically project it onto the adults. And don't even get me started on Baby Bop and her brother BJ, two other dinosaurs that do not appear to be imaginary at all, as they never appear in stuffed form. Why then should Barney have to appear in stuffed form if they do not? I wish some French intellectual could solve this puzzle for me. The Sesame Street monsters are simply there in the world of Sesame Street, and the "real humans" in the show, adults and children alike, never question their (the monsters') reality. I don't see the point of Barney having to be imaginary at all, as opposed to "being" there all along. I'm also trying to figure out what if anything this has to do with Snuffy on Sesame Street, who used to be Big Bird's imaginary friend but is now real, as if Big Bird willed him into "life", complete with his whole Snuffy family. That took years, but perhaps it paved the way for the Barney kids to appear to be able to will Barney to life immediately for everyone in the show, even those who have never met Barney before. Unless Barney came before "real Snuffy." I guess I should research the order. And nobody ever asks where Baby Bop and BJ come from. I must dust off my cultural criticism texts from college and ponder this question further. Clearly if I decide to return to school I have my dissertation topic.

January 19-27

Did not have time to write about my trip to SF before embarking on my trip to NY to hang out with Grandpa (although there were other activities). Will have to recuperate and plan to post two travelogues which will include SFW escapades only. Okay, going back to sleep.

January 18

One way to forget about the strike is to travel, eat, drink, or all of the above. I spent most of the day writing and trying not to get ill due to this bug going around. At about 5 PM I received a phone call from a friend, let's call him Joe, who informed me that he had just arrived in San Francisco from New York. It turns out another friend, let's call him Paul, who lives in SF, was a bachelor for the weekend, as his wife and daughter were in the Midwest visiting relatives. I guess his wife was originally going to go without their baby, but her parents filed a formal guilt trip and at the last minute she felt it best to bring said infant along. After Paul did the requisite moping around the house bemoaning their impending absence, he placed a frenzied call to Joe outside of his wife and child's earshot, begging him to head west to help celebrate his impending weekend without diaper doody or finger painting. Joe complied almost immediately, hearing the desperation in Paul's voice, as Paul had not had a break from his familial responsibilities in over a year. Knowing that I was in a malaise and that the Wife was sick of me, Joe called to brag about his planned weekend of debauchery in order to make me feel worse. Overhearing our conversation, the Wife, to our shock and amazement, insisted I join the boys if I could get a cheap, last minute flight. Fearing for the health of my liver and also sensing some sort of elaborate emotional bear trap, I asked if she really meant it as I quickly scanned Travelocity for flights. Wife assured me that she and Baby had plenty to do that weekend and although they would miss me it would be nice for me to play with Paul and Joe. Knowing that her immediate plans included a girl's night at a friend's new home, in which Baby was included, a visit to her brother and his family the next day, and a play date for Baby on Sunday, and taking into account the fact that Baby can now recount the events of her day in amazing detail, I concluded that Wife probably wasn't sending me away so she could continue a torrid affair with somebody, but rather simply wanted to get rid of me and my whining for a couple of days. So while she took Baby into the distant environs of Cheviot Hills, I found a cheap flight leaving early the next morning and started packing. I informed her via cell phone of the time of my departure and she approved, then said Baby was asking for me and I drove over, picked Baby up, gave her a bath and we fell asleep. I called the bachelors, who were practically incoherent as they bathed in a giant vat of sake at some sushi joint, and informed them of my scheduled arrival the following morning, just in time for us to eat lunch. Details to follow in my soon-to-be inaugurated Travel section.

Play-Doh

Play-Doh is back in my life. A friend bought Baby a 50th Anniversary pack with so many amazing colors it made her Crayolas bitter with jealousy. When I cracked open that first little jar of teal that smell brought back so many memories of...that smell. Come on, I'm sure like me you couldn't freakin' remember more than three or four things from when you were of Play-Doh'ing age unless you underwent a talking cure on Sigmund Freud's couch. Still, there is something comforting and soothing about that smell. I vaguely recall reading somewhere that they pump it into airports, shopping malls and prisons just to calm everyone's nerves. Obviously, if you've ever been to an airport, shopping mall or prison you know that a healthy percentage of people remain immune to the Play-Doh scent's magical effects. Perhaps one day we will read a study revealing that for 50% of smellers the Play-Doh odor actually activates the neurotransmitter for "being an a-hole." Who knows. I also recall reading about somebody escaping from prison with a gun made out of Play-Doh. If that didn't actually happen, it should, provided the person has been put behind bars for a crime he did not commit involving an unreliable witness, that three strikes law, and the theft of a loaf of bread. Anyway, Baby loves Play-Doh and I have never before felt such appreciation for my artistic talents. Not having much of which to be proud in the professional arena of late, any sign of approval or gratitude from anyone for anything I do comforts me in a way the Play-Doh smell never could. For instance, the other day me and a person in oncoming traffic stopped at a stop sign at the exact same moment, and I needed to make a left turn while he was apparently going straight. I flashed my brights to indicate that he should go first and he did, waving a heartfelt thank-you to me on the way as if I had just cured cancer. That felt great. At the gym I glanced at a fetching young woman bouncing along on a nearby treadmill. She smiled at me as if to say, thanks for acknowledging my gym-induced hotness, you're not so bad yourself, now go back to your business, I'm not inviting you to sleep with me. That felt great, too. And then Baby asked me to make a cup of coffee with the black Play-Doh and I fashioned a little mug with a handle and put some light brown Play-Doh in the cup and handed it to her and she said, "Dada, you made coffee faw me!" and smiled so brightly I was nearly moved to tears until she took a fake sip then real bite out of the cup and I had to explain that Play-Doh was for pretending, not for eating. Feeling emboldened, I asked her what else she wanted me to make, and over the course of the next few days I sculpted a bowl of soup, pancake, noodle, pizza, cup of tea and happy face. The results were less felicitous when she requested a frog, whale, buffalo, rhino, lion, tiger and Thomas the Train. To each one of these creations she responded with a sour face, look of rage, or hysterical crying. I dread the future when she asks me to make a woolly mammoth, Michelangelo's Moses, a strand of DNA, the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles, or fried calamari. Sensing my apprehension, Baby has for the time being gone back to requesting coffee cups, plates and the like from Dada and is working diligently on making her own frogs.

January 16-17

Jeepers, I can barely freakin' remember what I did on the 16th. Oh, wait, I started out with a follow-up appointment at my ear, nose and throat specialist's office. A doctor visit is an excellent striketivity, as you feel like you've accomplished something productive and important. It's even better if you find out you're probably not going to die from the ailment or issue for which you sought medical attention. Since I got a clean bill of health, I felt fantastic, although I did have a bit of a sniffle that I believe was unrelated to the tongue thing, as both Wife and Baby recently got over bad colds. Said sniffle has kept me out of the gym for a few days, by the way, and my impending stripping career may have to be put on hold. I went shopping at Trader Joe's where I bought some gnocchi for dinner. I then did the tax-related paperwork for the nanny and had lunch, a delightful turkey sandwich. After lunch I lay down in bed with a pile of unread New Yorkers and fell asleep for a long time. After Wife returned from work Baby wanted to go on a walk and we went "up a hill" and she showed Wife her balancing act on curbs, which is quite harrowing. I had twice-cooked chicken and some gravy for dinner, Wife and Baby had and liked the gnocchi.

On the 17th I had a lunch scheduled with a friend at 12:30 and started getting ready for it at about 8:31, right after the nanny arrived at 8:30. After changing outfits a few times I surfed the web for strike news and did some writing until about 11:45, then headed out for Le Petite Greek on Larchmont. It was quite excellent. I had grilled salmon because those fatty acids are supposed to work their way through your clogged arteries like brooms. Then it was off to Target to use two coupons that have been lying around, one for dish soap and one for any cleaning product. Apparently the powers that be at Target have decided that dishwashing liquid doesn't count as a cleaning product. This meant I had to spend one dollar more than I had anticipated, and the disappointment led to exhaustion, so I barely had the energy to stop at Ralphs to buy some Muesli, Lu butter cookies for Baby, and carrots and peppers for Wife. I also bought Dannon coffee yogurt for Wife, which was the only regular Dannon they carried. What happened to all the Fruit at the Bottom flavors? Now it's all, like, La Creme and Light N Fit and Totally Natural or something. After getting furious about yogurt I returned home and passed out. Baby wanted to go on a "huge" walk after having a snack of grapes. Dinner was like a trip to the Pacific Rim - lemongrass egg rolls, chicken shu mai, rice and broccoli. Read that the DGA settled, then saw a copy of the letter Michael Apted sent to the membership, which basically implied that the WGA negotiators were nitwits. Very patronizing.

January 15

Spent the morning surfing the web looking for some sign that the strike will end. Perhaps the impending DGA deal will do the trick. Of course, then I still have to get work - but at least there might be some out there. Wondering if studios will go back to the table now that they've cut so many overall deals.

After a delightful turkey sandwich lunch I raked leaves on the patio, trimmed the coral tree and cut back an out of control lavender bush. Roasted a chicken for dinner and the Wife cut her piece open and looked like she was going to hurl. It was a little pink. I chalked it up to the interior lighting, she lost her appetite. Put her piece back in the oven but ate mine. Perhaps this will be my last entry.

K-Zo Restaurant Review

I so enjoyed K-Zo during my three visits that I pinched myself each time to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, or at least eating at a pricier, trendier establishment. The regular menu and specials offer a huge variety of traditional sushi along with “small bites” showcasing chef Keizo Ichiba’s Japanese and European training. Albacore, freshwater eel and salmon sushi were consistently excellent. The buttery yellowtail practically melted in my mouth. In the tapas department, the “spicy tuna crispy” is an inspired exercise in contrasts – a mound of spicy, chopped tuna balanced atop a brown rice cracker that sweetens as you chew it. The beet and goat cheese salad was delightful. Kid-friendly free-range chicken nuggets were perfectly paired with a lemony sauce. The restaurant boasts a formidable sake list and a handful of Japanese beers. The décor is sleek and modern, yet warm and inviting. K-Zo is definitely worth a try, or three.

January 14

Nanny returned. Finally took down holiday lights. Mowed lawn for first time in three weeks. Still weighed 169.5 despite weekend of deprivation. Went to gym. Took Baby and Wife to restaurant supply/gourmet food store Surfas in late afternoon to buy dish towels and treats. Got some awesome round breadsticks with fennel, made with olive oil and not diet-friendly. Noticed that studios are starting to exercise force majeure on writers with overall deals, but also read that once the strike is over and a new contract is ratified the terminated writers have to be reinstated at original terms. That doesn't seem too bad. You're making a million plus a year and are canned for six months then immediately go back to making that million plus. It can't be that easy. What I read must be wrong. One reason the studio chiefs seem so gleeful about the strike is that they can terminate people who are costing money but don't have hit shows. Why hire them back later? Must confirm with all my high-powered attorney friends.

Confession: It Was I Who Dealt It On The Bus In 1978

I went to this day camp in the summer of 1978. I wasn't a very popular kid and kept to myself, but I wasn't unpopular enough to be picked on, just ignored. The camp scapegoat was this kid named Russell, who was short and pudgy with eternally crooked glasses, kind of like Piggy from Lord of the Flies. Anyway, I don't know if it was the tater tots or the franks and beans or the egg salad sandwiches, but the camp lunches committed unspeakable atrocities upon my digestive tract on a daily basis. Heading home one day, avidly reading a Betty & Veronica Double Digest, I squeezed out an airborne toxic event of unprecedented potency. If you were to feed a dog a bucket of Brussels sprouts and rancid lard and lock him in a closet for a couple of days, the smell that hit you when you opened that closet door would be about one tenth as powerful as this. It took about five seconds for the miasma to spread throughout the big yellow bus, then the girls started shrieking and holding their noses and the guys pulled their shirts up to their foreheads. Counselors with rapidly tearing up eyes leaped from their seats to open all windows, and for a minute it seemed like the bus driver was going to pull over so we could evacuate. Some girl stopped choking long enough to cry out that Russell cut the cheese, and everyone started yelling at him. Russell started bawling and insisted that he didn't do it. He gnashed his teeth and didth rent his garments asunder. Meanwhile, I buried my head deeper in my comic and prayed that I hadn't in fact crapped my pants, so stubbornly did the overwhelming stench linger in the stifling summer heat. As the offensive vapors lodged in the noses of the entire bus, a one-sided melee ensued and Russell disappeared beneath a flurry of noogies, deadlegs, purple nurples, shark bites and wet willies. I even reached over the seat and gave him a red neck with a resounding slap before retreating back into my literary pursuits. Finally the counselors broke up the beating and exhaust fumes from the highway dissipated the horrific odor. Russell sobbed the whole way home, and the guilt started building within me. It's taken nearly 30 years, but I'm finally ready to confess that it was me and wherever you are, Russell, whether this incident turned you into a serial killer or dotcom billionaire, I'm terribly sorry for what I put you through, and I'll never do it again.

January 8-11

Very, very, very busy with Baby, so no time for showering, let alone blogging. Felt like June Cleaver, what with the constant laundering, errands, cleaning, feeding, playing. Of course, every moment was, a la the commercials, priceless. Perhaps all the strike-induced economic and emotional stress was worth it because I got to teach Baby how to eat pizza like a New Yorker at the Fox Hills Mall. We were in the play area and she was jumping around on these foam animals and cars they have there when ran over and looked up at me and batted her eyelashes and said, "Dada, I want pizza." My heart melted like so much mozzarella and I carried her to Sbarro in the food court immediately. Got her a slice for $3.45 (how'd that happen??) and sat down. Asked if I should break it up and she said, "No, I want a big piece." Then she grabbed the whole slice and naturally the tip drooped down and all the cheese nearly fell off into her lap. So I showed her how to fold it and after a few tries she got the hang of it and applauded herself every time she took a bite. Ate half the slice, which was pretty substantial for a tiny kid, and I polished off the rest, violating my diet. After lunch I realized I hadn't changed her diaper for three hours. Luckily the restroom had a changing table, sometimes they only have them in the women's room. Had to put on a whole new outfit due to pee pee saturation. Exciting stuff, huh? During the week we also discovered the wonderful world of Play Doh. I learned that I am incapable of making a decent frog out of the stuff, but quite adept at making a cup of coffee or noodle. In other news, I weighed in at 169.5 on January 11, up 4 pounds from December 24. The horror. The horror.

January 7

Now people are saying the strike won't end until after what would've been pilot season (March-May), so we're looking at June until we can all "get back to work." Wait a second, though. Traditionally, production people are off for a "summer" hiatus that goes from mid-May through early July (I tend to "get back to work" after July 4). But if there's no pilot season what are we supposed to start working on in July that would end up airing in September? Nothing, I guess. I'm also a bit sour because my contacts in the world of reality TV revealed what I guess I've been ignoring all along -- most reality shows are at least shot outside of LA, so my trying to land a gig on one of them would probably result in divorce and my child forgetting who I am. I'd rather stay home and think about selling my comic book collection on eBay. On to more important matters...

Today I took Baby on some errands. At the bank, obviously inspired by her Elmo-goes-to-the-potty video, she revealed with a big grin that there was poo poo and flung herself on a comfy bench and demanded I change her diaper right there. I demurred, deposited a handful of holiday gift checks, and spirited her off to the car, where she announced, "It's a pancake, Dada" and allowed me to make the switch without too much trouble. After that we headed to Costco, where I ordered a combo slice only to have some guy next to me get ten yogurt swirls, which Baby spotted, inspiring a series of ever more demanding calls for "ice cweam." Fearing an afternoon of crankiness, I got Baby the "ice cweam" and we found a table where she ate some yogurt, had a couple of bites of pizza, then decided it was fun to dump yogurt on the pizza and not eat anything. A huge pee pee in Costco led to another harrowing diaper change in the car. However, she did fall asleep after eating three clementines on the way home, enabling me to spend three hours reading Sunday's paper in the driveway. She woke up famished, devoured two yogurts and a dozen giant strawberries, and watched Zoboomafoo. Wife came home and rescued me. All had a nice dinner - salad with pickled beets and grilled chicken. Now I'm going to have some tea and fall asleep in front of the TV.

Baked/Poached Sole with Fennel

My grandmother made the best fillet of sole. She dipped the fillets in egg, dredged them in breadcrumbs and salt, then fried them in butter. Served with lemon wedges. Perfection. However, I'm trying to avoid fried foods, so I used a new cooking method the other night that I thought turned out pretty good. The Wife hated it, because she said the fish tasted funky. I disagreed. Baby had about five bites and said, "Oh, Dada, that's yummy." I don't think she was lying to make me feel better, but who knows. Hopefully if you do this recipe with a decent piece of fish both you and your spouse or significant other and children will enjoy it immensely. So, preheat the oven to 450. Take the fillets (I used about a pound and had to layer a couple of pieces) and just lay them down in a large, shallow pyrex-type baking dish. Sprinkle with a generous amount of sea salt and a little fresh pepper. Crush some fennel seeds in a mortar until the lovely aroma is released (each seed should be in a few pieces but not totally demolished). I probably used about a teaspoon after crushing. Sprinkle that onto the fish. Then melt yourself about a tablespoon of butter, add a shot or two of white wine, then the juice of one lemon. Simmer for a minute and pour over the fish and place in the oven, uncovered, for 15 minutes. You can't really overcook the fish because it's kinda getting poached so it'll stay moist, but make sure you don't undercook it because then you might poison everyone. Rumor has it that the flake test tells you when it's cooked, i.e. the fish flakes easily with a fork and looks pleasantly pearly inside. I served it with my oven fried potatoes and some salad and it worked out quite nicely, at least for me and Baby.

January 4

Rumor has it there's no end in sight for the strike. To think if I'd gone into I-banking I would've been retired by now. Then again, if I'd gone into neurosurgery I'd just be taking my boards. Phew, I feel better already. Spent the day with Baby. Did a lot of marching. To the tune "The Ants Go Marching." A lot of marching. And if I didn't hold my "antennae" (consisting of two drumsticks, an unfortunate trick she learned from Barney) just so atop my head Baby flipped out. Finally I begged to be allowed to sit down and fold some laundry while she marched and she allowed me the luxury. Wife felt cold coming on so heated up some TJ's soup for dinner. Getting ready to go to bed. Oh, weighed 168.5 this AM. That means gained 3 lbs. during Yuletide binging. Awesome.

December 22-January 3

Wife on vacation for last two weeks (you know, at home vacation) so practically forgot about the strike - I usually get these weeks off for a paid hiatus while working so I guess I kinda pretended that was still the case and had a really good time. Too drunk, tired, or full to blog -- or play Scrabulous. Anyway, the first few days we had holiday events to attend with friends and family. Miraculously kept the eating in check and gained no weight. Fell apart with visit from friend from NYC. First night was tenderloin and lobster fest. Then off to mutual friends' place in Corona Del Mar for four days of gorging. Pasta night, with whole chicken thighs coooked in the sauce. Wife also made sausage appetizers (our kitchen looked like an abattoir)-- buffalo/sage/mushroom and Moroccan chicken/scallop. Sushi night followed, where an average of two big bottles of Kirin was consumed per person, negating any "healthful" effects of sushi. New Year's Eve BBQ Extravaganza - smoked garlic prime rib, lamb chops with fresh rosemary and thyme rub, black bean pork ribs and a few vegetables thrown in. Last night was New Year's BBQ Extravaganza leftovers. Went home on the 2nd and realized there was still some tenderloin with the port mustard sauce in the fridge, so had last hurrah. Baby caught cold from friends' baby and was uncharacteristically cranky. I'm taking care of Baby solo for a couple of weeks, so probably won't have much time for therapeutic blogging, let alone bathing or eating. It's all good. Must post more recipes and maybe a couple of fascinating personal anecdotes, though.