Chapter 52 Last Weekend. Final Performances. Show Must Close Soon.

Chapter 52

Last Weekend.  Final Performances.

Show Must Close Soon.

‘If you ain’t gonna get it on then take your dead ass home.”

-George Clinton

The sports theme carried right into the Saturday morning sitting as soon as my eyes closed.  This time my thoughts took me on an express train way back a to a more innocent time where sports, and sporting events, were not overwhelmed by big screen televisions, strobe lights, 120db plus sound systems and a barrage of ads, free pizzas and rap music.  Most times we were content to watch low def and even, yes even black and white TV.

Before television came to dominate our lives, we enjoyed the pleasure of sports at home through a simpler now seen as primitive source, an audio signal.  In this meditation, I imagined a scene from those days.  A chance to recreate those moments in my childhood listening to sports on a transistor radio under my covers with the volume turned down to low low low. I hear the voice of the announcer.  I see the court in my imagination, how my favorites players look, how the crowd sounds.  I dive in.  It feels great.

Listening to sports was a unifying factor for so many young boys (and yes some girls). Who was it that took you out of your shitty bedroom (and away from your parents!) and onto the court without leaving when you were young?  Was it Vin Scully or Chick Hearn for those lucky kids like me who grew up in LA? Was it Mel Allen, Ernie Harwell, Jack Buck or Harry Carry if you had the chance?  The likelihood is that it was some announcer that no one in their right mind but you could possibly remember, but we can take ourselves back to those moments with pleasure. Where were you? Sitting in the vinyl front seat of your car with your dad driving in the country at night picking up a remote AM station with a flamethrower 50,000 watt signal or scrunching down down down into your chair in class with an earphone, wire hidden in your shirt, on so no one would catch you listening to the world series.

You are back at the game again and it’s all still alive in your memory.  I hear Vin Scully’s voice and take myself back into those innocent times.  It’s a 3 and 2 count on a warm September night.  The bottom of the ninth.  The bases are loaded.  The crowd is cheering.  The pitcher (Drysdale?  Koufax? O’Steen?  Sutton?) goes into his windup.  The runners, who have taken their leads, begin to move.   Strike 3 call got him looking.  The stadium goes wild.  In this meditation the home team always wins and I am smiling.

Afterward things calm down a bit and my thoughts turn to a more sedate and adult path. I visualize the daily newspaper that I love to read, the Chron.  It doesn’t matter where I do it, I just find a happy place put my feet up get a cup of coffee and get the day started. Pulling the sports section out first, still readable unlike the rest of it, and I read every word about the local teams and then every word about any team that might be competitive with them.  Can’t miss the gossip about the major players and if the morning is slow, I find myself scanning the statistics.  I even wander into the standings every day.  I love my sports section, from the columnists to the weather on the back to its stupid green color.  It’s a simple basic pleasure and reassuring to know it is there for me each morning.

The session concludes with a real treat.  I let myself wander far and wide scanning my mental hard drive for some favorite sports moments.  A path of pure unadulterated joy, full of spectacular visions of players that I loved over the years.  To  recall the smooth release of a basketball from the reliable left hand of Jerry West. The vicious break on a Koufax curve ball.  A vicious tackle by Ronnie Lott or David ‘Deacon’ Jones. The incomprehensible rainbow arc on a baseline shot by Purvis Short.  The acceleration of Jerry Rice running under a pass thrown with the quick release from the right and left arms of Montana and Young.  The awesome power of a Chamberlin slam..  The sheer speed of Barry Bond’s swing.

I am quickly overwhelmed with images that begin to blur with one another. Then a moment emerges. It is the 1989 super bowl between the 49ers against the Bengals.  Oh that final drive in the 4^th quarter when Montana hits Taylor with no time left and the room exploded as did our heads, all in a highly altered state of consciousness in every sense of the word. I can hear the scream to this day. Ahhhhhhhhhh what a noise.  My back arches at the thought of the collective scream as John Taylor crosses the goal line.  A city feels a moment as one.  It is electric.

Saturday afternoon I break.  Everyone needs to rest and every week should have a Sabbath moment.  Even she who encourages me to meditate seems to think it is a good idea.  She suggests a movie but I can’t concentrate so I decline.  We wind up like most couples searching for something good on the TV (didn’t) after take out burritos (steak black beans mild salsa) and fall asleep without a good night.  It’s not big deal and we sleep well.

In a long run or bike ride there is a moment when your exhaustion fades and you find another gear.   The second wind, that extra something that allows you to burst through your perceived barriers. That is what happened on Sunday where my mind went a bit awry looking at altered states.

At first I honestly believed that it was going to be a meditation about music.  There was no visual image when this particular meditation started, just darkness when I heard a sound in the distance.  It was soft, I couldn’t tell what it was.  Ambient and non-directional it grew until I recognized what it was, a bass line in my head that wouldn’t go away.  There was this ‘thump thump ah thump thump ah thump’ that sounded suspiciously like the opening of a P-Funk concert I attended years ago.  Yes, do not adjust your dial.  Something had taken control. The feeling was dark and viscous and potentially vicious.  It just stayed there, no instruments came forward, no vocals, no drums and I sat for a few moments in anticipation. confused.  Waiting. Waiting.  This was some long intro. And then it happened.  From deep within I now knew that I stood at the gate of a temple of mandom which contained the greatest idol of man-worship, where I would receive a vision which stood head and shoulders above the others.

There it was. It was beautiful.  Holy.  Perfectly shaped.  Graceful in its simplicity.  I could not take my mental eye off of it.  It was breathtaking in its perfection.

It was a cold one.

I see it.  The unmistakable shape of a dark brown bottle with a long thin neck centered against a black background.  It has no label. Then it begins to spin, rotating slowly around and around.  Then there is movement from the top. I see a hint of foam and then a full head emerges.  It begins to overflow. A rich caramel colored liquid began to emerge from the top of the bottle.  Yes, yes, it was a river of India Pale Ale.  And it flowed and flowed and flowed. It was the endless fountain of beer and I was Ponce De Leon. I discovered a source of eternal brew.

As I watched the beer flow I shifted gears subtly and without reason began to meditate about beer and mandom and immediately lost most of this pure pleasure.  We know that beer is deeply hardwired into our male consciousness to the tune of billions of dollars a year of sales and countless television ads that seek to shamefully capitalize upon artificially constructed manful moments to sell a particular brand and lifestyle.  That fact depresses me.

In stark contrast, in my meditation I had the freedom to choose the beer I wanted based on real factors like taste, smell, finish and color.  This was real choice, not one dictated to me by talking frogs and imaginary male bonding.  To make things even better I had free beer to enjoy.  So I turned the meters back to pleasure and away from too much analysis.  Screw sociology, I wanted to think about the pleasure of a good cold beer.

Eventually, the bottle gradually faded away into black. As it did I returned my focus to the pleasure of drinking beer, where the rubber meets the road.  Things began to slow down.  A sense of peace and purpose emerged.   It was a simple path that I took, well trodden and well know.  First, I examined the question of the glass.  It is chilled? Yes, absolutely.  I pull one out of the freezer.  Where to start.  Keep it simple, how about an easy Belgian beer to get started?  Nice.  Yes, a Stella sounds right, lets start slow.  There is that glass with that classic Stella logo. I put it on the table, alone naked empty. I envision the wonderful light pale lager, blonde clear, and so pure. I am ready for the moment of heightened intensity, the pour.  Everything seems to slow down even further.  I hold the glass at a slight angle.  Pour the beer from the bottle into the glass slowly watching the head begin to form.  Now I wait and let the beer settle down.  The head is perfectly shaped at the edge of its geometric possibilities.  The moment arrives.  I bring it to my lips and sip, drawing the cool clear refreshment inside.  I rest for a moment and then a sort of beer tour begins.

My visions move slowly into wheat beers cloudy and sharp with the juice of freshly squeezed lemons.  They turn to the medium body and bolder flavors of the pilsners.  I let the hops and barley come into play as tastes become more forward into a variety of ales, porters and then stouts.   Suddenly I am overwhelmed with nostalgia for beers from the past. Those old beloved warriors, from Hamm’s to Lucky Lager to Raineer and Olympia and Falstaff.  I remember their labels, the shape of their bottles, their tastes.  I honor their memories.

Finally the beer images fade.  But my mind isn’t done.  Oh no not even close. It wants more much more and I can see where it is going.  Yet  I can’t start a new alcohol steeped meditation without setting the stage, and what goes better with a beach on the Pacific Coast of Mexico than a, well, you know what.  If you have been there, you know what is coming next.

I begin the next self-guided meditation with these simple and elemental thoughts.  Warm sand warm sun blue sky warm clear water.  I repeat  those words five times.  Now I feel them. Warm sand, warm sun, blue sky warm clear water.  I repeat them again and when I am done I am ready for my personal Latin lady, a cold perfectly made margarita.  How will I make it?  Over, never ever slushy.

The fun begins.  I go to the freezer.  Open it.  Watch the condensation slowly pour out as I pull get the ice tray.  Crack the tray and put 4 ice cubes per dose in a big ceramic bowl. Now go to the bar and pull out that favorite tequila.  Hmmmm.  What to choose? How about Porfidio out of Vera Cruz.  The greatest looking tequila bottle, tall and slender with that glass cactus coming out of the bottom.  Or that old standby, Don Julio? Don Cheapo from TJ’s?  It’s a matter of choice now. It can be silver it can be gold, reposado, anejo, all are available in this meditation.

It continues on. I bring out a silver cocktail shaker from the bar.  Get several limes.  Cut them in ½.  Take a moment and look at each ½, put my nose up to them and draw in the tart but sweet smell of the tropics.  Squeeze them by hand or with a squeezer.  Watch the juice run into the cocktail shaker.  Smell the fresh citrus spray in the air.  I take the tequila bottle and pour in twice as much of the lime juice that has been set aside.  Get out the Cointreau or the Grand Marinier. Pour in one part.  Feeling aggressive?  Let’s make it a double.  Why not?  Who is counting? Add the ice cubes.  Cover with the strainer.  Shake and swirl.  Round and round. Find that favorite glass from that trip to Sayulita.  Now hold the strainer over the shaker and begin to pour. Watch the margarita as it pours into the glass, cloudy and cold. Sit down some place comfortable.  Take the glass.  Return to the beach. Look at the view.  Bring the glass to my nose and smell this sacred blend of the fruits of this earth. I take the first sip, not too long, but enough to fill my mouth. Sip and sip again.  I pause.  Then I repeat the vision, stopping at five times. I am happy just thinking about it.  Repeat again and again and why not, here in the mancave I won’t get drunk.

The tour continues. Next up is an appearance by Mr. cool calm and collected, the Martini.  Why is the Martini so sexy? Is it the exquisite detail in preparation of this austere yet complex combination flavors or is the damn shape of another holy manful vessel, the martini glass?  And no other meditation offers quite the same manful moment, as I take a moment of truth to focus on the ultimate martini drinker, James Bond.  The mind becomes even more clear and I repeat the manful mantra, shaken, not stirred. Shaken, not stirred.

As those words repeat. I return my focus to the beloved receptacle, the martini glass. I move to the freezer where it waits, cold yet clear.  Waiting for me alone. I choose my alcohol and the accompaniment of choice.  Onion, lemon peel, vodka or gin, this hallowed menu is shaped by personal volition.  Imagine the cold metal cocktail shaker in my hand as I shake it back and forth.  Now strain the drink into the glass.  Look at it.  Hold the glass by the stem, raise it to my lips and sip.

I let a botanical cloud of flavors descend over my lips and tongue and down my throat.  The spices and herbs of the gin, forward yet understated, the beautiful luminous quality of the cold liquid.  It is an elegant and manful meditation as cool as the drink itself.

The tour accelerates.  I see a Cuba Libre and a gin tonic on a very hot day. A water glass of Scotch over ice. A warm brandy snifter, a spectacular French cognac. I  hold the bowl in my hands, swish gently dip my nose deep.  I smell wood, caramel, smoke and I breathe as deep as I can.  Again. Again.

Then, as with so many joyous moments, and just as with the experience of alcohol itself, a cloud appears on the horizon.  First it is small and far far in the distance but it quickly begins to grow darker and envelop the mind.  I feel strange.  Could it be? Yes, even thought I thought it couldn’t happen, I begin to feel drunk. This makes no sense.  I try to go back to that moment where I crossed that internal frontier just ahead of the word coherent but it is too late. While it is fun and always easy to meditate about a cocktail or a beer and the pleasure it brings at a given moment, suddenly focusing on being drunk is quite a different paradigm altogether. It is as hard as the real thing to control.  My stomach begins to feel queasy.  My head is pounding and I am warm, flush, but my sweat is cold.

Then the room begins to spin.  This is stupid.

I open my eyes and end the session. It takes me several minutes to calm down and for the sick feeling to pass.  It is way too real. Sitting there I close my eyes and without real choice it starts again. I travel back to a moment when I was really drunk. Where was I?  Bar?  Home?  Or at party? And I ask myself this question: Why did I get drunk?  Just how did it came to pass that I wound up having that extra one too many?  Sadly, I think of this:  how is it that I can’t remember the last time I was in the past 20 years when I know that I have been?

To make things worse, I start to think about the pain of the next morning. When considering a hangover an obvious choice emerges. Why meditate about it?  Why would anyone want to focus on such an unpleasant subject as a hangover?  I can’t think of a reason and I decide to end the session there. Enough is enough.

She who is not so clueless as to notice that she is being ignored schedules a Sunday afternoon yoga class for which I am grateful. Once there the class comes easily.  It feels good. I stretch into a triangle and as I do I wonder about why such negative thoughts come into these meditations.  Considering them, I see a reason. Bringing mental focus and increase acuity to the more unpleasant subjects and aspects of life helps me to deal with them when they occur.  Overcoming negative thoughts and finding joy in that teaches me to minimize their damage and to look forward when things are bleak.  A skill to carry out of the mancave and into life.

The day ends after class, well really it ends after to go Sushi, no brown rice  and tofu tonight.  After more than a few sakes, I pass out.  Before I do I sense that there has been a shift in thought in these mediations.  Tomorrow is the final day at home.  That session isn’t going to be an easy one unless I want to be.  I don’t.

Songs that love the liquor.

Demon Alcohol.  The Kinks.

Warm Beer.  Cold Women. Tom Waits.

Spill The Wine.  Eric Burdon & War.

Palm Wine Sound. Fela.

The Piano Has Been Drinking (Not Me).  Tom Waits again!

Gin and Juice.  Snoop or OAR versions.

One Bourbon.  One Scotch. One Beer.  John Lee Hooker.

Drinkin’ Wine Spodeeohdeee.  Jerry Lee Lewis.

Tequila.  The Champs.

And on and on it goes.  My last image before going to sleep is that of  chimpanzee holding a beer and laughing at me.  I have no idea what the fuck that means.

Chapter 51. The ManMed Marathon Begins.

Chapter 51.

The Manful Marathon Begins.

The manful meditation marathon began promptly at 9 am the next morning following a ‘power’ breakfast of steel-cut oatmeal topped with blueberries and a double espresso. I was primed to start the process. Training time was over.  This was going to be the big time manmed session to remember.  The launch of the next phase of my life and a celebration of the end of this one.

I was psyched.  Totally.

The days that followed were a blur of thoughts and visions.  Some days I sat for over 4 hours straight, breaking for lunch and then back onto the purple cushun’ for the afternoon.  Other times I passed out cold during a deep meditation, waking up to find big foot white dog sleeping contentedly along side of me.  One afternoon I just got bored and quit when my ass got too sore. By the time Monday evening rolled around, the floor of the mancave was littered with coffee cups, clif bar wrappers and dirty plates that I hadn’t bothered to remove.  I could see the remnants of huevos rancheros and chicken pesto paninis when I finally cleaned up and looked back on the longest sequence of meditation exercises that I had, and likely would, ever engage in.

I had resolved to begin this mental workout Thursday morning with an easy exercise. A warm up for the head to help me stretch the mind.  I didn’t want to analyze my life in too much detail, at least not yet. I wanted to celebrate it instead. But even though my goal was to lighten up you can’t always control what comes into the meditation process.  I had to reject the first subjects that came forward that day out of hand as too complicated and exhausting.  They included such easy happy thoughts about death, anger, violence and failure.  Now any one of those topics would have kept me busy through the weekend, set a difficult tone and exhausted me before I could finish what I had set out to accomplish.   These final meditations had to be fun.  The serious stuff could wait until the end.

As I took control and began to relax I saw what looked like white clouds floating in the inner distance.  They were beautiful ivory snowy peaks soft inviting and warm.  Warm?  Just where was this going?  I looked harder within and realized that they weren’t clouds, not at all. They were giant puffs of shaving cream.  Yes, my first meditation of the day took me inside of a wholly unremarkable yet core man moment where we find in comfort of a really good shave.  What a simple elemental pleasure.  Started with a thick coating of warm lather that I massaged into my face slowly and carefully until an even layer was done.  Saw the even slow strokes of a new razor, moving up and down my cheeks, my chin and then my neck but never across. Splashed hot water across my face and then felt the comforting steaming moisture of a steaming towel that opens the pores.  Ran my hands over the so smooth finish, no nicks or cuts here.  Enjoyed the brace of a biting citrusy after-shave.  Visualized the happy reception I would get from she who hates anything resembling a beard on my face.  Oh, what pleasure there is in woman’s hand as she slowly runs it over your cleanly shaven face looking you right in the eyes! Then I repeated the exercise again.  It was the male equivalent of a warm cookie or a roaring fire, a moment of total comfort and I stayed there in bliss until I was ready to move one.

The following moments surprised me with their radical  shift of direction.  They were primal but I did not resist.  I moved directly into a meditation that focused upon building a fire in the outdoors, a sense that lies deep in the recess of our male sub-being.  I am in a forest.  I see a large pile of wood.  It’s a drizzling very cold day but with a lot of faith, newspaper and kindling we are able to start it together.  I watch the fire as it begins to climb gradually catching hold against the odds.

There is a large fire pit, 10 of us are warming ourselves by the fire at it catches, avoiding the smoke that seems to follow us around the circle.  We talk for hours huddling to stay warm.  About what, I can’t say.  Who was there?  I don’t know them. Strangers brought together on a cold rainy day by the warmth of a fire.  I can’t make out their faces or remember what we said.  At a point the words become a hum that grows progressively louder as the meditation finishes.  We are chanting together under the trees, the rain does not matter.  We are swaying with the rhythm of the branches, we float in the fog like holy men.  The drone goes on and on and on until it slowly gently fades.

This is an easy place to break and I do for a quick lunch of leftover steak over arugula salad.  I am completely relaxed. I linger over each bite and chew carefully, something I never ever do.

After lunch I continue with a meditation on the garden where I stay for a long while and finish the first day.  The garden creates a set of meditations which bring me infinite pleasure.  I start with mowing the lawn. Now I don’t have a lawn anymore but I used to.  I hated it.  To my mind, the lawn is the garden equivalent of a dysfunctional high maintenance relationship.  The only thing I did like about my old lawn was mowing it and that is a pleasure that I won’t forget and focus on. I watch the circling push of the blades cutting across the grass, feel the worn grip of the handles and the resistance it creates as it pushes back against my hands.  Most of all I revel in the smell afterwards, the fresh cut grass smells like nothing else on earth.  In my meditation the lawn is green lush and full.  It’s never brown or full of pesticides. It doesn’t drink water insatiably.

Then without warning the meditation morphs into a moment years and years ago when the kidults were little.  I have gathered the fall leaves from our sycamore. They are brown now with a cedar like smell and crunching underfoot.  I see them both clearly, so small, so happy running up to the pile, launching themselves in and doing it again and again and again.  The meditation ends as they throw leaves at each other until they fall down laughing exhausted.  I watch.  It is as if they are hear with me in the room.

My journey shifts again and I am now cleaning the dog shit in the back yard.  Sure, I don’t want to focus on it too long, but getting rid of the crap feels so good and not having to smell it anymore is its own reward.   It is part of the cycle.  I honor it.

The garden afternoon climaxes in an explosion of plants, vegetables and flowers.  They come in no particular order.  There are the creamy white tulips waving in the first spring breeze, then the deep purple of an iris contrasted by it’s yellow center, now the smell of new blossoms on our Meyer lemon tree the taste of a parsley sprout as I nibble on it.  Explosions of cherry tomatoes bursting with natural sweetness in the height of what little summer we get, the feeling of warm wet compost between my fingers just watching the earthworms undulate.  The rich green color of mache lettuce, the taste of a just picked nectarine, the never ending march of the parsley plants intent on conquering all.

But no release is complete without the subtle sense of loss that follows and that is just what happens to this vision.  The garden starts to change, bright colors becoming grey, full stalks collapsing, green shoots turning brown in my own time lapse vision.  I see countless rows of dead hollow dark brown tomato plants bearing a solitary green fruit shivering in a winter breeze.  I examine the threadlike fingers of the fungus that lives beneath the soil, tear apart the overwhelming root systems that choke off growth everywhere, only to find more and more.  I smell the deep must of decay. Now there are armies of aphids sucking the life out of my onions, leeks and chives and snails eating leaf after leaf after leaf leaving only the naked stems behind.

Then I think hey, maybe it is time to stop for the day.  As I do I am left with one thought, why does a garden fail?  And then I wonder, how do you define failure in a garden.  There is no answer.

Dinner that night is simple, a large green salad with tuna, black beans jack cheese and a lime cilantro dressing.  I don’t have much to say and I am asleep by 8:30, passed out and content.  I sleep soundly barely saying good night to she who is almost always asleep before I am home late from a board meeting.

Friday starts on time and further on point.  I begin with a meditation on another core value of mandom.  Our desire to fix things. Our compelling need to make them tick.  An unrelenting passion to make things work right.  I visualize a bicycle tire that is full and balanced, a door that swings open and true and drawer that opens and closes flush. I follow with a meditation on my favorite tools commencing with a screwdriver that I found in my father’s garage while cleaning it out after he passed so so long ago.  He modified his 8-inch long screwdriver by notching the end so it would work with either regular or Phillips screws.  It is a symbol of his mechanical prowess, something I never understood when I was young.  A parade of tools follows, tiny Phillips screwdrivers for tight places, a perfectly balanced hammer, sharp saws, rubber mallets, awls, wire cutters, socket wrenches and that wonder of wonders, the crescent wrench.

As the garage fades I come to the living room and the fixing continues.  I am now working three different remote controls, trying to find the right buttons and to get the DVD to run. I switch a remote to the HDMI 2 input and finally there is the picture. And I wonder, why do we need so many inputs? I see them now, components, video, audio, optical, left right, empty receptacles waiting only to be plugged in.  They taunt me in their silent confusion.

Feeling strong, I am ready to tackle a real challenge, one that has slain the confidence of many a greater soul than mine:  Building an IKEA dresser.  Anyone who has ever started at the climb up this mountain knows what I am talking about.  You unload the box and here they are, the bizarre tools of this strange craft, wooden pegs, oddly shaped mutations of screwdrivers and allen wrenches, similar but subtly different sets of bolts and screws designed to confuse the unfortunate and uninitiated.  You sort them you pile them and then, feeling strong now, you confront the gate-keeper of this dark world, the building instructions.  Wordless pictorials to guide you through a Tolkein like trek led by mute ghostlike cartoon figures with no faces.  What appear to be simple drawings that turn out more complex than the old testament.

The battles that follow are epic, the pieces you try to fit with the knowledge that they are wrong and will have to be rebuilt, the fear as a key wooden component begins to shatter.  Yet you push on until it is done, hands bleeding fingers bruised hoping against hope that when you finish everything fits.  I emerge from this meditation chaste, clean, pure.

I am totally into this now, the cushun has become part of me, the mediations flow one to the other.  I have to say I have no idea how I get to the next bus stop on this ride but there I am. I find myself thinking about bodily functions.  They create a set of meditations unrivaled in their smell, touch and effect.

I start by imaging the wondrous pleasure of scratching my balls.  A sensation so satisfying as an imaginary itch disappears.  The subtle adjustments afterwards, a sense of newly found space and balance that follows.  Then my thoughts move into a visit to the throne, yes, putting on the crown and taking a major dump.  There is a good magazine article to enjoy along with it and I sit.  It is so satisfying to feel my system in such harmony and wonderfully empty afterwards.

Things start to move quickly now.  I feel the divine ecstasy of a good belch after a really good meal.  Deep, primal, liberating and sometimes painfully dangerous after spicy food. I find the release of blowing your nose when badly congested.  Not a little effort either, a powerful blow where you put your soul into it and feel the pressure change inside of your ears. Now I breathe deeply without restriction filling my lungs and releasing and filling them again.  My breaths are deep.  Full.  Alive. I have cleared the  clotting phlegm from my chest and I am free.

Then there is a successful flossing followed with a good bracing, minty and not to sweet mouthwash.  I run my tongue around newly clean smooth teeth.  And again.  And again.  It’s ecstasy.

I come out of the journey and open my eyes.  I look at the clock and am amazed, it is 4 in the afternoon.  Strange. I have been meditating all day yet I am not hungry.  There is time for a quick walk then a simple meal, a vegetable stir fry over brown rice.  I settle into the couch. There is a ball game.  The Giants look like shit, Zito gets blasted by the Dodgers cadre of young hitters, another long miserable season looms of watching Manny pound our pitching staff.  I barely notice that she comes home late from Yoga and she doesn’t seem to mind asking only if there is something to eat.

It’s fine.  I’m in no mood to talk.  The dog is snoring but I don’t notice it.  I’m asleep by 9.

Chicken Panini Sandwiches.

1 baguette

Left over chicken.  If none, deli slices will do.

2 slices provolone.

5 Sun dried tomatoes.

Pesto

Mustard.

Warm your panini machine or heat a pan. If using a pan add a little oil.

Cut a piece of the baguette that reflects how hungry you are.  Then cut it in half.  Layer the chicken, provolone, sun dried tomatoes and pesto.

Press and grill or if in the pan, heat over medium heat until brown using a heavy object to push the panini down.

I wanted to list a bunch of great sports songs, but alas, there are none that come to mind after We Will Rock You by Queen and the theme from Rocky.  By the time that Na Na Na, Na Na Na, Hey Hey Goodbye comes in, I am done.