Upon Attempting to Be a Novelist [early reflections]

[originally written June 2011]

All praise to any novelist who takes us out onto thin ice, under which large, dark shapes are discernibly swimming. Michael Cunningham

As a rule it is not a good idea to tell someone a story before you write it. Any comments or feedback will distort your vision before you have committed the words to paper or cyber-storage. About eight months ago I told two good friends and trusted critics the first part of my novel. I had what I thought were all 35,000 words written and I was interested in their reaction to the big reveal that finishes part one. Indeed it was at this point all of my large, dark shapes came into view and I did indeed have my readers out on very thin ice without them even noticing they had been led out onto a lake.

Unfortunately, neither of them liked the dark turn my story takes and I was concerned that the tale was way off track. So I turned back to the pages and began to edit, I could have simply changed the big reveal but I was sure I had it right. Must have been the lead-up twas lacking. After several weeks the 35,000 words had burgeoned to 63,000 and I sent the newly fattened part one out to six readers, including those same two I had verbally told the story. Lo and behold none of them were put off by the big reveal, in fact, the two who had been less than lukewarm originally were glowing with their praise.


I pondered this for a few moments and realized I had attempted to condense my well structured dark forms into a two minute verbal summary. Clearly, darkness needs some time to build. I needed those thousands of words to lure my readers out onto the dangerously thin ice and then and only then to reveal the sinister shadows beneath them. 


Lesson learned, I ain't tellin' nobody no stories no more; at least not ones that are going to take tens of thousands of words to deliver all the darkness and shadows.

Upon Giving Up Professional Sports

In celebration of today's National Football League Super Brawl I offer this memoir of my personal disenchantment with professional sports at all levels. I was born and raised in the midwest. I played sports as a kid, not very well until my growth spurt in high school. Then I was All-League in football, an average basketball player and even tossed the shot put my senior year. All of my brothers were football players, each of us lettered in at least two sports every year. We all dutifully followed the Detroit professional sports teams and in the 50s & 60s there were some teams worth following back then: Bobby Layne, Gordie Howe, Al Kaline.

But sometime in the 60s I began to lose interest in professional sports. There were too many other things to follow with real world consequences and then came the escalation of sports salaries that began in the 70s. By then I was watching the Super Bowl only for the commercials and found the glacial pace of baseball to be somnia inducing. By 1975 I was living in L.A. which had the Magic Johnson-Kareem Abdul Jabar Lakers and soon the Wayne Gretsky led L.A. Kings. I hung out at several local taverns with sports connections and got back into following some professional teams but I remember the moment it all ended.

In the 1983 NBA finals the Lakers met the Philadelphia 76ers. Someone scored tickets to game four at the L.A. Forum, it turned out to be the final game of a Philadelphia sweep of the Lakers. The lady I was dating was friends with the Forum's public address announcer who sat court side at the scorer's table and made all the the player introductions and game announcements. We walked down to see him after the game, he was devastated. I had never seen a non-participant in a game that upset over a loss. I'm sure he had a bundle bet on the game but it was after all just a game of basketball and wasn't real, they made it all up to entertain and distract; not to mention to make money. Well paid gladiators and their plutocrat owners.

Periodically I am reminded why I don't follow and don't care about professional sports. The latest reinforcer was this past fall when the NBA player's representative said that in the collective bargaining agreement negotiations the owners were "treating the players like slaves." Yep, slaves! Slaves who make an average of $5.2 million dollars a year.

Nevermind that sports franchises routinely holdup city, county and state governments for huge subsidies to build new stadiums. Studies have shown over decades that professional sports stadiums cost local governments tens of millions of dollars in bond costs and loss revenue while returning to the community income as few as eights days a year in the case of an NFL team.

To be honest, I do have one very positive comment on professional sports - on any given Sunday restaurants, theaters, museums and hiking trails are nearly empty during the "big game." I think a movie for me this afternoon, Go Bears!

Upon the Occasion of Finding Something

Why is something always in the last place you look?

I have (had) been looking for an item for over a month. About ten minutes ago I found it! I reached into a small travel bag which should have contained only paraphenalia of a certain genre, which is precisely why I had not inspected that container in detail before. I stuck in my hand way down to the bottom and pulled out my passport. Really? Thirty days of randomly focused searching and that's where it was? 

You see today I had become semi-desperate. I missed an appointment at the DMV last month because I couldn't locate all the necessary documents to prove that I was me. I need the California Seniors ID card for another endeavor. I don't have an original social security card, neither have I a birth certificate nor a live birth document. Clearly I shall never be president.

But wait you say - don't you have a "safe place" for such documents? Well of course I do! Unfortunately, no one put the passport there. When I searched the "important document" box this morning (for the third time) the passport still wasn't there. Imagine that. Apparently three times is not a charm.

Last night I emptied the final two boxes I had hauled down from the Sebastopol storage locker, you remember Sebastopol, I live there in my friend's hut back in the early months of 2009. Twas then I began my undomiciled period and therefore rented a small closet to dump my stuff in. Those few boxes were my best and last hope for finding the passport.

I was wrong. The elusive document was here all along. The logic behind placing it in that bag escapes me, just a Duh! moment I guess. During the search I did find my 1981 passport (Antarctica) and my 1996 passport (Bali); no they were not in the same place. Also found drivers licenses expiring in 1979 (Pinckney, MI.), in 1992 (Hermosa Beach); in 2005 (San Francisco); in 2006 (Ann Arbor) and a picture of Amy & me with a lion cub at the MGM (circa 2008).

So passport found. Two boxes of sorted & resorted stuff to be discarded or recycled and one more blog post about nothing in particular. Now where did I put that grenade pin?

Upon Not Having an Accent

I don't have an accent, which is unusual because common thinking is that everyone has an accent. Linguists differ on just who does and does not have an accent but their estimates are all very high (96%+) on just how many of us do have one. I do not. I learned this from someone who would know.

In 1968 I was a student in Germany. My professor there was a wonderful gentleman named Guenther Spaltmann. He was a native german, an accomplished artist and an truly gifted linguist. He had taught himself over a dozen languages; he was an interpreter at the peace negotiations after World War II, where each speech had to be translated live into English, German, French, Russian and Italian.

On our first day of german language class, Herr Doktor had us each introduce ourselves in german. 

"Guten Morgen, Ich bin Tim Lavalli."

Dr. Spaltmann would then tell us where we were born or at least where we lived during our language acquisition years. When I spoke, he said: "You were probably raised west of Detroit but not in a close-in suburb or in eastern Iowa just over the Illinois state line." Apparently those are the two areas of the U.S. that have a complete absence of accent. What was called flat accent. 

One might think this is a good quality for public speaking or commercial voice work, but in fact the absence of accent makes one's voice a bit monotonous (as in monotone). You need some inflection and rhythm. When I began teaching in L.A. in the 70s, I added a kind of a cadence to my speech pattern to shake off the monotone. I never really mastered an accent or a dialect but the irregular up and down changes in my voice kept the class awake, most of the time.

For an overwhelmingly cool map of dialects in the US 

with clickable pronunciation guides - look here.

Upon Being Trained by a Cat

I apologize if this story is a repeat. There comes a point, apparently somewhere around five hundred blog posts, where you just can't remember all the tales you've told. I don't think I have written this one up before but if I have - well enjoy again.

This was back in the early 70s, I was sharing my place in Michigan with a couple of roommates, two dogs and three cats. My favorite was Sam, a big black cat who slept with me every night.

On one particular night I was unable to locate the land of dreams. I was awake and apparently I was going to stay awake. Sam, on the other hand, settled down by my left hand got a good dose of ear rubs and was sound asleep in minutes. I laid there for an hour, then two... somewhere in the middle of the night I was drifting a bit, not asleep yet. Sam woke up, stood up, stretched then walked across my chest and laid back down with his head in my right hand and I reflexively started petting him.

At that moment I realized he did this every night, maybe more than once. He had me trained, the paw impressions on my chest made my sleeping conscious aware of him without waking me up and when he put his head in my hand I would subconsciously scratch him until he fell back to sleep.

Trained by a cat while I was asleep. And they say dogs are smart.

Reflections Upon Being Unwell

[Content Disclosure: cough 20%, sore throat 18%, gooey eyes 13%, earache 11%, nasal involvement 9%, being tired all over 66.74%]

The good news is that I was just into getting acquainted with my new Nevada physician, so my follow-up visit to "check the blood work" arrived on the first day of my flu symptoms. Easy diagnosis, easier prescription: Go to Bed!

Now the flu and I have not been in the same corpus in many years, so my time may have been due. Anyways, Typhoid Jake, my previously mentioned nephew, right off of a week of semester exams and no sleep was in town with appropriate collegiate germs that any 19 year old can shake off in a week and most 60 year olds can only wait out.

Details are not necessary and begin to borderline impinge on my scatological revulsions. Let us leave it at: today is the 16th day of my flu symptoms and also the first day where I will be awake more hours than I am asleep. Sorta my personal homage to the sun breaking north of the equator.

I did miss my trip to San Franciso and the double sixieth birthday celebration. Sorry my Bay Area friends, you were all greatly missed. I have delayed my trip to Mt. Shasta twice but will be embarking in that northerly direction come Monday. From there I promise more nature filled pictures and fewer illness referenced ramblings.

Upon the Occasion of Becoming Sixty

Until I was forty most everyone thought I was much older than I chronologically was. Leroy and I easily drank at "old men bars" in Kalamazoo when I was a mere nineteen. As my olde college friend Bob has said: "You have the advantage in our waning years that back when we were twenty, you looked like you were sixty." Now a lot of this has to do with hair and not improper carbon dating. Hair being a physical attribute of which I have been devoid since, well, forever. But somewhere around forty, the eyes of the world misted over or perhaps it was just I never actually matured sufficiently but for the last twenty years, most estimates at my number of rings have been well below actual my calendar progression. This will mean that some occasional readers of this blog will be agape and agog to discover that yesterday was my sixtieth birthday.

But I am not the first to reflect upon the incident of aging nor the last of my generation to see themselves as "not looking my age", either in my daydreams or my eHarmony profile. Others, however, have perhaps reflected more eloquently:

"We do not grow absolutely, chronologically. We grow sometimes in one dimension, and not in another; unevenly. We grow partially. We are relative. We are mature in one realm, childish in another. The past, present, and future mingle and pull us backward, forward, or fix us in the present. We are made up of layers, cells, constellations." Anais Nin

My day was occupied as it usually is with this laptop and several writing projects. But as synchronicity would have it, Bob, the aforementioned olde college chum, was in town on business and we met for dinner. Aside from the old geezer talk about aches and pains we have acquired and the fact that we "were never this old before"; there was some trenchant analysis of the politics of today. Both Bob and I were political science majors back in the Sixties and he has spent the last 30+ years in Washington DC. He had some truly enlightening perspectives on the phenomenon of "Hillary Hatred", which seems to arise from the unlikeliest and darkest of places. The single topic I recall most clearly ended with the mutual agreement that "moral fanaticism is a cancer on this country."

After exploring our aged perspective on the state of the universe; please note at "our age" we neither offer solutions nor solve any of the staggering array of the human malaise. However, being true children of the Sixties and being that someone had left Bob an extra ticket, we ended the evening with Cirque de Soleil's Beatles tribute "Love". As usual Guy Laliberte's gang has constructed yet another Cirque level experience. With the Beatles they did take on a world wide icon and despite the constraints of time and song selection, it was a most entertaining show. There is just too much of the Fab Four to contain in the space and time of the Love theatre at the Mirage but we both recommend the show to our aging comrades and their offspring.

The Cirque Love ends, of course, with All You Need is Love (video), so shall I.

Age does not protect you from love, but love to some extent protects you from age. Jean Moreau