A little bit more about the weekend

Hey kids,

That's what my room at the Pruneyard Plaza Hotel looked like. Man alive, I wish I could live there.



It was clean. No cheerios on the floor, no spit-up stains on the bedding, no grubby fingerprints on the tv screen. I had a choice of newspapers to be delivered to my door every morning, there were hot, fresh cookies in the lobby every day at 5, and maids that did this:



They gathered up all my toiletries and set them on a clean, dry washcloth on the bathroom counter. For some reason, this skeched me out a bit. I mean, Jakey, what's the first thing you think when you realize that someone has been messing with your toothbrush? Bingo! That someone has just used it to clean the toilet. I mean... if I was having a bad day, and I was expected to clean up after "the man," I'd certainly think about it.

So I bought a new toothbrush.

But other than that, this joint was the height of luxury. Down pillows, HBO, tiny, extravagant shampoos and conditioners.

I met up with Auntie B on Friday night, but Auntie L was deathly ill with bronchitis, and couldn't make it. Hope she's feeling better! B and I got caught up over appies and chunky theme drinks at some sort of Tiki Bar in downtown Santa Cruz, then we wandered over to the smoke shop for ... smokes.

Dammit.

I had been having an internal conversation with myself for days before the trip. I knew that I would be meeting up with people whom I have enjoyed smoking with in the past. I knew that I had been wanting a cigarette for a very long time. I knew that my willpower would be at a low.

I did *not* know if I would be able to say no to myself. Nor did I know if I could still be considered a "former smoker" if I lapsed for an evening. I did not know if I would be able to forget all about it the next day, and just move on.

Well, I smoked. I tried to keep count. I think it was eight. I'd like to say that it was horrible, that I coughed and spluttered. That I threw up in my mouth a little bit. None of that happened. I enjoyed every single one of them. Spilling out onto the street periodically during a Camper show to gulp down cool, fresh air and consume a Spirit ... bliss. Listening to loud, obnoxious punk rock at a dive bar after midnight whilst swigging an impossibly strong bourbon and diet and puffing on a smoke -- smoking bans be damned, it was just like the old days ... also bliss.

B and I shared a pack, matching each other fag for fag all night (until she took it upon herself to break a couple of them in half, and shove the filters down her ears for earplugs. Her secret: TAPER them to a fine point between thumb and forefinger. A caveat, make sure you have a friend on hand with tiny, dextrous fingers who can fish them out for you if you shove them down too far...)

I don't know what to say for myself. I'm sitting here, five days or so later, salivating at the thought of a cigarette. Is my craving worse off for having lapsed over the weekend? Maybe a little. Not to the point of going out and buying myself a pack, but still...

There were four cigarettes out of that pack left at the end of the night. I smoked one in the truck on my way back to the hotel. That one was nasty and made me wheezy. But the one I had the next day, driving around in my truck, well-rested and happy to be alive... that one rocked my world.

That left two cigarettes left in the pack. I threw the pack in a dumpster in the hotel parking lot (They were still there the next day. Yes, I actually looked, but did not touch...).

And that was the end of it. I'm hoping there is no next time. Actually, there's a little piece of me that can't wait for "next time." The war in my head begins again. Feh.

Enough.

It was lovely to see B again, and talk about the complexities of anxieties, the approaching "four-oh," how much things change, how much things stay the same. She will always be a good friend.

The next day was movie day. I got to see a couple that aren't playing here in our part of the world. I saw the amazing Edith Piaf bio-pic "La Vie en Rose" at the theater at Santana Row, which is one of the most extravagant, overly-opulent shopping districts in all the world:



And later that night, I saw Werner Herzog's "Rescue Dawn" at the Camera 12 downtown, across from San Jose State, my alma mater. I talk in the above post about how things have changed... wow. The theater sits in a block that was a weed-infested parking lot back when I was in school, but is now home to a multi-plex, a million new restaurants, luxury condos and an uber-library.



A post-midnight dinner at a downtown Pita Pit, another sumptuously comfy night at the Plaza Hotel, a generous noon check-out, a five-hour drive with a quick stop for Bay Area sports-logo'd apparel for you kids, and then I was home.

The last hour or so of the drive, I was obsessing about the weight of you in my arms, your smell, the soft, moist warmth of your cheek against mine. It's good to get away, but it's better to come home.

Love you!