I wish I was John McClane

I wish I was John McClane.

I’ll bet even Bruce Willis wishes he was John McClane.
Here’s why I wish I was John McClane: Because, in every episode of Die Hard, you know the following about his character:

• He’s going to see a huge threat before the rest of us do
• He’s going to jump into action
• He’s going to get in way over his head
• He’s going to get scared
• He’s going to get hurt— hurt bad
• He will nearly get killed.

But all the while, no matter what goes wrong in for him in the story, here’s what you also know about John McClane:

• He will not give up. Not ever.
• He’s will kick the f*cking sh*t out of the bad guy.
• In the end, he will save the building/city/nation/planet.

If I were John McClane, I’d somehow know these things about myself, and I would not be worried about the following mundane facts of my author’s life as Kathryn Lilley:

• I have a full time “day job” as an editor, where they have apparently mistaken me for Superwoman (or Joan McClane), and so expect me to work miracles on an increasing number of increasingly difficult projects.
• I am the mom of one adolescent, plus one young adult woman.
• I have a book manuscript that is due at the end of November (really, it’s due October first, but my angelic editor has given me a much-needed extension).
• I am married to an amazingly tolerant and patient man, but he needs a bit of my undivided time every once in a while.
• I have taken on an unwise quantity of promotional and marketing tasks.
• I have a book tour coming up in October for the second book in the Fat City Mysteries, A KILLER WORKOUT.

All that being said, I have to make a very un-John McClanish announcement:
I will be taking a three-month vacation from my Friday blogging responsibilities at Killer Hobbies.

My Killer Hobby colleagues have heroically stepped in to fill my shoes. (All together, now: Let’s visualize Camille or Terry or Linda with an AK-47 slung around their shoulders, cigarette hanging from their lips, shouting Yippee-Kai-Yay!).

When my manuscript (MAKEOVERS CAN BE MURDER) is finished at the end of November, I hope to return to my regular posting duties at Killer Hobbies, if the hobbies gang still has space for me.

Meanwhile, you can find me on my web site, http://www.kathrynlilley.com/.

Until then…Yippee Kai Yay!

Oops…I have no idea how that McCain-as-McClane photo slipped in. That's why you gotta to watch out for those aging hero-types…they’ll survive no matter what you throw at them.

All I need to know in life, I learned from a koala

By Kathryn Lilley

I’ve never even been to Australia, but by reading, I find all sorts of wisdom from the continent Down Under.

For example, my life is filled with the odd bit of stress here and there. Now, have you ever seen a stressed-out koala? ‘Nuff said. Must be the power of those eucalyptus leaves, and lots of sleep.

I subscribe to a number of Aussie publications, and here are some recent tidbits that caught my eye:

• Generally, Aussies are not coffee snobs. They don’t waste their time debating the merits of Peet’s versus Starbucks versus a cuppa Dundee instant. It’s all good.


• Playing peek-a-boo with a kid on a plane can drive you bonkers, but it's really good for the kid's brain.


• To keep your own brain young, take a walk. This probably explains why Jack Lalanne still talks like an eighteen-year-old adolescent.
  
• A mother’s stress is linked to obesity in kids. Like we didn’t know that? Who likes their kids being subjected to taunts of, “Your mama’s so big, she couldn’t float through the Panama canal.” It’s enough to drive any kid into a Twinkie rage.
  
• Oh, and not to mention the fact that Australian men prefer larger women. I wrote about that happy news in a previous post.

They were the odd news items that didn't appeal to me so much. To wit:

• Being unique is a mental disorder. This one rule would send me and most of my friends and family straight to the loony bin.

Now, it's not as if my world-traveler-from-an-armchair reader's POV has any currency in terms of judging the real Australia. For that, I suggest you read a recent post by Clare Langley-Hawthorne, a real Australian. But for the most part, I'm a Down-Under kind of gal when it comes to my attitude toward life.

Any other Aussie-istic wisdom anyone can share? Keep it clean!

Body image from Hell

One of the realities of writing a regular blog is that you wind up writing about yourself.

I mean, you really write about yourself.

Take me, for example. My "hobby" is diet and exercise. But the meaning of that topic has evolved for me over the years.
When I was in my teens, twenties, and thirties...hell, even into my forties--my only concern was weight control. All I saw was the number on the scale. If I weighed below 150, that was good (I'm almost 5 foot six); above 160, that was disaster.

Fast forward to the golden milestone of 50, and everything changed.
For once, the scale was not my enemy. Thanks to some alchemy of habit, discipline and possibly pharmaceutical intervention, my weight is under control.

My body is not.

Loose flesh, cellulite run wild, a waistline that curves in only when constrained by a breath-stealing waist-cincher--this is my current reality.

What the hell happened? This is not the way it was supposed to be.

This is the way it was for years: You lose weight, you're happy. You gain, you're unhappy--that's the mantra of the teen-to-forty-somethings.

Come fifty, and all of a sudden, everything changes.

Take your underarms, for example. When did they start waving independently of your hands and lower arms? Oh, the shame of it all.

Then there's cottage-cheese upper thighs. Let's not even talk about that.

In the midst of all this middle-aged decay, there are glimpses of hope.

My breasts, for example, Currently, my boobs are like the eighth wonder of the world. I used to be a size 38DDD. Thanks to the intervention of a talented Beverly Hills plastic surgeon. who removed two pounds of fat and rearranged the support structure. for once in my life I can actually go braless. I haven't gone braless since I hit puberty. That's my one body-joy in life. I also got an eye-lift and some fat grafts--which means they extract some fat from your stomach and inject it into those marionette lines around your nose and lips. That one procedure was responsible for erasing at least five years from the mirror's reflection.

But there are so many areas left to address. Underarms, stomach, upper thighs--I have enough body zones in distress to keep a plastic sugeon busy until retirement. By the time all those are done, I'm sure I'll be ready for a facelift.

Is this a byproduct of the fact that I live in LA? America, please give me your feedback. Are you okay living with body areas that are far less than subpar?

My denouement came recently, when a down-on-her-luck homeless woman started haunting a particular corner in my Southern California seaside village. Okay, overall, she looked terrible. But her arms were way tighter than mine. (Of course, she might have been twenty years younger than me, but only looked sixty).

But the arm thing pissed me off. Where was the justice in that? What did I do to deserve a body from hell?
Is it just me? Does anyone else suffer from middle-age body blues? Aargh!

Any input would be most appreciated.

A week of Zen hell on the Okinawa Diet

By Kathryn Lilley

My sister, that guru of body wellness, put me on to the Okinawa Diet recently. The Okinawans are reportedly the happiest, healthiest people around.They're not only the longest-lived people on the planet, but they have a good time while they're here—reportedly, they have great centenarian sex. And if that's not a reason to hang around Earth for a long time, what is?

Unlike in the United States, where youth is worshipped and age is shunned, Okinawan elders are revered. Women in particular are the keepers of the spiritual bonds between the present and the past. In Okinawa, age is celebrated with healing rituals. They promote lifelong health through the practice of dance and martial art, which they believe nurtures your chi.

This was all sounding very good to me. I could do with less stress, more chi, and I could definitely do with more exercise and a better diet.

But then, I tried living the Okinawan way.

I read that the Okinawan diet staples include green tea (good), seaweed sheets (not so good), tofu, and eggs.

So I launched myself on Week 1. The first day’s breakfast was actually pretty decent: Toaster waffles, orange juice, and jasmine tea. Hmm…not that different than what I usually ate, if you substituted four cups of milk-laden coffee for the cup of tea.

Lunch was a bagel with nonfat cream cheese, salad, and more juice. By now, I was hankering for a little protein. Was the whole day going to taste like breakfast?

Dinner was much better. Beef Teriyaki with brown rice, ¼ cup low-fat vanilla ice-cream with strawberries (for which I substituted a scoop of Light Phish Food by Ben & Jerry’s), and papaya.

I enjoyed a newfound emphasis on exercise and de-stressing techniques. I bought little stones that say “Peace,” “Harmony,” “Positive Energy.” But was I supposed to carry the rocks around with me all day, or just arrange them on a shelf where they’d emanate good vibes my way?

My hometown lacks shamans, which are evidently critical to the Okinawan health practices. But there is a local masseuse in town who acts a tad shaman-like—she hums Zen-ish ditties as she shakes drops of tutty-fruity oils on your back during her aromatherapy special. She also does a nice ritualistic laying-on of cucumber slices over your eyes. So I payed sixty bucks to be turned into a fruit basket, and chalked up the fee to the cost of going native.

I have to say, after a few days on the program, I did feel more relaxed, centered, and I’d lost a few pounds. But honestly, the whole thing was a lot of work. Every day involved different menus, various healing stone messages to study, plus a valiant struggle to down something called Mugwort tea. I also confused some of my friends, who were surprised by my newfound, desperate desire for social connection, which is something else that helps the Okinawans live a long life. Ufortunately for the diet, my friends and I always do our social connecting at Houston's, where we wouldn't dream of bonding without our ritual of a shared pot of spinach-artichoke dip and tortilla chips. Probably real Okinawans let their hair down over something healthier, like stirfried sea horses.

Exercise, on the other hand, was a roaring success all week. I walked down to the beach each day and chatted with a guy who does Falun Gong exercises every morning on the sand. He’s a mondo harmonious, peaceful fellow—or at least he became peaceful after he made a running escape from mainland China. Evidently in China, they feel threatened by too much harmony. I'll bet anything they don't live as long in Beijing as they do in Okinawa.

Frankly, I don’t know if the Okinawa lifestyle is right for me. That’s my problem with diets. I’m stellar for a week or two, and then suddenly, I never want to see a sheet of seaweed or a “Joy” stone in my pocket again. And next thing you know, I’ve slipped back into American fast food slumming, which involves hanging around the corner of 31 Flavors and Mrs. Field's. And those good ole Yankees always welcome me back with open arms and a free cookie.

Kathryn Lilley is a mystery writer and a recovering journalist. She recently broke the Okinawa Diet by diving into a pint of Brownie Madness. If pint-diving qualified as an Olympic event, the judges would have given her solid "10s" for angle and speed of entry.

French Women DO Get Fat

By Kathryn Lilley

The headline this week read: “French paradox a diet myth.”

It turns out that French women (and men) are struggling with a steep rise in obesity rates.

I pause now to snort out a supersized American, “Hah!”
Let me repeat that: Hah!

It’s not that I’m happy that my Liberty sisters across the Atlantic have had to join us in the Battle of the Bulge.

It’s just that I’ve been haunted over the years by too many well-meaning people who have cheerfully handed me that book: You know the one—French Women Don’t Get Fat.

Just eat like the French and you’ll be fat free, the book promises. Eat three meals a day, walk everywhere, and take the stairs instead of the elevator. Oh, and drink lots of red wine, and don’t forget to indulge in your favorite foods every once in a while.

Hell, that’s what I thought I was doing! Okay, maybe I was over-overindulging in my fave foods (especially Chubby Hubby by B&J). But could the whole thing really be this simple?

Evidently not, at least if you measure by the recent results of the French population. Over time they have evidently become a lot more like us: eating meals on the run, consuming fast food—and getting fatter.

The average size of a real French woman, studies suggest, is likely to be on the surplus-side of size twelve (Okay, that’s still smaller than the average American’s size 14. But the point is, they’re catching up).

I hear the French government is fighting back by proposing anti-obesity measures and promoting public ad campaigns that exhort our Gallic guys and gals to take the stairs. We’ll see if it helps them return to the Land of the Annoyingly Thin.

But whatever happens to their waistlines over there, just don’t anyone write a book about it. And if you do, don’t hand it to me, okay? Je suis fini with French diets, but I'm keeping the french fries, thank you very much.

Kathryn Lilley is a writer and former journalist who lives in Southern California. She's currently on the Okinawa diet and dreaming about éclairs and pain perdu.

The chickadees—and the angels—watch over them

The month of June has been filled with missions and memories.

Mission-wise, I attended my college reunion; threw a joint 80-th birthday party for my parents (who’ve been divorced for 50 years, but who’s counting? It’s the era of nontraditional families, after all); saw my mother through knee surgery; and, last but not least, visited my newly purchased cottage in rural Connecticut.

As I mentioned in a previous blog post, this cottage is not exactly “new” to me—it was my childhood home, decades ago: http://killerhobbies.blogspot.com/2008/02/house-part-2.html

What I didn’t mention in that post is the reason that I bought this particular property. I have a strong emotional connection to it, because it’s the home I shared with my sister—Suzanne—who died of leukemia when she was five years old (I was two at the time). She was buried in a little cemetery that lies within easy walking distance of the house. All you have to do is climb a small hill, cut through a wild blueberry patch and a thicket of old forest and you’re there.

My decision last summer to purchase the house last fall was purely, intemperately emotional—of all the places I’ve ever lived in my life, I’ve always viewed this particular place through a gauzy, nostalgic filter. When I conjure up a picture of “home,” I always think of this house, even though we moved away when I was nine years old. For decades, this dwelling has held a special place in my heart. When the property finally came back on the market last summer (I’d been scanning the multiple realty listings for years), I had to have it. It felt as if the house was calling out to me.
Last week, I did my first walk-through of the property since the purchase. (My neighbors must wonder who the crazy lady in California is who bought the old Browne cottage, and has been letting it sit ever since, uninhabited.).

To put it mildly, the place needs a lot of work. A lot of work. The walls are covered with soot; the inside of every appliance is colored orange from exposure to the undrinkable well water. At the very least, I’ll have to sink an additional fifty thousand dollars into the place to drill a new well and replace the septic tank.

I couldn’t care less. That day, I spent very little time doing the actual tour of the property. My real goal was to visit the cemetery where my sister Suzanne is buried.

Suzanne’s headstone looks well-tended and peaceful. It has an inscription on it, “Sleep in Heavenly peace,” which, my mother once told me, was a refrain from her favorite lullaby. Next to the grave is a tall evergreen that was planted at the time of her burial.

I spent a long time in front of my sister’s final resting place, reflecting on a life not completed. What would Suzanne have been like as an adult? What would life have been like for me, if I’d had an older sister all those years? Would her presence have made the trials of multiple divorces, addiction issues, and geographic disruptions any less painful? I feel that it would have. Family stories highlight how special Suzanne was, how gifted, how close we were as sisters. I feel cheated of a future that was lost. Hers was a life that was denied to the world, and to me in particular. Even though I never really got a chance to know her, I miss her. I miss her so, so much.

During visit to the cemetery, I stood silently at her resting place, not changing expression. I didn’t know how to feel. Then, as I was turning to leave, I spotted another grave. This one was much newer—you could tell by the engraved picture of the deceased on the stone facing. It was the portrait of a little boy, about ten years old. His name was Jeremy.

Jeremy died in 2004. On top of his headstone, there was a line-up of tiny toy cars and trucks. One of the trucks had fallen into the dirt; I picked it up and placed it carefully on top of the granite.

At the base of the headstone were several statues—two angels, a cherub, and one of a mother holding a baby. Next to that was a statue of a child holding a sign that said, “Miss You.” Someone—a sibling, perhaps?—had wrapped a child’s magenta fabric headband around the base of the sign.

I looked to the right, and for the first time, noticed a wooden bird house planted in the ground. Sitting on top of the birdhouse was a black-and-white chickadee. I remember chickadees from my days living in the house in Connecticut—if you held your hand out long enough, they would swoop down and sit on your finger.

I stared for a long time at the bird, who stared back at me, not moving. Finally, I got back in my car. As I was leaving the cemetery, I passed another birdhouse. A female chickadee was sitting on top of that one.

Somehow, the presence of the birds comforted me. It felt as if Nature’s spirit was keeping watch over Suzanne and Jeremy.

After all of that, what lingers in my mind is the inscription on Jeremy’s headstone:

“Life is a journey
Our paths are different now
Someday our roads will corss and we will be together again
Farewell my son, my little angel.”

At the base of Jeremy’s headstone was a little plaque that said:

“No farewell words were spoken,
No time to say goodbye
You were gone before we knew it
And only God knows why.”

When I think back on the sister I never had a chance to really know, those words give me comfort.

College reunion time!

I'm posting early and muy rapido tonight, because I'm dashing off to catch a red-eye for the east coast--thank you Linda, for letting me barge into your Thursday posting! (And if you haven't seen Linda's post on her 20th book, DOUBLE DOG DARE, keep reading! Twenty books and going stronger than ever! Hooray, Linda!)

Back to reunion thoughts...

It’s been (gulp) thirty years since I set foot on campus. Last time I was there, I was a youngster. Now I’m—well, you do the math. (I always hated math, and a thirty-year milestone is only reinforcing my feelings on the whole subject.)

But I’m excited to be going back—I’ll be staying in my old dormitory, and seeing old friends and familiar faces. The reunion schedule is packed with wonderful lectures and discussion sessions. And to top it all off, they’re going to feature my book as the “class book” for discussion, so I’ll get to return as the “author” of the class, which is kind of a dream come true for me.

But the real reason I’m looking forward to it is the opportunity for reflection. Thirty years is a long, long time. I plan to do a lot of walking around Lake Waban and thinking about how life has changed. How I’ve changed, the good and bad of it. What I’ve learned. What I carry forward from those days. What I've left behind. I'll have more on that next week.

How about you? Have you attended any major milestone reunions from high school or college, and how did they go? What was the primary thing you valued from it, and were there any surprises?

I’d love to hear about it!

Working Out While “Workin’ It”

I’m always on the prowl for unusual and bizarre information, especially when it has to do with bodies and exercise.

My latest find is an exercise class called “Stiletto Strength,” and it’s taking the gym world by spike heel.

The classes were developed by a gym called Crunch, which offers them in Los Angeles, New York, and Miami.

Here’s the stiletto class description from their online site:

Stiletto Strength
B.Y.O.H. – Bring Your Own Heels and strut your stuff runway style in this calf-boosting, posture-building, cat-walking diva class.

Evidently all calves are simply not created equal when it comes to teetering around in tarty heels—some of us require a workout just to learn how to hobble.

I wouldn’t even try. Along with practically every other muscle group, I’m a member of the calf-muscle deprived group. But there’s a reason for this: I grew up as a member of the “Stiletto Gap Generation.” Back in the late 70’s, when I was going through maximum adolescent angst, no one dreamed of wearing high heels, not even the girly-girls in the southern town where I lived. Heels meant you were overdressed. They meant you were trying too hard. They were too obvious. I don’t recall seeing a single pair of high heels in anyone’s closet during college. Later, during the 80’s, most of us switched to power heels—which meant two inches high, max.

Then I clobbered one of my knees and stopped thinking about heels altogether, except for avoiding them whenever possible. If an occasion demanded me to wear heels, I’d go for a cunning little kitten style. And I didn’t feel the least bit out of step—to my way of thinking, stilettos were what my five-foot tall mother had worn, to make herself look taller. They were strictly for the cocktail crowd, which meant O-L-D.

Fast forward twenty or so years, and I must have snapped awake—I think it happened sometime between Sex and the City and Desperate Housewives. I realized that torture shoes had made a roaring comeback, even for women my age. (Like all things fashion-related, I probably discovered this bit of news about ten years late).

So, should I take an exercise class to pump up my calves, and learn how to improve my range of motion in my ankle and great toe, which is evidently critical to acquiring a proper stiletto stride?
Hell, no! I’m already doing major damage control on my abs, thighs and triceps. There’s no stamina left over for building up ankles and toes.

So ladies, I give you your Jimmy Choos. Hand me my Easy Spirits. I guess won’t be seeing you in Stiletto Strength.

On the other hand, I won’t be seeing you at the orthopedic surgeon’s office in five years, either.

Is there a reason why we become “cat people”?

I know I creeped out a few people last week with my post about corpse brides.

If it makes you feel any better, this week it’s my turn to freak out. That’s because I've learned that a strange parasite is trying to get cozy with our cats. And the bug might be capable of affecting human behavior.

I discovered this odd bit of news when I spoke to my daughter, who is doing some research into the Toxoplasma parasite. Toxoplasma is excreted by cats. The parasite can be found in cat litter. (It’s the reason why women shouldn’t clean the cat box while they’re pregnant.)

It turns out that in most infected people, the Toxoplasma parasite is fairly benign. Which is a good thing, because up to half the people on the planet carry the parasite’s tiny cysts in their brain (ugh). But Toxoplasma causes birth defects in fetuses, and I’ve also heard that it can cause blindness if the parasite migrates to your eye (so much for being benign).

Cats are the natural hosts for the parasite, which gets very crafty in its attempts to reach a feline. Research has shown that when a rat is infected with Toxoplasma, the rat’s brain is altered so that the rodent loses its fear of cats. The infected rat becomes much more likely to get eaten by a cat, and then—voila!—the parasite has reached its target host.

Some research I read about suggests that even human behavior can be affected by the Toxoplasma parasite.

A parasitologist (who knew such a field existed?) once reported that women who are infected with Toxoplasma tend to be more extroverted and caring—to what end, is not known. My personal theory is that perhaps the parasite is trying to make us take better care of its feline hosts.

I’m freaking out about the possibility that the bug might affect human behavior, because everyone in my family loves cats.

As a clan, we like dogs just fine. But we’re nuts about cats. For example, I have an aunt who has nine indoor kitties. She also feeds and takes care of dozens of feral cats.

My sister is another fierce protector of all things feline. She has appointed me executor of her estate on behalf of her two cats. I have precise instructions for where and how they’ll be cared for if they outlive her (her will even includes funding for a long-term kitty haven).

Then there’s me. My husband calls me a “cat whisperer.” When I see or hear a cat on the street, I’m magnetically drawn to it. I’m strangely drawn to it, I’m thinking now.

Our familial tendency to adore cats and care for them makes me wonder—could it be that we’re all infected with the Toxoplasma parasite, and we’ve been passing the bug down through the generations? Maybe the parasite has altered our brains to make sure that we take excellent care of its host, Mr. Cat.

Bottom line: Is a bug pulling our strings?

Technically speaking, I’m not even sure that a parasite is a bug (science teachers, help me out here). But I’m sure it looks like one under a microscope. I’ll bet it looks really disgusting, too.

The whole thing makes me think about some signs my relatives have hanging all around their houses. The signs say things like:

“The cat owns the house. We just work here.”

Things may be worse than they know.

We might all be working for a damned bug.

Update on treatment

I had a question from Sheila about treatment for toxoplasma. There are treatments available for the parasite (primarily with antibiotics), but--and this news won't reassure too many people--the treatments may not cure "latent" cases, where the brain cysts are just hanging out, biding their time. Also, some species are evidently exhibiting immunity to the treatments. Here's more from Wikipedia: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Toxoplasmosis#Treatment

In the Land Down Under, Bigger is Better

Breaking news! Australian men like everything big—including their women, it turns out.

According to an article in the Brisbane Times, an online survey conducted by the men’s magazine FHM found that most Australian men prefer women who are a size 14 over a size 8.

Let me repeat that: Australian men prefer a size 14 to a size 8.

They don’t “accept” larger women. They don’t “tolerate” them, while ogling the size-6 beach bunnies They prefer them.

Oh joy! Oh rapture! As a woman who has fluctuated between size 12 and 14 most of her life, this is truly cause for celebration. In fact, if I were still a single gal, I’d book the next Quantas flight from LAX to Sydney, and go me a huntin’ my own Crocodile Dundee. I’d sachet my plus-sized derriere in his general direction, and ask him if he’d like to toss an extra-big one on my barbie.

But now I’m blushing. So for details, here’s the link to the article:

http://www.brisbanetimes.com.au/news/life-and-style/what-men-want-thins-not-in/2008/04/05/1207420346331.html

This is by far the best news I’ve had all week. I’ve never been to Australia, but now I see it has a lot going for it besides cute koalas and kangaroos.

Like, a lot of happy women who are shaped like me.

Contest winner from last week

And in the spirit of big is better, I have to proclaim H's IFNWK from last week, the one about one ostrich egg being the equivalent of 21 chicken eggs, as the winner of last week's contest. H, I posted on your blog to let you know, but email me to let me know where to send your signed copy of DYING TO BE THIN!

More breaking news!

I’ll be doing a joint signing on Saturday the 19th at Metropolis Books in Los Angeles, with Christa Faust and Sue Ann Jaffarian. For details, see my web site: http://www.kathrynlilley.com/news.html

Twit-on-me, a blowback on twaddle

Sometimes you can see yourself more clearly through the eyes of someone else—even when that person is a little unbalanced. Perhaps especially when he's a little unbalanced.

For me, this morning provided one of those mirrors.

I was taking my daily walk, huffing up the hill toward the beach, when I came upon a man. He was alone on the street corner.

The guy appeared to be down on his luck—his belongings were dangling from dingy-looking plastic bags, and he was holding a cardboard sign, the favored messaging mode of panhandlers. And he was in a wheelchair.

Now, I don’t normally give money to street people. (In Southern California, if you donate to everyone who has his hand out, you’ll quickly go bust.) But maybe it was the wheelchair. Or maybe I was feeling particularly Zen-loaded and beneficent, thanks to the meditation exercises I’ve taken up recently to ward off stress.

So as I approached the man, I reached for the zipper of my fanny pack. I was planning to hand him a dollar. But first, I paused to read his sign. I was expecting it to say something like, “Need $$,” or “Will Do Wheelies for Food.”

But it didn’t.

The sign said Ban Smoking.

I stopped in my tracks.

“Ban smoking?” I said, gaping at the sign.

He glared at me. “Yes!”

At that point, I should have stopped while I was behind and moved on. Instead, I decided that perhaps he was supporting one of those annoying California state initiatives. (You can’t walk ten feet around here without being asked to sign a petition about saving the seagulls, and other meaningful statutes).

So I continued my query. “Do you want to ban smoking everywhere, or just inside?”

Another glare, this one fiercer. “Everywhere!”

Then he launched into a lecture. He told me about Lee Harvey Oswald, and about how Oswald was a smoker. But then Oswald got shot, which showed him.

By this time, his lecture had escalated to a full-pitched, screaming rant.

He worked himself quickly up to his finale. “So the next time you want to be a smart-ass,” he proclaimed, “Stick it up your ass, you twit!”

To which I replied, in my best Land-O’-Flakes way, “Okay sweetie. Have a nice day.”

Which was in itself twittish, I realized.

Now, this guy was probably a couple of crayons short of a 64-box. But still, he had a valid argument—it was patronizing and yes, twaddlish of me to assume that he was homeless and looking for money, and to launch into an unprovoked discussion about his sign.

But as a writer who’s always looking for fresh expressions, I was impressed by his use of words. "Twit" is not a noun that you often hear bandied about, especially by Shouting Men on Street Corners.

When I got home, I immediately went to thesaurus.com. There I found all sorts of amusing synonyms for twit: dodo, dumb cluck, pinhead, schnook, and my personal favorite, dingdong. I’m pleased to note that I’ve already used dumb cluck in my next book, A KILLER WORKOUT. I’ve started another book, and I hope that I'll be able to find a place in it for dingdong. My kind of word. And it will have been brought to you, compliments of the Shouting Man.

As a writer, I have to take advantage of whatever tiny dregs of inspiration comes my way.

Even when it's spelled T-W-I-T.