"Masturbation and procrastination are the same thing: both ways, you're fucking yourself." -Jerry Thompson

But the levels of ultimate satisfaction cannot be equated. At least, not in my experience -- which, in both cases, is vast.

Exactly how bad does it hurt?

Early morning meeting today. Car radio kept me awake on the way to caffeine. Scanning the dial, I ran into a familiar guitar sound…it was my father, backing Little Anthony & The Imperials on a classic 60’s hit…

I know you
Don't know what I'm going through
Standing here
Looking at you
Well, let me tell you that it
Hurts so bad
It makes me feel so sad
It makes me hurt so bad
to see you again (like needles and pins)

Dad hated much of the music he played as a studio musician. It assaulted his musical sensibilities, it was an affront to his perfectionism. He loved his little family, but he would have been happier if jazz had fed us as substantially as jingles and rock ‘n’ roll did…

People say
You've been making out okay
"She's in love, don't stand in her way"
But let me tell you that it
Hurts so bad
It makes me feel so sad
It's gonna hurt so bad
If you walk away

I was raised on Duke Ellington and Mozart. I could scat – in French – by the time I was 6 years old. I could sing every note of the Bach Fugue in G Minor. I started listening to, and loving, rock and soul when I was about 8. Dad was pissed off; he saw it as a betrayal. How could I devour the Beatles and the Rolling Stones when I had been nourished by Louis Armstrong and Ravel?

Why don't you stay and let me make it up to you?
Stay, I'll do anything you want me to
You loved me before
Please love me again
I can't let you go back to him
Please don't go
Please don't go

I was singing Billie Holliday’s “God Bless the Child” a capella in the car the other day. Made me think of Dad, and all the times I sang it, and dozens of other standards, with him. Today, I sang with him again. "Hurts So Bad" has always been one of my favorites. And I cried – from the too-resonant message in the lyric – and from missing my dad.

It hurts so bad
It makes me feel so sad
It makes me hurt so bad
I'm begging you please
Please don't go
Please don't go...

Who wants to know?

In the Comments section of the previous post, an Anonymous Zantales Reader asked me what my dog reminds me of. I responded, but I realize now that Anonymous Zantales Reader may not know where to find my response.

Here, AZR, I'll make it easy for you:

Lulu reminds me to stay in the moment.

Lulu reminds me to have fun.

Lulu reminds me to love without conditions.

And she's with my ex-husband this week, so I'm going to need to remind myself for the next 7 (now 6) days. Any assistance will be greatly appreciated and rewarded.

Superdog.

This was a four train morning. Today, a conductor -- not our friend Dave, 'though we saw him, too -- slowed down to let his passengers see the chase. I could see them point, smile, laugh, marvel at the little black dog in an amazing race with the big yellow Metrolink.

Yesterday, we had business in Larchmont. We were stopped 5 times in two blocks with the usual comments and inquiries: She's so cute! What kind of dog is she? Can I pet her? Not to mention the various interruptions during the al fresco meeting.

Later, on a research visit to LA Dogworks, they fell in love with her, too.

I just adore my pooch to pieces. She reminds me.

A poem written 2 days before my 25th birthday.

Permanent parentheses
around the mouth.
Apostrophied eyes,
furrowed forehead
to emphasize
the underlined thought,
the exaggerated worry
(and to think I was in a hurry).
Facial punctuation
is hardly compensation
for bitten lips,
for nibbled fingertips.
An unjust indication
of time in motion;
the unkind frustration of
a passing notion
streaks, as the
silver thread
sprouting from my
ageless head.

I dated a bass player who owned a summer home in the Catskills.

He liked to deck me out in fishing vest and waders and plop me into the East Branch of the Delaware River, where he'd attempt to teach me fly fishing. I'm sure the sight of my awkward casting style had none of the "River Runs Through It" visual poetry. But there was a fish who hung out an entire season in front of Russell's house on the Beaver Kill, and I wrote a poem for him, clearly having smoked a bowl of good weed, allowing me to channel Seuss at the end. I just found the long-lost piece in a journal from the day. Here:

For Fred

I have found a friend in Fred,
my fine-finned fish of the
freshwater.
Pointing upstream,
blithely bobbing between boulders,
free-floating in a tremulous tread
within the waters of his
crystal cave.
Changes course to feed,
does Fred,
concurrently chasing his
chosen fuel; feisty Fred.
My favorite fish,
my ever-finning Fred.

Postscript:
No finnan haddie is my friend;
not carp, not cod, not catfish.
No rainbow paints his slimy sides;
a fine brown trout is thatfish.

"Lying is done with words and also with silence." -Adrienne Rich

Okay, why do I keep getting quotes in my Wordsmith emails that deal with this theme? What exactly is the Universe trying to tell me?

Some of you will see the significance of receiving such information in successive feedings, view them as valuable messages. You're sagely nodding your metaphysical heads, aren't you? "Oh yes," you're saying, "you are being passively deceived, you must pay attention." Others are dismissing the notion as so much voodoo falderal. Random order, you're proclaiming; it don't mean a thing.

As usual, I'm wavering somewhere between the two factions.

Where is that Occam's Razor? I could use it right about now, to make a clean cut to the chase.