A  little Googling around led me to this blog (which makes me exhale and calm down on contact) AND to the DIY tutorial for making a light box. Always wanted one and now I have no excuse. Then after I make the box, I’ll have no choice but to fill it with the artsy, inspired and/or delicious things I make which cry out to be featured against a seamless white background. Instead of the, you know, crap laying around that I couldn’t bother to move. Sounds like a plan.

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This is Miles

Mooch and Miles

All we told Mooch is that we were driving to Connecticut to see an old friend of dad’s. What we didn’t mention was that we were bringing home a puppy. Watching your nine year old process the fact that she’d just been handed our new dog — well, that was an incredible moment.

“I can’t ever repay you. This is the best gift ever.”

We brought this little guy home today, and he was a real trooper the whole trip. Phin, Mooch and I spent the few hours trying to agree on his name. After an elaborate process involving lists, baby name websites, Google searches and vetoes, we decided to name him Miles.

Other top contenders were: Angus, Trevor, George, Dashiell, Travis and Luke, but Miles seemed to fit him best.

Like his dear departed great uncle, our old dog Max, he should be a big, sweet, even-tempered soul. Hope so, but he’s ours, so we’ll love him no matter what.

Still to be determined: what the cat’s gonna think.

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*I just posted this, then went over to link up to Just Write via Heather of the EO. And found her post about addiction, recovery, and the public response to Mr. Hoffman’s passing. You know, you should really go read her post, not mine.

This one was a sucker punch.

Of course I didn’t expect it, because I didn’t know him past his work, but hearing that Philip Seymour Hoffman died was shocking and painful, like I’d been clobbered from behind.

I felt bad for the usual reasons. He had kids, people said he was a kind man, a good dad.  He talked openly about his addictions, recovery, relapse, and I’m sure (sure as I can be about someone I never met) that he never would have brought this pain to his family if he’d had the slightest choice. Sure he could not help himself, or he would have.

But as a fan, all I really knew about him was his work, which I found riveting and honest. He never gave a poor performance, nor a boring one. Even in showy roles, he created a real person before your eyes. He was marvelous in everything: Capote, The Savages, Magnolia, Boogie Nights, Flawless, Almost Famous

I saw him onstage twice in great plays, both times from the front row, and both times he was mesmerizing. That last play was Death of a Salesman, and critics were pretty much of a mind — he was excellent, yet too young to be playing Willie, a character too beaten by life to face another day.

Philip Seymour Hoffman died of an overdose, not suicide. But I guess he also got to that point when he couldn’t face another day — and that point was the unknown second that he lost his sobriety, after decades clean.

Decades.

That’s so frightening, the idea that someone in recovery is never safe. That his or her family can never draw a deep breath, can never relax and know trouble is past.

 

**This was supposed to be a ten minute Just Write post, but I’ve been sitting for far longer, just trying not to come off as a presumptuous idiot. Writing about someone I never met, about an addiction I’ve never experienced. I didn’t edit or write for more than ten minutes, I just stared at the screen slackjawed a lot. What the f*ck; I’m hitting print. 

***I plan on writing funny again at some point in the near future. No more posts about health insurance either.

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