"THOSE WHO CANNOT DO . . . "

I had a fourth grade teacher who encouraged my creative writing, so (imagine the Groucho Marx tone and cigar), "I got more and more creative as time went on (wag cigar and huge eyebrows)."

Once the concept of a diary registered completely on my pre-adolescent brain, I immediately began to commandeer every possible journal, old calendar log and spiral notebook that came anywhere near me and began to stockpile.

That may have been where my (bordering on criminal) obsessive relationship with office supplies.

Some people dream of being locked up overnight in the Louvre - winning a million dollars in the lottery - having 3 minutes to grab all the diamonds they can at Tiffany's.

I fantasy about being let loose in an Office Depot - Staples - Office Max.

Even aisles B-4 through B-7 in Target.

But I digress (which is why I have a blog - I can digress as much as I want - so there).

Proportionately to my fixation on office supplies, my writing steadily increased over the years to the point where the Bic Corporation petitioned me to at least allow ink production to catch up to my use.

When I joined the LDS church in 1976, and was introduced to the church counsel of keeping a journal, I already had nine years of recording completely random events, observations, mood elevations (this was before antidepressants were commonly prescribed), and catty remarks about people I didn't like.

Oh, wait, a journal is supposed to be uplifting, spiritual records of your mortal progress?

Hell, NO.

My journal/diary/scribbles are where I gripe, complain, whine and belly-ache.

However, tomorrow I am responsible to teaching a class of twelve-year olds about record keeping... which I can loosely translate into journal keeping... and hopefully turn into an actual journal -entry session.

Let's see how this goes.

GOD AND MR GOMEZ

Memories are what you choose to remember.

Some parts of my childhood are blank. Not blurred, or fuzzy, but like erased. I don't think I had horrible experiences that needed to be expunged - maybe just not enough RAM.

But certain parts are extremely clear.

For one, the relationship between myself, my father, and the Los Angeles Times.

It may be difficult for those of you younger than 50 to comprehend, but the daily newspaper used to be the main source of news. There was no Internet or Twitter or email - CNN didn't exist - for years there weren't any morning news shows.

But the morning paper, traditionally thrown in the bushes in front of your house by a young boy on a bicycle, would turn your fingers inky black while over breakfast you read about what the Russians were saying, what Washington was saying back, and the latest serial murderer being hunted in some metropolitan area.

The comics were only one sheet, but worth fighting with your older brother over who got to read first. "Dear Abby" was for grown-ups - horoscopes also.

And I would daily turn to the classifieds in the consistent (albeit irrational) delusion that someday under "Horses," the following advertisement would appear:

"Free beautiful, healthy 8 year old gelding to be given to 12 year old over 5'9" tall, as well as all tack and grooming supplies in addition to first seven years free boarding and feeding costs at local S.P. stable. Call 213-555-1212 immediately to arrange for transportation."

And something my dad and I also shared was the weekly column by Jack Smith.

It was always succinct, direct and usually droll. My dad just loved it, and since I loved my dad so much, of course I did also.

So why am I rambling on about this, and is this going anywhere?

Our book club is meeting at my house next week, which means I suggested the book for discussion.

It was "God and Mr. Gomez" by Jack Smith.

Reading the book for probably the 57th time, I am continually warmed by Smith's phrasing, descriptions and drollity (is that a word? should it be?).

And you know why?

It reminds me of my dad.

I miss him.