AN OPEN LETTER TO THE GIRL I'M GOING TO MARRY

NEMO? REALLY?

2013-02-08T18:36:00.000-05:00

This guy?

Meet Nemo. He's this itty, bitty little clownfish with a fin underdeveloped. Last I checked, he is not a wicked winter storm about to blanket the Northeast.

Yet, The Weather Channel has christened our latest whacking of extreme weather after a character in a popular Pixar film. The New York Times opines:

"A Fish, Er, Storm Named Nemo"

The other day I texted my sister with a note for my nephew (Nemo fan, bona fide), which read, "Note to my nephew: There is a winter storm bearing down on the east coast, and they're calling it, 'Nemo.'" She said he smiled when he heard that. Me? I rolled my eyes. I'm of the mind that we get beyond the naming conventions that are cute and occasionally arcane (Iago? Really? What is this, Othello?), and just get down to calling these storms what they really are: "Excuses to Stay Inside, Canoodle, and Eat Junk Food."

(But that's just me.)

This afternoon, I went over to the grocery store to pick up some food. I bought healthy things like chicken and Tilapia, not to mention mixed greens, clementines and soup. My basket featured milk, eggs, and just for good measure, two rolls of paper towel. The line of people who were waiting to check out snaked its way through the aisles, and when I finally found what I believed to be the end, I asked the redhead in front of me, "Are you, by chance, the end of the line?"

She was, and after exchanging a pair of pleasant smiles, I caught a glimpse into her basket. No joke, this girl had:

1. Frozen Pizza

2. A box of Cheese Nips

3. Tostino Pizza Rolls

4. A block of cheddar cheese

5. Chips Ahoy Cookies

6. Skippy Peanut Butter

7. Microwave popcorn

8. A packet of hot dogs (but surprisingly, no hot dog buns)

9. Ice cream

Based on the contents of her basket, I'm pretty much convinced that the woman cannot cook, but never mind that. She's got the junk food, and I would bet that we're both on board with the notion of staying inside. Now, all I have to do is work on getting this cutie to canoodle.

(Because on this weekend or any other, it's not "Nemo" that I am looking to find.)

MISTAKES

2010-01-21T18:41:00.004-05:00

Everyone makes mistakes. Lord knows that I make my fair share, and far more often than I probably deserve.

Case in point? Only yesterday, I was taking a long walk down Fifth Avenue. All of the sudden a woman appeared, walking out of a doorway. She was quite cute, with silken blonde hair and these legs that went, well… let’s just say that they were long.

In any case, I found the girl to be attractive. The same could be said for half the other women who walk these city streets, but this particular woman benefited from the fact that she was there, walking right in front of me. Immediately, I began to fumble for a way of gaining her attention.

I’ve never really been the guy with a line, and a part of me suspects that it may be a good thing. Nevertheless, short of stopping this woman cold, save for literally impeding her path, the options apparent to me in that exact moment were few.

One thing is for certain. I was aware that my window was closing quickly. So, I checked her out. I mean, I wasn’t lascivious about it, but still. I gave the girl a look, and a good one. Threw in a bit of a smile, maybe. Honest to God, I tried to look cool doing so, to come across in a way that was decidedly non-creepy.

Say what you will about best-laid plans, but I kid you not: The glance that I got back from this girl… it made me feel just dirty, and not in a good way. It wasn’t as though she took my look to mean, “You saucy little minx” and then shot back a message unspoken, and in her own coquettish way, with a playful, flirty, “you naughty boy!”

No, this was much more of, “You fucking pervert. What is wrong with you, to look at me like that, and at this very moment?”

That’s when it hit me. It’s probably best not to hit on a girl when she’s clutching a shopping bag, and has just—and I mean, just—walked out of a Victoria’s Secret.

To be fair, she probably assumed that my eyes and my mind went straight from the bag and the thoughts of what it might contain, to basically, well… mentally undressing her body. When it’s put like that, I suppose she had every reason to take my smile the wrong way. Still, despite the awkward moment that our exchange may have produced, as if that weren’t enough, this morning I nearly went back for more.

Walking along the waterfront, on my way to work, I came across a woman who was wearing a plaid skirt. It’s probably quite obvious, as to where I’m about to go with this, but I attended Catholic school. The girls who matriculated at our sister schools, they often wore these woolen, pleated skirts, and in a variety of plaid patterns. Stop me if you’re there already, but the skirt that this woman was wearing this morning?

It was the spitting image. Therefore, it also happened to be the very same image that probably got me through puberty.

Strike me down for saying as much, but suddenly I found myself this close to telling the poor woman wearing a plaid skirt that her clothing had catapulted me back to my days as a curious, Catholic schoolboy. Had I muttered so much as a word to that effect, I can tell you now that I’d have done so with a smile, and of the neighborly, friendly variety. Would she have taken it that way, as all kinds of complimentary and in no way pervy? Go on. Take that to be a rhetorical question, because something tells me we both know the answer.

What with the way things have been going, I can only imagine how badly that shot of mine might have backfired. Can you even picture it? I mean, good Lord. It’s no wonder I’m still single.

Then again, this began as a piece about mistakes. For any and all that I might make on my own, there exists a type that I try to rail against, to amend at all costs, and with a great, unyielding effort. To be plain, I am talking of those missteps related to grammar.

The spare typo or occasional misspelling aside, it seems as though many of us cannot go a day without fucking up the English language. This isn’t about switching up the order of “i” and “e,” whether after "c" or otherwise. Half the time, even I can’t remember where to place a period, be it before or after a quotation mark. For goodness sake, what's my excuse? I write for a living.

No, I’m reserving my ire for the stuff that truly irks me—for those errors plainly obvious and all too easy to avoid; for those moments when the very meaning of a word or a sentence is sent reeling, when all hints of rhyme or reason are shot directly out the window.

There are the usual suspects, the use of “there” or “their” when the context clearly calls for “they’re.” People these days; they are (or “they’re,” for those who insist on using the contraction) mixing up those words in all sorts of ways, bringing nouns and adjectives into play when all they really needed was a verb.

Regrettably, these blunders and boo-boos are typically the products of some very smart people. Even so, these mistakes, they happen quite a lot. (Not “alot,” mind you. That’s not a word, and never has been.) The question is: To whom does one allot the blame—if, in fact, one is able to find the fault at all?

Personally, I’m grateful for the knowledge I picked up back in Catholic school. So that we’re clear, I am not now, nor have I ever been, “greatful.” Of course, that didn’t stop me from finding the word, just this morning, on someone's Facebook page.

Actually, to be perfectly clear, “greatful” isn’t a word at all. If it were, no longer would the talk be of gratitude; instead, the message would be one of dimension. More to the point, as it concerns this so-called word, that particular misspelling would only alter (not “altar.” Those are saved for churches, or for use in pagan ceremonies) the root, thereby changing the meaning and intent.

Besides, I can’t imagine that any self-aware person, not to mention someone who was slightly self-conscious, would truly want a word around that could describe them as being, “filled with vastness, or mass, else all things enormous.”

I know I wouldn’t. Those skinny jeans look shit on me, as is.

Despite what nearly happened on the waterfront this morning, or yesterday, outside of Victoria’s Fifth Avenue location, the education that I received had more to do with working knowledge than it did with knickers or naughty thoughts. I guess my point is this: On Wednesday, I had a woman seemingly mistake my smile for a healthy dose of sleaze. What might have happened, had I opened my mouth or tried to slip the girl (easy there, Tiger) a note, only to find that the words would not come out right?

To put it another way, if we can’t say what we mean and mean what we say, then how smart can we really be?

THE ONE WHO GOT AWAY

2009-11-17T16:28:00.018-05:00

Honestly, I didn’t see any of this coming.

In the very first instance, it happened over e-mail and came in the form of a message in my inbox. The note was from a woman who I dated for a time, around about a year ago. Her letter was sweet and altogether flattering, but as I would soon come to discover, that was with good reason. You see, this woman was writing with just one purpose in mind: She wanted to see me again.

Only days following that first occurrence, nearly the same thing happened again.

This time, the circumstances were slightly different. The note came my way via Facebook, and it was tinged with some uncertainty. On this occasion, it seemed that the woman writing simply wanted to know if I might hail from a particular place. It was her way of discerning whether or not I was the boy she had dated and then broke up with, some ten long years ago.

None of this would have happened. None of it could have happened, if not for the power of the Internet. It’s not as though the cell phone of any average person is listed in the phone book, but thanks to the digital age—what with Facebook and Twitter and Google and more—any one among us can tap into the expanses of the World Wide Web, and maybe even stumble upon a once and former prom date. In fact, it is entirely easy—maybe all too easy—to reach right out and touch someone, to try and reconnect, or perhaps even try all over again.

On the surface, this brand of behavior would seem to be innocuous. You’d think that it might be benign. After all, we’re only human. It is natural to want to care, and especially for the people who, once upon a time, might have played a role within our lives. So we reach out to a friend from high school. We reconnect with that kid we ran around with years ago. We think to say hello, or perhaps even try—all over again—with someone we once knew (or in the cases I’ve been describing, a person for whom we may have had feelings), and just to see that they are doing well. It is an entirely innocent pursuit, except that it isn’t (not at all).

Unfortunately, we fail to see the truth.

We have convinced ourselves of the former, not the latter. We really do believe that this kind of thing is no big deal, that our motives, our objectives, are rightly and completely pure. Besides, what’s so bad about saying hello? That’s all we’re doing. This is an old friend we’re talking about here. Never mind that we used to see each other naked. That was years ago.

In each of the instances mentioned, I eventually wrote back to the women in question, my responses packed with plenty in the way of pleasantries. The back and the forth, that initial give and take, would eventually lead to a series of exchanges. Before long, I found myself agreeing to meet in person, to sit down over a beer, and well, you know… “Catch up.”

When it happens that you haven’t seen someone in so very long, it is actually quite easy to strike up a conversation. There are years to fill. The two of you have whole swaths of life to catch up on, and plenty in the way of stories to tell. Do little more than report the news, and still you’ll find the time wiling by.

The strange part is, through all of this, you can find yourself falling into something familiar—a rhythm, of sorts, albeit one that feels entirely strange, as though it is a step out of time, and in all likelihood, one step too many. Whatever it is that you had, whenever it happened, the truth of the matter is, it was years ago. It’s over, and no matter what it is that the two of you may come to find, in connecting once again, only one thing can be certain: It will never be the same as it once was.

Somewhere along the way, in the string of correspondences, in the midst of sitting down, of meeting in person, I began to suspect that this reaching out might not merely be for the sake of old times.

Granted, there is a part in all of us, whether conscious or not, that is probably quite curious to discover how someone has fared. We grow inquisitive, and naturally begin to wonder how it is that they are doing, or how the years have treated them. Maybe all we really want to know is whether or not they have gained forty pounds, or begun to lose their hair. It might be that what we’re really after, what we truly want from this, is a way of feeling better about ourselves, and about the decisions that we once made, so many years ago.

Understand, this observation is delivered without malice. It comes forth without any form of judgment attached. People get to a certain age, and try though they might to avoid it, invariably, they will begin to wonder. It is just the way of things.

Of course, that would suggest that we have drifted far past even the scant possibility of the benign. There may be something more that is deeply rooted in this urge to reconnect. There may well be an altogether different type of motive. It would seem plausible, but...

Holy shit. Could it be that I’m the one who got away?

***

A few years ago, a handful of friends flew into New York, boarding planes and leaving families behind, all so that they might partake in helping me to celebrate my birthday.

My birthday falls in February, and of all the things that I might wish for on that occasion, the one constant is snow. Living where I do, it doesn’t often happen that I end up on skis that week, let alone that very day. Still, even kicking around the city streets, it is nice to have some of the white stuff around, whether to plow into piles, or pack into a ball and then playfully toss towards some far-off wall.

In the mornings, at subway stations throughout the city, people will pass out free newspapers. Whether AM New York or the Metro, both offer up the news of the day, with a focus that will run the gamut from the GDP to gossip. They feature the weather, too. No matter how long I end up living here, I might never cease to marvel at the way that these free papers will proclaim, with the sturm and drang one might expect from Roland Emmerich, the impending arrival of the year’s first major snowfall.

It doesn’t have to be a lot. Even a dusting will suffice, for with so much (or so little) as four inches of snow, the front pages of those morning papers will be bellowing, “BLIZZARD OF (fill in the year here)!”

I find it kind of funny, the way that everyone will react to the reports, as though they could possibly be true. People hear the word, “blizzard” and immediately, they fall into one of two camps. Either they’re a modern-day Shackleton striving for the Pole, or they decide that it’d be best if they remain indoors, and not embark on the laborious chore of walking to their places of business, as though the dusting on the doorstep is sure to impede their progress.

(There is a part of me always tempted to say, “You walk to work anyway. Throw on some boots. Wear a hat. Suck it up.”)

On my birthday, those few years ago, people were justified in doing whatever they so chose, for the daily rags? They really meant it. What we experienced that weekend was, indeed, the BLIZZARD OF 2005. The flakes began to fall on Saturday afternoon, and by the time Sunday morning had rolled around? There were reportedly 27 inches of the freshly fallen, fluffy stuff on the ground in Central Park.

On Saturday night, my friends and I, we began to take advantage.

As we made our way down Mulberry Street, we began to throw snowballs—not at some far-away walls, or inanimate objects, but rather at each other. A few playful tosses turned into a battle, with each of us darting this way and that, on opposite sides of the street, ducking behind cars and to the sides of street signs in a desperate attempt to take cover.

Soon snowballs were flying from every which direction, whizzing their ways past people’s heads and occasionally catching someone square in the back. Of course, this was acceptable. We not only knew each other; we understood full well what we were getting into, the moment we picked up that first pile of snow.

But then we ended up before the storefront of an Australian restaurant… and then someone ducked into the short stairwell that leads down below, to the bar in the basement… and then someone (I’m not saying who) unleashed a cannon-shot of a snowball throw, and proceeded to peg the bouncer, and just as he was popping his head up to street level, all to check out the commotion.

Yeah, he was a big guy.

Thankfully, he was also cool as hell. Pretty soon the bouncer had joined in on our little skirmish. He was a part of the fray, and lobbing snowballs across the street at those of us who were trailing behind, the stragglers who had yet to reach the refuge of that doorway. Soon enough, once we were all hanging around and huddled about the entrance, apologies to the bouncer were offered up in earnest. He seemed to think nothing of it, and brushed the whole thing off. Besides, he had gotten his, what with a few well-placed bombs. At some point, someone may have mentioned my birthday, and pretty soon we were all smiling and shaking hands. In fact, I think it was the bouncer who offered a slap to the back of my head as he told us all to get inside.

I have yet to visit Australia, but apparently, they like their cricket. That’s the sport that was being broadcast on the massive, movie-sized projection screen that was hanging from the room’s back wall. We snaked our way through the scrum of people, inching ever closer to the bar. There was a general clamoring, and the occasional outcry (something about a “sticky wicket”), but beyond the reactions (which we didn’t understand), that was all the attention we paid to the match transpiring on the screen.

While I cannot recall much about the match, you can best believe that I remember when it ended. That was the moment that the crowd parted. The middle of that room opened right up, and suddenly, there she was. That was when I saw her.

I could describe for you the way she looked, or what she wore, or that smile of hers, and how it cut straight through me. She was like an elixir.

Beyond all rhyme or reason, without regard for an excuse or explanation, I was convinced of one thing: I would regret missing out on the chance to meet this woman. I had to talk to her. I needed to find some way, some how, to strike up a conversation.

As for the next few moments to follow, they may have involved a pep talk or two. It might have taken me a couple of trial runs, a few failed attempts, but before long? I walked up and said hello. She smiled, and the rest just seemed to happen, without any sort of aid from the two of us.

The chants and cheers that had accompanied the match had died down by that point, and had soon given way to the music of Motown. Somewhat reflexively, without even thinking, I looked that woman in the eye and asked her to dance. Never mind that it wasn’t that kind of bar. Fuck if I cared. She was gorgeous. I liked her from the start, and I was gladly going to take any excuse I could get, just to find some way of getting closer to this girl.

I reached for her hand, wrapped my fingers around hers, and then led her out onto that makeshift dance floor. The rest, as they say, is history.

As the evening drew to a close, as the bouncer we had befriended only hours before began to sweep the place of drunken strangers, I looked to the girl and asked for her number. If memory serves, there was some discussion over why it was that I wouldn’t just enter her digits into my phone, but I had screwed that process up once or twice before. I wasn’t about to risk it. You see, all I really wanted was to call this girl. I wasn’t even going to wait two days.

In the end, I cajoled the bartender into handing me a bar bill and a pen, and she jotted down her name and number. I told her that I’d call. I meant it, and then we went our separate ways.

The next morning, I awoke with a start. Yes, there were 27 inches of snow on the ground, but that wasn’t why I was so excited. The snow didn’t even register.

I went directly to the chair in the corner of my room and snatched up the jeans I had been wearing the night before. My hand dived first into my right front pocket, and then into the left. I checked the pockets in the back, and then searched them all twice over again. A sense of panic began to set in, for try as I might, I couldn’t find her number. There was a Metro Card and some loose receipts, a few coins wadded up in the midst of tens and twenties, but nothing with her name and her telephone number.

I checked my coat. I checked the kitchen counter—the refrigerator, too. I walked to the doorway, and out into the hall. Every square inch of my 500 square-foot apartment was completely torn apart, and still I came up empty-handed.

I was an ass to lose her number. Granted, she and I spent little more than an evening together. All we did was talk and laugh, and share some scattered moments with her wrapped in my arms, spinning ourselves around that room. It wasn’t much, but regardless, there was something about that woman. I knew that I wanted to see her again, and soon. At the very least, I wanted the chance to take her out, to talk with her once more, to see where things might lead.

Opportunities are what you make of them, and ultimately, that one was lost. Still, sometimes I just can’t help myself. I begin to think back to that evening, and it is in those times that I stop to wonder: What if she is the one who got away?

There are some things that we’ll never know. It is just the way of things. All that we can do, the only choice that we might have, is to keep on trying.

STORIES

2009-11-07T00:55:00.009-05:00

This has been a troubling week.

On Tuesday, Americans went to the polls and in the state of Maine, in the otherwise lovely state of Maine, to cite but one example, some of those among us saw fit to strip the rights of others. They felt it was their responsibility to limit these rights, or to take them away, but only if some of these “other” people happen to be gay.

I don’t mean to mix these two events, or so much as suggest that the one is parallel with the other, but by now we’re likely all aware of the tragedy that transpired on Thursday, when a soldier and psychiatrist unleashed a torrent of fear upon Fort Hood, Texas. The suspect is alleged to have killed thirteen of his fellow Americans, and to have wounded 30 others.

Just this afternoon, I caught a headline saying that someone marched into an office building in Orlando, Florida, wielding a gun. According to news reports, at least one person is dead. Five more are apparently injured.

The first of these instances is troubling. It is disappointing—dismaying, even—but as for the second and the third? They are horrific, grotesque displays of violence, of which the rational and sane will struggle mightily to understand.

In the aftermath of the shooting at Fort Hood, I have been reading from the stories of loved ones and survivors, of the friends and fellow soldiers of those who fell. To what has been said and all that has been reported, I can offer only the following: “We are the stories that we choose to tell, minus those that no one wants to hear any more.”

After Dallas, Memphis, and the Ambassador Hotel; following Columbine, Blacksburg, and now Fort Hood, I don’t want to hear any more the stories of shootings and of homicides, of madmen and their actions. I grow weary of reports that try to delve into the motives of murderous individuals, as if there could be even a reason enough to justify the cold-blooded killing of another living being. These actions take place within situations that we cannot predict, and for which we can’t prepare. What is it that we expect to learn? What makes this one any different than the last?

***

My family did not grow up with guns. We did not hunt. Our community was small, and the kind of place where it wouldn’t have surprised me if some people left their doors unlocked at night. Personally, I have no need for a rifle or a handgun, let alone something described as semi-automatic, or capable of spraying a barrage of bullets.

There are those that feel differently, who disagree. I respect their right to do so, but after the instances of these past few days, in the wake of the massacres at Columbine and Blacksburg, I am ever so tempted to suggest: Repeal a portion of the Second Amendment. The militia you can keep, but take out that part about the right to bear arms.

Two hundred thirty-four years ago, we were a people, a nation, and a collection of states, a Republic borne from the wake of a revolution. It made sense to make certain that citizens could defend themselves. When they did, it was understood that they’d be doing so with a muzzleloader, a pocket filled with lead pellets, and a small bag of gunpowder tied to their waistbands.

While that collection of states has grown from thirteen to fifty, we are still very much an infant nation. On any number of issues, the world may look to us to lead, but on plenty of matters, we’re still trying to figure things out for ourselves. Just look to the docket of the Supreme Court, during any given session. Our brightest minds are constantly turning to the Constitution, reading the words as they are written, looking carefully at the question of intent, and trying to interpret what that document can and should mean today for these United States.

No one would suppose that our Founding Fathers, so many years ago, could have had the foresight or prescience required to dream of the reality we face now. It is why, with all their knowledge, in all their infinite wisdom, they designed the Constitution to be a living, breathing document. It is the reason they made it possible for our nation’s charter to grow and expand, through any number of subsequent amendments. It also explains why an amendment to the Constitution cannot be passed without considerable effort.

With any new revision, else every time the justices of the Supreme Court rule on a case, when they offer an opinion, the action is intended to uphold our civil rights. By birth, we were all bequeathed with rights both equal and unalienable. That very premise is the bedrock of our nation. All men are created equal, and over the years, our infant nation has come to recognize that it means every man, woman and child, of every color and every creed.

I believe in a Republic that is intent on providing for its people every right that they deserve, or those that are fundamental to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. If anything, the objective should be more freedoms, not less. Yet still, on days like today and in the wake of the events that have just transpired, I am half-tempted to dial up my lawmakers and suggest that they take another look at the Second Amendment.

If nothing else, then context should be taken into account.

We are miles away from the muzzleloader, and all of the Glocks in the whole, wide world will never be able to topple the might of the American military industrial complex. For all of those inclined to feel that it is their right to keep and bear arms, I suggest that you buy a baseball bat. You can pick one up for about $30. To those who feel impinged by the terms of this proposal, based on the contention that it interrupts your need to hunt? Allow me to present to you the slingshot, the bow and arrow, or (and here’s a novel thought), Whole Foods.

In truth, I am not serious about suggesting that we consider a revision to the Second Amendment. I recognize the peril in taking so exacting a swipe at any article within the Bill of Rights. Besides, the Constitution was designed to expand with the times. It is the role of the judiciary to decide on such matters, and as recently as 2008, a 5-4 ruling in the case District of Columbia v. Heller upheld the rights of an individual to possess a firearm for private use, at least on federal grounds. The states may decide differently, but again: The Constitution exists to establish the charter for our nation, and to grant the individual with certain rights. It does not seek to limit them.

The language and intent of the Constitution is not something to trifle with, and the Second Amendment is not the issue, any more than it’s the reason for violence or unrest. While I may not always agree with the opinions and the efforts of this lobbying body, it is absolutely right what the NRA will often say: Guns do not kill people. People kill people.

In that, we expose the fundamental problem in this whole discussion, the stumbling block that we just cannot get around: You can take a gun from a person’s hand, but you cannot extract from their heart the propensity for violence. You cannot banish hate or bigotry, or racism, or sexism—not unless you start right away, at the point of consciousness.

The truth is, none of us are born to hate. We are not brought into this world wishing harm upon another. Rogers & Hammerstein had it right, so many years ago and on a stage meant to replicate the South Pacific. “You have to be carefully taught.” That’s the way that song goes, isn’t it?

Whether parents, teachers, friends or family, even the ordinary, everyday Americans who quietly pass each other on the street, we all have a role in that. We all have an opinion and a voice by which to make it heard. It may not always happen that we find common ground on issues like health care or like-kind exchanges, but when we find examples of our basic rights being impinged; when we sense the possibility of our God-given civil liberties being trampled by the electorate, it is our responsibility to speak out.

With that in mind, perhaps you will understand why I am deadly serious about my grief over this bullshit in the otherwise bucolic climes of Maine. The same goes for California. With the state of Washington, however, I’m honestly quite pleased. In voting as they did for Referendum 71, they actually expanded upon the rights of not only gays and lesbians, but of elderly couples, too. So, if those friends and family of mine who are gay or lesbian (or, for that matter, any randy grandparents not concerned with getting hitched) decide to move to Washington, then at least they can be assured domestic partnership rights.

Every man, woman, and child who is straight can have them. Why not the same for people who are gay?

***

This afternoon, when I sat down to write, it was with the hope that I might be able to work out how I feel about these matters. It was with the intent of developing for myself a better set of answers, so as to help to make the events of this week somewhat easier to stomach. In that, I am not certain I’ve succeeded.

A fair portion of our population seems hell-bent on the matter, and simply cannot move quickly or decidedly enough to restrict, rescind, or remove altogether the rights of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people. It’d be fair to suppose that at least a portion of those quickly moving people are probably pretty strident with their views on gun rights, too. Fine and good, if they are, but explain to me this: How can people be so eager to regulate the rights of those who only want to love each other, be then so apoplectic, the moment anyone so much as dares to suggest that we think to do the same for those who seek to acquire a handgun?

It may seem far afield, to discuss within a single post the hot button issues of murder and gay marriage. Perhaps I’m taking too large a leap, jumping from one topic to the next, except I don’t believe that is the case. You see, when you strip away all of the politics, the hyperbole and (frankly) fear, guns and gay marriage both concern the very same thing. They are about a single, fundamental issue—our rights as individuals, as Americans, as human beings.

When we uphold the Constitution, we assure for our fellow Americans the right to the freedom of religion, to free speech, to a free press. We grant them the right to congregate freely, and yes, we maintain for them the right to keep and bear arms. In doing the latter, we knowingly tempt fate. We open the door to the possibility that one or more among us may not be responsible with the right that they’ve been given. God forbid, but they might take the guns that our laws allow them and use them to do harm to others. As it happened in Orlando and Fort Hood, they might take those guns—the right to which they are guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution—and use them to cause harm to their fellow Americans.

The part of this that is so hard to comprehend, so very difficult to get my head around, is that if we allow gays and lesbians to marry—if we do nothing more than grant to them the rights equal to those of other Americans—then there is no fate to tempt. There is no other shoe to drop. We don’t risk anything. Plain and simply, there is nothing to fear.

If every state in the union suddenly opened their doors to gay marriage, what would be the harm? I mean, let’s be honest about this. What would the majority of gays and lesbians do, except keep on leading decent lives, the same that they’ve been doing all along? What are they going to propose, except to love one another? Are we worried that under certain circumstances, in the most unfortunate of cases, our gay and lesbian brethren might divorce? God knows they would have a struggle on their hands, to do in greater numbers what their straight compatriots have accomplished already.

If there is one thing for certain, it is what gays and lesbians would not be doing, under any circumstances: Killing marriage.

***

When we think of the violence that occurred this week, whether in Orlando or at Fort Hood, Texas, we rightly mourn the loss of innocent people. The conversation turns, as it invariably does, to thoughts of what might have been, and to the full and complete lives that these Americans might well have been able to lead, to the contributions they could have continued to make, if not for the actions of a person with a gun.

Many years ago, when our Founding Fathers went forth to ratify the living, breathing document that is our Constitution, there were provisions made for certain portions of our population. Some of us were counted as less than whole people, and as wrong and as inhumane, as morally repugnant as that may have been, Americans eventually took action to fix what was wrong. They made amends the document, and took the first steps in making all of us whole, just as we very well should be.

In this day and age, by saying no to the rights of gays and lesbians, we are doing nothing more than slovenly repeating the sins of our past. We are refusing to grow as a people, as a nation. What we are doing cannot be justified, for in denying these people the very rights that so many of us take for granted, we are telling gays and lesbians that they are not whole people.

When thinking of the violence that has occurred this week, I realize just how fortunate I am, to have never been touched on a personal basis by a tragedy of this degree. My heart and my prayers go out to those who have, but in the way that it was with 9/11 and with Oklahoma City, similar to the days that followed the senseless death of Matthew Shepard in Laramie, Wyoming—even now, with what has happened in Maine—we didn’t have to be there in order to feel something. No matter our particular points of view, we have all been affected. Either we have chosen to persecute, or we know what it’s like to be persecuted.

Due to the fact of our shared human condition, there will soon be another choice to make. We can elect to allow these events to pass on by, and drift softly into the ether of our recollections; otherwise, we can choose to act based upon what’s right, and on all that we are feeling at this moment.

***

I harbor the belief that when we reach our deathbeds, we are faced with one responsibility. No matter rich or poor, young or old, gay or straight, we had better have an awfully good story to tell.

Whether we are parents or children, teachers or students, or just another in a long line of ordinary, everyday Americans, the responsibility is ours. Let us be the ones to lead the charge, in offering up a more open discussion on the differences between right and wrong. Let us impress upon our friends and neighbors the importance of non-violence, and let us be the ones to repeat the histories of how that mindset has succeeded in affecting change. To all of those that we do know and especially to those we don’t, let us be sure to value love over hate. Let’s share a little more of it than we might be used to, than we might think to do otherwise, because if nothing more, Lennon and McCartney had it right. Above all else, let us hope to make the choices that will move us one step closer to becoming the people that we aspire to be, and to shaping the world in which we want to live.

Once upon a time, I heard someone say, "We are the stories that we choose to tell, minus those that no one wants to hear anymore."

I believe that to be true, and it is an effort that is constantly evolving. It is one that begins anew, right now.

EPHEMERAL

2009-11-04T21:41:00.013-05:00

I harbor few illusions.

Of those that I do allow myself—for all of the dreams and visions, the starry-eyed supposing, whatever the figments, the filaments, or the flights of fancy—most tend to involve the trappings of rock stardom. Were it only the case that I had been born with pipes, or blessed with an innate comprehension of the pentatonic scales, then you and I might be having a different conversation. I might be off touring the country from the back of a beat-up van, but in that case, this would surely be a different kind of blog.

Never mind that I am able to play the guitar. Forget for a moment that I am not exactly tone deaf. Ability is something far removed from aptitude, and so these two facts, even added up together, do not in my case equal talent. Rather than playing to sold-out rock cathedrals, instead of strutting across some far-away stage, or roaming before a rack of amplifiers, all the while wielding a Gibson or a Gretsch, it has become my predilection—my proclivity, even—to express the ways in which I’m feeling with a pen.

It’s a pretty decent gig, if you can get it.

Though I enjoy what it is that I do, don’t think for a moment I’ve been tricked into believing that this penchant for the written word amounts to anything more than a useful tool. (I’m quite good at writing thank-you notes. It’s in the sending of those notes that I am absolute and complete rubbish.) Despite the delusions heretofore mentioned, I have never allowed myself to suppose that the writing of this blog will wend some sort of existential uptick. Mind you, I do enjoy it. This blog provides the occasional outlet, and the thought that people even bother to read the stuff that I might write down will tend to elicit its own particular thrill. It's just that I’ve never expected these words, however they may be, to have any discernible bearing on, or in any way serve to burgeon, the prospects of my dating life.

Not that I find the concept inconceivable.

The title of this blog is derived from a short story that I started, once upon a time, but never found a way to finish. When the thought occurred to apply it here, I was solely motivated by thoughts of insinuation. I was more interested in concerning myself with what notions and ideas that the title might elicit, and less with the actual intent. In truth, the whole thing was a bit of an attempt to set people up. An Open Letter to the Girl I'm Going to Marry? It wasn’t just that I had a hunch some others might wonder; it was something I expected.

What happened next, I could not have predicted.

When the time came to scribble down the starting points, those opening lines of OLGGM, I found that all remnants of subterfuge had gone. Any hints of skullduggery had long ago left the building. Blame it on that part of me that grew up just a bit punch-drunk on a few too many Disney movies, but I had gone and fallen for the very trap that I myself had set. I was the one who had started to wonder. I had begun to ask the questions, to feel hopeful. Moreover, I was migrating towards the point of belief. An Open Letter to the Girl I’m Going to Marry somehow became exactly that—the very conversation that I wanted to be having, and with an audience of only one.

If there’s a problem with any kind of honest statement, it is that it has the tendency to sound somewhat romantic. You could be stating fact. The girl sitting across from you might indeed have bright, blue eyes, and yet the mere utterance of such an observation is likely to be taken as a compliment, as a sign that you’re certainly into her.

When I say that this became for me a chance to write to someone, to the "one," whomever she may prove to be, I’m not looking to score points. It might sound all kinds of quixotic, but before we fall too deeply, too completely, let me take you back, close to the beginning of this post. While I would allow that stranger things have happened, this site isn’t around to serve as some sort of online single’s bar. It was never meant to be a way of meeting somebody.

Of course, there are things in this world for which we can’t predict, let alone prepare. That’s what makes this life so very interesting.

So while I never would have imagined that this might be the kind of thing that would connect with complete strangers, I am glad to know it has. While I could not have foreseen the circumstances in which people would reach out, from places far away, offering up comments or heartfelt accounts of how and why they reacted to a post, I am grateful to hear from each and every person, all of those who have stopped and taken the time to write.

It was never my intention, to craft some sort of epistolary pick-up line. Then again, as it has been said before, weirder things have happened.

I hear the stories of countless individuals, all of whom meet people online and then go on to get married. It’s just the way things tend to work nowadays. Whereas my parents met through more ordinary circumstances, and while I may have expected a similar thing, at least once upon a time, I’ve got to own up to my own expectations: Never have I wanted to lead a life that could be described that way.

Maybe it comes to be that this effort leads to a circumstance, to an instance or a moment, and perhaps it is that spot in time that is destined to make all of the difference. If nothing more, I have been given an outlet to express myself, to relay bits of these thoughts, these feelings. Though ephemeral and altogether fleeting, they seem real every time that I sit down to write, and I now have an avenue by which to share them with others, to work them out on paper.

This blog began as an exercise, as an outlet, as a way of flexing those muscles that I seldom get the chance to ply. It was supposed to be a place for me to press a pen to a loose-leaf sheet, and a way by which to help help my closest friends avoid the clogging of their inboxes. Along the way, it has developed into something more. I feel that it has veered onto its own distinct path, and in the end, it has taken on real meaning—for me, most of all.

From an early age, I would imagine we all wonder. Who is she, where is she, and when might I find her? Those are answers I cannot supply, but here and again, every now and then, the thought of her is on my mind. Because of those who read, because of those who pay attention, this remains an opportunity to put a particular experience to words, to share in the circumstances that so many of us undergo and struggle with, and to relay the often conflicting emotions that so many of us feel.

I appreciate the fact that anyone would listen. It means something to me, to have the chance not only to sit down and write, but to possibly reach an audience. At the rate that I’ve been writing, though, it might seem as though I’m taking this circumstance for granted, that I'm eschewing the support. While it might sometimes appear as thought I don’t appreciate all of those who read, who choose to pass these entries on, who opt to recommend OLGGM to all of those they know, nothing could be further from the truth.

None of those among us can know how this tale might end, but it would seem to me that with this, I’ve signed up to the telling of a story—to the fulfilling of a certain expectation, on a more consistent basis, and with the hopes of ultimately seeing it through.

Though it has been said before, it deserves another mention. I appreciate the fact that anyone would listen, and I value that you might take the time to care. If these scribblings sometimes matter to you, if these entries and random posts of mine are, on occasion, the kinds of things that you value, then rest assured...

I promise to do better from here on in.

ATTITUDE

2009-09-18T17:22:00.006-04:00

There is so very little about which I can complain. My life is fairly blessed, and though I would prefer to think of myself as a person who is prone to optimism, to plucking from the murky depths a healthy dose of mirth, I find that today—much the way it has been these past many days—the effort can be one that is difficult to wage.

Mind you, I come from a loving family and a stable home environment. I am fortunate in this, and in the fact that I can count upon some wonderful friends. For these reasons alone, I should worry less about the fact that my love life, as of late, has been little in the way of fun and a whole lot of frustration. Never mind that the most recent of my romantic entanglements might better be described as a long-forgotten figment. Truly, I shouldn’t let it bother me.

(But, still, I have my moments.)

I would suppose that this kind of thing will happen, from time to time. We’re likely all prone to the feeling, however occasional or fleeting it might be, of being stuck in a rut, of being worn down and tired, of being stagnant and stale, whenever not enough in the way of positive change seems to infiltrate your life.

***

If these past few months were the only indication, then you would be best to forget about dating, let alone any kind of meaningful relationship. Your better efforts have not been working. Those lips of yours have not been properly kissed in, well, far longer than you might like to admit, and so, yeah… it’s perfectly understandable that you’d look to shake things up a bit.

You begin by going shopping and that we understand, for never in the past have the holy, healing waters of Retail Therapy been wont to let you down. Those thick and curly locks probably are due for a trim, and as for making the decision, here and now, to start hitting the gym with greater dedication? We say, good for you! Stroll around the aisles of your nearest Barnes & Noble, while you’re at it, and pick up a good book or two. Maybe take up a new hobby. If you walk to work along 5th Avenue, perhaps this morning you take Madison, instead—anything, provided it leads to a disruption of the status quo.

What you need, after all, is something new—something different. This entire effort is about rejuvenation, reinvention, about injecting life with a high dose of potential—or, to put it another way, about imagining once again all that is possible in life. The hell with just the marrow! You’ll be taking along the bone, as well (thank you very much), because for any sort of meaningful change to take root, to truly take hold, things have to feel differently, first.

Otherwise, a few days will pass by and you’ll begin to wonder: Is it really a question of pattern or process? You believe in the notion of free will. It’s not as though the circumstances that we occupy simply spring up like weeds, like wildflowers, without the influence of purpose or intent. Choices need be made, yes, but that very first and most fundamental choice does not concern behavior. It comes down to how you feel and to what you believe.

It begins with attitude.

***

A few days ago, I was reading from an interview with the actor Neil Patrick Harris. You might know of him as the child star who played a doctor on TV, but that was many years ago. In the time that has followed, he has been a Broadway star and a host of both Saturday Night Live and the Tony awards. Come this Sunday, the man who is otherwise known as “NPH”, the breakout star in the ensemble cast of CBS’s How I Met Your Mother, will add another line onto his resume, when he hosts the primetime Emmys.

Not to stray too far from the point, the aforementioned interview quoted Neil Patrick Harris as saying, “It feels like if you go out of your way to make something happen, it rarely does. But if you allow for good things to happen, they seem to.”

***

We can continue to push and shove, in an effort to try and bend this world to fit our own particular whims.

For instance, I can carry on with the writing of an open letter, addressed to the girl who I might one day like to marry. We can both go about making halfhearted attempts with relatively pretty people. One of us might even succumb, before too long, to the soul-sucking exercise that online dating would seem to be.

I can go out to the bar and ask for some poor girl’s number, only to lose it during the cab ride home. You can decide to date a guy who isn’t nice to pets or plants, let alone particularly interesting. Maybe we’re just biding our time. Perhaps there is something to be gained from all the trouble and the heartache.

People talk to me, and they try to chalk the whole thing up to timing. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but until this cockamamie clock decides to strike upon something meaningful, I’m going to try and maintain my perspective.

In spite of the efforts being made with blogs, with bars, or even blind dates, it is all about attitude. I know of no other way than to continue to believe that you may well be right around the corner, hurrying to get here and anxious to arrive.

I just want to be ready when you do.

WHILE WE'RE HERE

2009-07-14T11:45:00.011-04:00

Since we’re circling the drain on the topic, I feel the need to mention: I’m going to want a barn.

Someday not long from now, when we’re buying real estate, I’m going to wait for my moment and then ask you for a big, red barn. Maybe we’ll find a property that already has one, all ready to go and befitting my ideals. Maybe we’ll need to make the room somewhere, then build our own from scratch. Either way, I am definitely going to want a barn, and chances are, I will be babyish and petulant until I get my way.

(I’m just warning you now.)

On the off chance that you’re not immediately on board with this, allow me to point out the merits of a barn.

For starters, barns are totally cool. They remind us all of a simpler time, of a day and age in which prosperity was made manifest through hard work, through determination, and by the grace of God. In fact, one could say that barns are a symbol of the American dream.

But that’s not why I want one.

You can keep lots and lots of stuff inside a barn. They’re great places to throw a party (even if it rains!), and what’s more? If we’re blessed enough to have kids one day, then we can totally use our barn for leverage. Allow me to explain.

When I was in the fourth grade, I decided that I wanted to be a pirate for Halloween. My Mother came up with this great idea, to make a single, clip-on earring a part of my ensemble. Well, I got dressed up for school that day, and along with the rest of my costume, I put on that large, gold hoop of a clip-on earring. When I boarded the bus to head to school, this girl on the bus (tall, blonde and if memory serves, she hit puberty way early) came and sat in front of me. She leaned over the back of her seat, kind of smiled a bit, and then she told me that my earring was really, really… sexy.

You’ve got to understand. This was the time of Duran Duran. Forget David Cassidy. Simon LeBon (or was it Adrian Zmed?) was, like, every girl's dream, and you can rest assured that all the teen kings on the cover of Tiger Beat had at least one earring. All it took was to wear one—a fake one, even—and suddenly some girl with tendrils (TENDRILS!) of curly, blonde hair was using the word, “sexy” to describe me!

When I came home from school that day, one thing was certain: I was so getting an earring. The only difficulty would lie in breaking the news to my Father. When I did? He was totally passive. He just looked me in the eye and said, “Come with me.”

We got up from the dinner table, and I followed him over to the large, glass door that lined the back wall of the house. From there, you could see across the yard, and into the woods that bordered the property. About ten to fifteen yards beyond the tree line, you could just make out the visage of this small, rusted-out tin shed with one side exposed to the elements.

My Dad looked down on me and said, “You see that shed?”

I looked up at him, slack-jawed, and responded, “Yeah?”

He once again turned his attention to the window, paused for a moment, and then looked down on me for what seemed to be a very long time. At last, he spoke. “You get an earring, and that’s where you’ll be sleeping.” Then he walked away.

Needless to say, I never pierced either one of my ears. Looking ahead some time from now, let’s say a boy of ours wants to defile his body, or that our otherwise angelic daughter wants to date an older guy. You see where I’m going with this?

Still, that’s not really why I want a barn. I want a barn because it will be fun.

When we have a barn, I’ll climb high above the tamped, dirt floor. I'll shimmy my way out onto the middle rafter, where I’ll hang a rope and then fashion from that rope a swing. Can you imagine the sounds of laughter that our rope swing will generate, and for years and years to come?

Now, I realize that a barn isn’t all about fun and games. A barn is utilitarian. It means serious business. That is why I will insist upon a working hayloft, and that it always be filled with bales of freshly strewn hay. Never you mind that I’m slightly allergic, or that hay causes my skin to break out in a rash. A hayloft is a requisite part of any bona-fide barn, and we’re not about to build the thing only to scrimp on something quite as vital as a hayloft.

Besides, can there be a better place for you and me to make out?

I think not.

INVESTMENT

2009-07-13T01:36:00.006-04:00

I am 34 years old, and I am beginning to gray around my temples. Though I still have a bit of a babyish face and while no part of my body seems the worse for wear, I’m beginning to show my age—here and there, in smaller, subtle ways.

It occurred to me this evening that some thirty years ago, my parents were well on their way to being parents. I was nearing the age of kindergarten, whereas my sister was 16 months behind, and no doubt participating in some sort of pre-school experience. They had started, my Mom and Dad. They had been married for a time, had spent that time getting to know one another, growing together, before embarking on the adventure that was two kids and a mortgage. Before long, those two kids would multiply to become four, and one house would be sold to pay for the next, and perhaps generate a tidy little profit.

My Dad sat me down only a few days ago, and suggested that I seriously consider buying real estate. I told him how disheartening it was, to even think of that in this market. In this place that we call New York City, it takes a fortune or more to pony up for the 20% that we might like to supply as a down payment—and this for a mere postage stamp.

Never mind that I might be close; I’m not quite there, just yet. Besides, it doesn’t seem to make a whole lot of sense, to plunk down more than a million dollars for my secret garden of 800 square feet. All the better to buy upstate, to gain both land and a little place—all for a steal, by comparison.

Given what I make right now, I suppose I could support two people. I could probably do that, swing rent near to the city, and then muster up some kind of mortgage payment somewhere near to New Paltz, maybe. Of course, it’d be made considerably easier with a dual income, and a way to offset the everyday costs. As I said to my Dad during our discussion, a second income would be like gravy. Everything, after taxes, would amount to a slush fund, of sorts. Whether the secondary income was yours or mine, it wouldn’t matter. We could do some lovely things together, and lay the groundwork for the years to come.

Problem being, there’s not yet anyone around to figure into my future.

I said to my Dad that I might like to buy a plot in Northern Michigan. It’s where I come from. It’s where my family lives, and it’s the closest place that I have to a home. The tip of the Mitten is a retreat. It is where I go when I begin to lose perspective, and when I start to lose a grasp of what truly matters.

My Dad is of the mind that I look to negate the rental payment, by buying a place where I would live day-to-day. Like most every idea that my Father puts forward, it makes perfect sense. Still, I can see a future in renting for now, while all the while owning acres of land in a far-off place. I could take my sweet time to build a permanent structure upon the property. I could do it in stages, in steps, beginning with outhouses and outdoor showers, and with a sleeping cabin to shelter us in the meantime.

Go ahead and consider me quixotic, but I adore the notion of starting out slowly, and of roughing it for a time.

A few weeks ago, I read an article in the New York Times. It told the story of a young couple that had pooled their resources, and all to buy a neglected place about two hours from the city, and for a mere $92,000.

For a total of ten weeks, they would make the weekend commute to their property in the north, where they spent the whole of the time updating the house, renovating, installing drywall and furnishing the space. It took elbow grease and a conservative budget of $10,000, but they retreat to the place now. They were able to hold their wedding there last May, and now—in addition to the rent that they have in Brooklyn—they’ve got a home they can call their own.

Not to state the obvious again, but I don’t have a person with whom to plan. Still, I’m not letting that fact stop me. I’m composing dreams based solely on what I might want, and on where it is that I might like to be, regardless of what happens.

Central Casting can take its sweet time. It’s the dreaming that keeps us alive.

At the very least, that is the way it’s working for me.

WOULD THE GIRL I'M GOING TO MARRY PLEASE STAND UP?

2009-05-07T17:11:00.003-04:00

The forecast in Manhattan called for rain, and rain it did.

In the waning hours of the morning, as I stepped from the subway at Union Square, as my feet skittered across the cement and through the crowded stalls of the Green Market, the skies began to positively drip.

You’d be surprised by how few people stopped to pull out their umbrellas. Granted, this was little more than a gentle pitter-patter, but that’s not to say that it wasn’t wet, or less than persistent. Before long—before anyone even realized—what had begun as a scatter shot of slick spots, these random little pockmarks of precipitation, had pooled their efforts to suddenly form a whole host of tiny, tepid puddles.

Although the people had been slow to respond, they eventually came around. There were purveyors of fresh fruits and jams, of ramps and radishes, all huddled together beneath their tarps and heavy canvases. Artists went about the task of pulling clear, plastic sheets across tables strewn with watercolors, and with colorful, acrylic appropriations of other, far more famous works. Amidst it all, there was a solitary man who persisted in offering free hugs.

I don’t think a single person took him up on it; regardless, he kept standing there, out in the rain, holding up his sign.

My sister and I had pinned our hopes on the likelihood of piss-poor weather, for there was a movie playing that we both wanted to see. I won’t mention the title, other than to say that if the temptation strikes to go and see a film involving ghosts and girlfriends, you should definitely resist that call. The movie plainly isn’t good, but in my defense? My youth was spent in a household filled with three sisters, and looking back? I think we all grew up a bit punch-drunk on a few too many Disney movies.

(If you think about it, that explains a lot. Consider the title of this blog, for starters. I mean, good Lord.)

In any case, enduring that first feature was like swallowing a bitter pill, and we both felt the need to then go and cleanse our collective, movie-going palette. So, we transformed the afternoon into a double feature.

It was somewhere between Movie One and Movie Two that I received a most curious call. A person I know was dialing to ask if he might recommend my name for work on an upcoming freelance project.

That fact alone was not enough to make the call peculiar. Freelance work is something that I’ll do—not that it happens all that often. Typically, my schedule won’t allow for it, but from time to time? I might write a little something here, or put some thinking towards a challenge there. Whenever I do, there is always the question of compensation.

This particular call made that part easy. Rather than be paid in dollars and cents, it was suggested that we barter for my services.

I thought bartering was all but extinct in places outside of third-world countries. Apparently, I was dead wrong (and just a wee bit stereotypical, to boot). The company behind this whole endeavor has a wealth of interests across a variety of industries, in a whole host of locales, and you’d be shocked at the things that have been offered up, thus far.

If I’m interested in travel, I might elect to jet to Southeast Asia, where I can wile away the hours on my own island (well, mine except for the staff and anyone else I might want to bring along). I could opt for a week on a massive, seaborne yacht—again, with a crew on board to do most everything, short of bathe me.

The opportunities test the imagination. There’s been talk of travel to exotic locales, of tickets to concerts and to sporting events. I might decide that I want to work in exchange for a particular piece of art, or for some blowout dinner for fourteen at Nobu. You name it, and chances are, it has been placed upon the table.

I shouldn’t talk about it, as I’ve yet to work out all the details. I don’t yet know how much of my time the job itself might actually involve, let alone what I might need to charge, or what sort of compensation to ask for in return. I don’t yet know what constitutes “fair trade.”

Still, if you stop to think about it? This entire opportunity is really kind of fun. I mean, there’s nothing to say that I have to work for money. I already have a full-time job, and so it’s not as though I’m pressed for funds. This is a chance to go ahead and step off the reservation—to venture to the kind of place, or embark on an activity that I might not think to do otherwise, and especially not in this economy.

This is like gravy, except that rather than the kind of gravy my family makes at Thanksgiving, where my Mom and I doctor a concoction made from the drippings of the turkey with those ready-made packets that you buy at the supermarket? This is like gravy made from the shavings of rare, white truffles. And gold.

Now, I’m not looking to place any undue pressure on the woman who has yet to reveal herself to be the girl I’m going to marry, but let me mention once again: Should I so choose, I could end up with my own island.

Some haste, on your part, may be in order here.

MEMORIES

2009-04-05T16:31:00.016-04:00

They number few, those things that I adore more than music.

I remember back to when I was a small child, spending summer mornings sitting Indian style on the floor of my family’s living room, as though worshiping before my parent’s stereo, in homage to my father’s collection of vinyl. Whole days would just wile away, a massive pair of headphones affixed to my head, as I rifled through LPs by the likes of The Beatles, The Beach Boys, and the freewheeling Bob Dylan. I wasn't aware of any Rainy Day Women in my life, but it didn’t matter. I simply liked the way that song sounded.

Looking back, mine was a youth that was all too innocent, but I would sit before a turntable, listening to the music of Three Dog Night, T. Rex, and The Sanford Townsend Band, and it would send me off to whole new worlds. Joni Mitchell sang of Paris, France, while Neil Young was insistent that we talk about Ohio. Rounding out that Canadian contingent, Gordon Lightfoot would not stop droning on about a boat that sat at the bottom of Lake Superior.

These were songs that taught me lots about the power of imagination, and about wordplay, too. The music of a band named Spanky & Our Gang transported me to a place called River City, where apparently, they had Trouble. This wasn’t your ordinary, garden-variety brand of trouble. It was “Trouble” with a capital “T” that rhymed with “P” that stood for “Pool”. I didn’t know what any of that meant, at the time, but it was plenty fun to say. Besides, it all became quite clear, once my sister starred in a production of The Music Man.

***

Whenever a record would come to an end, the turntable would click and you could watch as the mechanical arm returned the needle to its resting place. That would serve as my cue. I’d hop up to find a new album, and I had a pair of places to explore. There was a cabinet in the bottom or our entertainment center (do you remember “entertainment centers”?), but there were also boxes housed in a hall closet.

That closet, come to find, was a virtual treasure trove. I would lug out six or seven albums at a time, and it was there that I first discovered a record by Herb Alpert & The Tijuana Brass. Mind you, I never once listened to a single song on the whole of that album, and for one apparent reason. I couldn’t take my eyes off the album cover.

It was a relatively simple design, only a green backdrop and a picture of a woman wearing nothing more than a particular dessert topping. Well, there was also the presence of a pale, pink rose that sort of rested in her hand, but after the woman and the dessert topping, it kind of took a little while to notice that part.

For the life of me, I don’t know who that woman was, but I would like to thank her. I would like to take a moment to extend my gratitude—not only to that woman, but also to the kind and decent man (believe you me, it was definitely a man) who thought to place her on that album cover. What with the whip cream and all, her visage was a cornerstone of my formative years. It kind of ruined me on the girls at my elementary school, but whatever. At least I knew what I had to look forward to.

***

Music has served as the backdrop for many a memorable moment.

Because our family drove everywhere, my Dad would always have the radio on. Trips would be made to the Northern shores of Michigan, listening to the music of Marshall Crenshaw, himself a native son of the Great Lake State. He made the monotony of a four-hour drive melodic. Come to think of it, he also taught me the meaning of the word “cynical”.

Some of these moments are innocuous, like a weekend in October when my parents went away, leaving my sisters and I to stay with an aunt and uncle. I can recall my aunt driving along the shores of an inland lake. Cyndi Lauper came on the car radio. She was singing “True Colors”, and I just kept looking up and out the car window, staring at the autumn’s foliage, tinted all shades of brick and pumpkin. Whenever I go back there now, no matter the time of year, I cannot help but think of Cyndi Lauper.

To this day, the music of the 10,000 Maniacs will send my memories sailing back to the wedding of my cousin and her husband. They had made “These Are Days” their wedding song. It was an inspired choice that I have never heard repeated, and though our family is large and spans many generations, that song captures the ebullience that we were all displaying on that day.

On one late summer’s afternoon, many, many years ago, it was my Dad and not my Mom who took me school shopping. That was the year that I came home with several pairs of pleated pants, but I also landed my very first cassette tape. You see, as we were making our way through the shopping mall, my Dad and I came upon a record store. It was probably a Harmony House, or some such chain that doesn’t exist any more, but my Dad suggested that we wander in. As we did, he said that I could buy an album—any album that I wanted! I stalked the racks, both up and down, before settling on Bryan Adams and the album Reckless.

I never said that my musical selections have always been spot-on. Like most of the people that we know, I have those moments when I’m overcome by a guilty pleasure. In fact, there’s lots of Pop music that I really do adore.

See Kelly Clarkson’s “Since You’ve Been Gone.” Also, Katy Perry’s “Hot ‘N’ Cold”. Evidence, too: Lady GaGa’s “Poker Face”.

I’m not ashamed. I love those songs and will sing them out loud, provided no one’s within earshot. It’s just that for every guilty pleasure, my wallet gets $.99 lighter.

***

To this day, I can spend hours in a record store. There is something in the tactile rhythm that can only be achieved by allowing your fingers to flip through disc after disc, as you rummage through the bins. It’s just a shame that so few record stores exist, these days, and that we’re forced to replace what was a visceral experience with the likes of Apple’s iTunes.

Don’t get me wrong. I love iTunes. Given the convenience and sheer ubiquity, I have to admit that I’ve developed a rather sizeable iTunes habit. I don’t really want to admit to the amount of money that I’ve spent there, but I will say this: Whoever thought to make music merely one click away was brilliant, no doubt, but they also had themselves a really bad idea.

Just the other night, I dumped a grand total of $49 on that infernal store. For that amount of money, I could have bought six beers at the bar—five, if you account for tipping. I could have gotten myself all good and liquored up, and maybe even met the girl I’m going to marry, but no. Instead, I spent much of the evening traipsing my way through the back catalogs of youthful indiscretion.

They were all there. One-Hit Wonders of the 1980’s. Singer-Songwriters of the 70’s. Brit-Pop of the 1990’s. From OMD’s “Dreaming” to “Hello It’s Me”, the frolicking lament from Todd Rundgren, I ended up with a scatter-shot collection.

So many of the songs I remembered well. Most each and every one was before my time, but it didn’t matter. I could recall hearing them all, at one moment or another.

I bought “Vehicle” by The Ides of March, and “When Will I See You Again” by The Three Degrees. I even bought “The Hustle” by Van McCoy. (I’ve got a wedding or two to attend this summer.)

I bought each and every one because the music took me back somewhere, to a time and a place that I could remember. These were songs that I’d hear on the beach, every summer, else songs that the kids in my neighborhood would play, back when they thought they were “discovering” the music that their parents had in no way, never, ever heard of before. You know, like Led Zeppelin.

***

I think back to the dance tracks, to the drinking songs, and to the songs that the newly married play, when they first take to the floor at a wedding. We choose music to punctuate those moments most important to us, and there’s a reason that we do.

Music sets the mood. It makes for memories. It captures a moment that we can always recreate, time and again, just by hitting Play.

I wonder, sometimes, what song might be playing when I first lay eyes on you.

MAGNANIMOUS, YET MERELY MORTAL

2009-02-17T22:21:00.007-05:00

I was on a flight yesterday afternoon, all the while drifting in and out of sleep, when suddenly, my mind began to wonder. What was it that you did on Valentine’s Day?

It wasn’t long before I had to put the thought out of my head—not because I didn’t care, or because I lacked the curiosity. It was down to the possibilities. They were liable to make me cringe.

Chances are, you spent at least a part of February 14th out to dinner with another guy; receiving flowers from another guy, else (and these are in no particular order of concern) coming to realize that you were delighted by the efforts of another guy.

It may be best that we don’t push on from there, as the possibilities aforementioned could conceivably mean that you were getting up to—what, God only knows—with some douche bag of another guy.

Mind you, I have no right to feel this way. I know that full well. Despite appearances to the contrary, I’m not being naïve, or hypocritical. There is plenty in the way of living to do, and the truth of the matter is, we have yet to reach that point in time—that is, the moment, when and if it happens, that you and I cross paths. Until we do, there will be days and nights spent dating, all the while wondering, pondering the question of whether or not the person sitting next to you could be, might be, may be the one, if only.

Never you mind that he doesn’t kiss the way I do. Not as long, not as well, and nowhere near as unabashedly—certainly, not in public. Still, you are liable to go on looking, and there will be many a man quite willing to step up and try their hands at making you happy. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.

In the moments before my plane touched down, I was struck by a thought most maddening of all. Regardless of whom you spent your evening with, there’s just no chance—no way, no how—that he’d turn out to be some douche bag of a guy. He’s likely kind, decent, and chances are, even moderately effective at making you laugh. It makes it hard for me to hate him, but he’s probably the kind of guy I’d like to grab a beer with.

To my mind, you wouldn’t be the kind of woman to stand for anything else. No. Not you. Not the girl I’m going to marry.

Why, it mightn’t be a stretch to say that even years from now, you and another guy may still be friends (on Facebook, anyway). Because to my mind, the girl I’m going to marry is kind, decent, and chances are, perfectly incapable of keeping a straight face, whenever in my presence.

But when and if the day should come that you and I have tied the knot, and if another guy should number amongst our friends, and if he’s joining us, some evening, for a beer? Let’s be clear about one thing.

He’s buying.

INDIGNITY

2009-02-13T16:22:00.003-05:00

It happened this morning.

As is the case on most weekdays, I arrived in the office. I popped the lid on my computer. I went to the kitchen, poured a cup of hot water, and waited for the tea to steep. Then I sat down at my desk, where I logged on to any number of e-mail accounts and opened various inboxes.

This was a typical morning routine—the same old song and dance. I couldn’t have known to expect a surprise, let alone to steady myself for a brush with something out of the blue. I guess it hadn’t hit me. I had not recognized or even realized that this morning, unlike all others, marked the eve of a manufactured, confectionary holiday. After all, I’m not dating.

Perhaps it was in spite of my obtusion; nevertheless, the following ensued.

I opened up one of my personal accounts. I discovered a bevy of messages, all waiting to be read. Up and down, I perused the list, skipping past something from one of the airlines—a mileage update, maybe—and around an offer from American Express. Every message seemed to be of the typical fare, but that was when I spotted it: A note with a subject line that read, “Just because we love you…”

Now, who amongst us wouldn’t want to receive a note like that?

For starters, it was sweet. Come to find, it was also appropriately timed. Cupid comes around tomorrow, after all, and I’m plumb out of ardent devotion.

So, yeah… I got a bit excited. My pulse quickened. I could taste the hint of adrenaline, and soon my mind was wrought with curiosity. My brain began to fire with all the questions you’d imagine. I was very nearly on the verge of opening that proverbial door, making way not just for hope, but possibility, too.

It was about that time, maybe a moment later, when finally I realized: This note was from a company trying to sell me running shoes.

(Sigh.)

My ego is wont to wax and wane, and this much I will freely admit. From time to time? I probably deserve to be taken down a peg or two, but on the day before a Hallmark Holiday? That’s when they choose to toy with my emotions? As if that weren’t enough, they have got the gall to sucker me in, by playing on my propensity for Retail Therapy.

In this economy?

That’s just low.

COINCIDENCE

2009-01-16T18:46:00.012-05:00

With each New Year comes the talk of resolutions, of things we say we’ll change or do.

I admire the effort. Optimism alone can do wonders for the soul, but this whole business begs the question: How much of life do we actually control? Even the most resolute, what with their efforts unrelenting, for all of their planning and preparing, are ultimately subject to coincidence.

***

Most evenings, I leave the office and walk a bit before diving underground, into an environment where so much is left to chance. In that, the Metropolitan Transportation Authority is a microcosm of the world in which we live. When might the next train arrive? Which of the cars along that line, as they grind to an abrasive, screeching halt, will be the one to stop nearest to the place where I am standing? Who, if anyone, might be waiting beyond those sliding doors?

It’s not the questions that matter, so much as the answers they reveal.

Imagine, you descend the stairs and make a line for the nearest turnstile, just as the train comes barreling into the station. Swipe your card, pass on through, and just in time, you lithely slip through those closing doors, and then who knows? But fumble for a moment, and that opportunity will be lost. The doors will snap shut, before the train begins to set off once again, lumbering down a line of dimly lit tracks—this time, without you aboard.

Miss the train. Make the train. Is it a mere coincidence, or is there something more that the moment portends?

***

About a week ago, I was hustling through a subway passage when I caught the eye of a woman walking by. She was tall and willowy, her long, blonde hair tucked loosely beneath a knit wool hat. There was something about this girl.

As our eyes met, we exchanged a lingering glance and she might have flashed me a slight smile, although I cannot recall if that last part was real or imagined. Our moment passed and then she was gone, just as soon as she had appeared, sent darting down the opposite stairwell.

Here’s where this gets interesting.

Many days later, it happened again. Though at a different hour and on a different day, there she was once more—the very same girl, at that very same juncture, with the same, furtive glance and its mischievous intent.

Was it a mere coincidence, this scene that smacked of déjà vu? Was it a random, haphazard occurrence, or was that moment in time meant to be something more?

There are answers we may never know.

***

These days, so many of us are online and informed, our worlds illuminated by the nascent glows of our computer screens. Nearly all of us have friends on MySpace and Facebook and even Twitter. We are active participants in our own social networks. Our worlds are becoming smaller by the moment, but our spheres of influence are growing exponentially.

Search for an old classmate, or find a former prom date. Attempt to track down that missed connection. Join a group. Support a thought. Promote an idea. Pass along a link to an open letter, and turn someone on to something new.

It’s all made achievable—not by the power of technology, so much as the efforts that we put forward. If we so much as choose to act, it is because of the fact that these days, so much feels doable, probable—likely, even. This New Year, for all of its resolutions, can lay no claim to that emotion.

For every one of us, there is a chance, real and ever potent. Maybe it is you or someone that you know, but someone knows of someone who knows of someone else. Not just anyone, mind you, but someone who might prove to be a one for somebody.

A mouthful that may be, but when you think about it? There is a person amongst us, whether your friend or mine, who just might be the missing link that brings two people together.

When and if they finally do?

There will be a feeling that no one can quite place, the result of coincidence finally letting go, ceding its hold upon the moment, allowing fate to come forth and firmly take hold.

THANK YOU, BUT NO (WELL... MAYBE).

2009-01-03T15:50:00.005-05:00

Play God.

No, really. Go ahead and try.

After all, she’s single. We know that he’s not seeing anyone. What does either of them have to lose?

How many times before have we ended up on the receiving end of that thought process? I mean, let’s face it. You reach a certain age and still, you’re single. Chances are you’ve experienced your fair share of set-ups and blind dates.

Deserved or not, these manufactured moments have earned themselves a spotty reputation. Countless are the numbers who believe a blind date to be a cringe-worthy occasion, and I’d be lying if I said that, many a time before, I didn’t count myself among them.

All too often have been the occasions on which I’ve flat-out given up on set-ups. Anyone inclined to adopt that tack can hardly be blamed, for after a time, it’s all too easy to grow tired of getting your hopes up.

Wouldn’t you know, but the blind date doesn’t even have to happen, and still it’s possible to feel that way.

How many are the times when someone asks, “Are you seeing anyone? I know this really great girl who I would love to set you up with!”?

You begin to think about it. Why not, right? Your mutual friend thinks the world of this girl, and says she’s super nice. So the thought turns over inside your head: What if this one proves to be different?

Talk ensues. There is even a date marked on the calendar, and then suddenly, somehow, for some reason—schedules, maybe, or chalk it up to logistics—the whole thing fizzles.

Between a bad blind date and no date at all? I’m not certain which is worse. At least with a bad blind date, you know.

Dating of any kind isn’t often easy, and I’m not so certain that it should be. So, we look to those we know for help. We offer ourselves up to their whims and fancies, or to their notions of not only who we are, but of who it is that we might like.

It won’t always work. Honestly, there will be times, thereafter, when you’ll want to walk right up to that person who dared to set you up. You’ll fight the urge to place both hands squarely on their shoulders, before looking them straight in the eyes and asking, “Do you even know who I am?”

You may be right to wonder what it was that led anyone to believe that the two of you could have hit it off. Then again, what’s to say that you wouldn’t?

Not long ago, a friend of mine mentioned that she knows of a girl, and that she’s been tempted to introduce us. She admitted, though, “I don’t know if she’s the kind of person that you really need.”

Honestly, I don’t know that I’m quite certain of the kind of person I really need. If I was, one could argue that we might have found each other long ago. It might have been made that easy, except that it's not.

So we keep trying. We look high and low, at bars and in all of the clichéd places, by sitting through a cavalcade of tepid blind dates. Because at the end of the day, the logic remains valid: They’re single. We know that you’re not dating anyone. What do either of you have to lose?

Besides, if the next person turns out to be right, then won’t that make all the others worthwhile?

A HOPE FOR THE NEW YEAR

2008-12-31T18:01:00.005-05:00

I just can’t cotton to the notion of a soul mate.

Plenty of people can, and believe you me, they do. They cling to the thought that in all the world, there is but one, single person they were meant to be with.

That’s fine and good, I suppose. It peddles lots in the ways of books and movies, but for the life of me, I just can’t work the math.

In a world populated by billions of people—some male, some female; some gay, some straight—it would seem to me that there are plenty of possibilities, and more than just one person who, in the words of Cameron Crowe, could “complete” you and me.

But that’s the beauty of it, isn’t it?

For all of the scenarios, and for the heady potential behind each one, considerate of the people who might be, who could be, who would be, if only… there is just one who will be the girl I’m going to marry.

I don’t know who you are, or where (or when) it is that I might find you. I suppose that’s a bit of a stumbling block, just now, but on this very night, in cities and towns throughout the world, people are welcoming a new year. Billions are putting on their party hats, and setting out in search of someone to kiss, come midnight.

Truth be told, a kiss as the clock strikes is easy enough to find. But in this New Year, I want more than that, and a whole lot more.

So as I head out this evening, first to dinner and then onto a party, it will be with a thought knocking about inside my head. It is stolen from a song that I simply adore, and it is one that has been playing at points throughout the day.

“When the bells all ring, and the horns all blow, and the couples we know are fondly kissing / Will I be with you, or will I be amongst the missing?”

I don’t know what you are doing this New Year’s Eve. Maybe you’ll be with your friends or family, at a party or a club, or watching the ball drop on TV.

This evening offers plenty in the way of possibilities, but wherever it is that this holiday may find you, I wonder if maybe—just maybe—you will be keeping an eye on finding me.

After all, 2009 could be our year. (And wouldn’t that be something?)

ALL I WANT

2008-12-05T11:06:00.003-05:00

We can talk all we want about the crass commercialism, or of the money-grubbing marketers who fleece the very meaning from a holiday that once was a non-secular affair.

There is shame, shame (shame!) in all of that, I’m sure, and those particular topics are likely worthy of derision. Thing is, I’m just not in the mood to complain. Chalk it up to my sunny disposition. Call me merry, if you must, but these days?

I’m all caught up in a positive approach.

Besides, the holidays offer so much to cherish. There is eggnog, parties, and mistletoe, too! The real disgrace, in my mind, is that Christmas comes but once a year. How else to explain the cultural travesty that insists our favorite Christmas carols be relegated only to the Advent weeks?

It was Thanksgiving Day, as I was walking through the grocery store, when I noticed that the onslaught had begun. The place was playing songs from the likes of Burl Ives, and I simply couldn’t help myself. Four times I turned a corner, only to be caught singing along—red-faced, to be sure, but relatively on key.

I reasoned, if the grocery store had started in, then the Gap could not be far behind, and well… that was all the excuse I needed. That very afternoon, I went home and placed a Christmas mix on my iPhone.

This particular playlist is something I concocted a few holidays ago. After weighing any number of worthy contenders, I hit upon a collection that was something to behold. So I burned it onto discs, wrapped those up in bows, and sent them out to friends and family. Now it’s just my holiday staple.

It may not feature a number from Tchaikovsky, and there’s certainly no Burl Ives. All the same, I think that it may well be the very best Christmas playlist ever.

I love it, and I hope that you do, too.

JINGLE BELL ROCK – BOBBY HELMS
Go ahead and try. Just try listening to those opening chords, and then the faint, persistent tinkling of the holiday bells, and again I say try… but do you not just want to lick something Christmas? There is a quality to this song that is simply Pavlovian.

IT’S THE MOST WONDERFUL TIME OF THE YEAR – ANDY WILLIAMS
Is it really Christmas without the voice of Andy Williams? The merriment begins with that man and his honeysuckle tones. Besides, if this song isn’t an example of truth in advertising, then I don’t know what is.

DONDE ESTA SANTA CLAUS – GUSTER
Sure. This may have been a gut reaction to the one phrase of Spanish that everybody knows, but I for one am glad that people can wander into a Chevy’s Tex Mex, or some such place, and wonder aloud where the bathroom is. I mean, let’s face facts. Christmas isn’t just about the Anglo Saxons.

SANTA BABY – EARTHA KITT
Her given name notwithstanding, Madonna tried to cover this number and she failed, failed (failed!). When it comes to Eartha Kitt’s version, no one else compares.

ROCKING AROUND THE CHRISTMAS TREE – BRENDA LEE
I think Brenda Lee is kind of sassy, and if I’m being honest? I don’t think she ever sang without a cocktail in her hand. So there’s that.

DO THEY KNOW IT’S CHRISTMAS? – BAND AID
How immensely cool was this song?!?

First off, everybody on the track was European, and let me tell you: For a kid growing up in the Midwest, that was pretty darn appealing.

I remember watching the video, over and over again. Paul Young led it off, and he had a mullet. Boy George followed, and that was long, long before I even knew what it meant for someone to be gay. This song had George Michael (again, pre-gay awareness), not to mention something like three-fifths of Duran Duran. The girls of Banana Rama were relegated to being background singers, and as for Bono, half the world hardly knew who he was at the time. To top it all off, I think this is the one that got Bob Geldoff his knighthood.

MAYBE THIS CHRISTMAS – RON SEXSMITH
Is it a classic? Perhaps not, but it was featured on one of The O.C. Christmas albums, and in my defense? I really do have a crush on Summer Roberts.

SANTA CLAUS IS COMING TO TOWN – TONY BENNETT
In hindsight, it is a bit unfortunate that Tom Jones never covered this song, but I mean, come on… it’s Tony Bennett.

BABY, IT’S COLD OUTSIDE – DEAN MARTIN
This is the way they used to do it, and frankly? I still flirt this way.

GOD REST YE MERRY GENTLEMEN – BARE NAKED LADIES
Try though I may, I cannot listen to this song without envisioning a jug band. Well, a jug band and Sarah McLachlan.

CHRISTMAS (BABY PLEASE COME HOME) – U2
I’d pick this one for the vocal alone. For the record, this is Bono’s second appearance on our countdown. Don’t worry, though. While his voice is doing stratospheric things, he’s keeping his feet on the ground and still reaching for the stars.

THE CHRISTMAS SONG – THE RAVONETTES
A few years ago, I spent a day not long before Christmas wandering around Disneyland. Although I totally and completely love all things Disney, it was a bit of a scarring experience. Had this song been playing in the It’s a Small World ride, not so much.

FELIZ NAVIDAD – JOSE FELICIANO
Spanish speakers are a passionate people, and I’m nothing if not in their corner.

WHITE CHRISTMAS – BING CROSBY
One could have no heart, and still this song would tug at something tender. It is the quintessential Christmas song, and its title, one of two things that I wish for each and every year.

FAIRYTALE OF NEW YORK – THE POGUES
You can actually tell what Shane MacGowan is singing, which makes this number a standout track. But between the two of them, who would have thought that Kirsty MacColl would be the first to go?

I SAW MOMMY KISSING SANTA CLAUS – THE RONETTES
As a child, I never truly understood the implications of these lyrics. I doubt that you did, either.

LITTLE SAINT NICK – THE BEACH BOYS
It was round about the time when I spent a day at Disneyland, so I know a thing or two about Christmas time in southern California. Honestly, I just don’t know how people do it.

JINGLE BELLS – FRANK SINATRA
Dare I admit, but were I ever to revisit this Christmas mix, then ol’ Blue Eyes might well be replaced with Mr. Burl Ives.

CHIPMUNK SONG – ALVIN & THE CHIPMUNKS
There really is no choice here. I think you simply have to include it.

LAST CHRISTMAS – WHAM!
I’m not ashamed. This may well be one of my favorite Christmas songs of all time. I mean, like, E-VER.

I’D LIKE YOU FOR CHRISTMAS – JULIE LONDON
Because it’s the other thing that I wish for, each and every year.

BLUE CHRISTMAS – ELVIS PRESLEY
Knowing the way I tend to think, I probably keyed in on a connection between a lyric in the last song, “I won’t be blue on Christmas,” and then the title of this one. A cheap trick, to be certain, but there’s something to be said about the ways in which this track picks up the pace with a lighthearted feel, and all before moving onto the next.

Oh, the art of the mix tape. Kids, nowadays… they just don’t understand.

ALL I WANT FOR CHRISTMAS IS YOU – PLAY
I think “Play” might be one of those generic, pre-produced, pop-tart quartets. Me thinks they’re probably English, in the vein of “Take That” or “S Club Seven.”

I’m a bit scared, right about now, that those band names even came to mind.

HAVE YOURSELF A MERRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS – JUDY GARLAND
She sang this one in 1944, at a time when she was young, vibrant and at the height of her powers. To hear it sung today, however, knowing how the story ends, you’d think the very opposite. After all, there was living evident in every note of this performance, and I think the song is more poignant for it.

OH, HOLY NIGHT – NAT KING COLE
Beyond the shadow of a doubt, this is one of the most beautiful songs that I have ever heard. Nat King Cole had a lovely voice, but to hear this sung in the original French is to know there is a God.

THE TWELVE DAYS OF CHRISTMAS – BOB & DOUG MCKENZIE
Because no Christmas is complete without a beer… in a tree.

CHRISMUKKAH

2008-11-13T15:40:00.007-05:00

It used to be a simpler time.

Understand, I’m not being nostalgic. I don’t feel a pang for an age gone by, or for those halcyon days of my pre-pubescence. On the contrary, I have little to no interest in rattling on about the ways things used to be (for some strange reason, no matter who you hear it from, those times always seem to be described as kinder, gentler, more… Republican).

It’s just that I remember the winters of my childhood, and I’m telling you: Snow blanketed the ground all of the time. From November through till April, there were whole heaps of the stuff—so much, that friends and I were able to shovel it back behind my parent’s house, right up to the wall of the garage, and create piles so high, they would reach up to the lip of the roof. Things wouldn’t really work until the pile was large, but once it was? We’d climb out of my bedroom window, crawl out onto the edge of the roof, and then jump.

It seemed like a bright idea at the time.

In any case, winter marked the coming of the holiday season, and when I was a kid? Winters would kick off in what was a fairly simple and relatively consistent process:
1. The snow would fall.
2. The carols would play.
3. The stories would be told.

By stories, of course, I’m not referring to The Night Before Christmas, but rather to the biblical tales of three wise men meandering in the desert, or of the shepherds gathered in the fields, ostensibly tending to their flocks. Looking back on it now, even those stories feel altogether sanitized, and just a bit too saccharine-sweet.

What’s to say those shepherds weren’t on a bender, and that, in truth, the wise men were trafficking mass quantities of “gold”, “frankincense” and “myrrh”, in the hopes of smuggling the stuff across some long-forgotten border? Whatever. If people want to insist that those shepherds were all about the livestock, and that these supposedly “wise” men were just out there running errands for King Herod, I’ll buy it. (Frankly, I don’t care enough to argue. Besides, I’m no Dan Brown.)

The point is you’d get the snow, and then the carols, and then the stories of the shepherds who were knocked off their rockers and, like, totally freaked out by the angel of the Lord.

This was how you knew. Christmas was right around the corner.

Nowadays, the burning of fossil fuels has left us a bit short on the snow, and every low-rent pop star can drop a Christmas album. As for the rest? The standard procedure has been usurped. It has been cast aside and dutifully replaced by the ubiquitous Starbucks holiday cup.

I mean, it’s not Christmas until that little, red cup works everybody into a frenzy, and drives us all to buy more in the way of “a tall, soy, one-pump, half-caff, white mocha with no whip.” And it’s not just the cups. Starbucks has a whole holiday agenda, which they gladly foist onto global consumers each and every year. You could be in Coral Gables, Florida and yet the minions of Howard Schultz will have you believing that there’s a veritable chill in the air.

Not everybody believes in Jesus Christ, and by no means is the holiday season specific to Christians. There is Hanukkah and Kwanza. Buddhists celebrate Bodhi Day, and the followers of Islam mark the Day of Ashura. With the winter’s solstice falling on December 21st, there’s no telling what the Druids might have gotten up to.

People will celebrate whatever way they choose, but this used to be a season of meaning. It was a time to believe in something, not to buy something.

Christmas, for one, came about due to the birth of Jesus Christ. It had nothing to do with quilted hoodies from the Gap.

The thought occurred to me, though. This may finally be the year when the heavens end up with the last laugh. I mean, the financial system is sputtering. The stock market is pitching a fit. American consumers are spending less, and the retail sector is certain to take a hit.

But if Starbucks can only make a cool enough coffee cup, then by rights... I’m thinking Jesus can be credited with saving the economy.

Otherwise, we are all in for one fucking long winter’s nap.

(Oy vey.)

LOVE IS LOVE

2008-11-11T15:50:00.011-05:00

I’ve taken pains not to make this blog overtly political, but if I’m being honest? If I’m to be open and forthright about the ways in which I feel and also think, then it is rightfully time to loose a few boundaries.

Let’s talk about Proposition 8.

In last Tuesday’s election, citizens in the state of California passed a resolution that overturned existing statutes, making it against the law and unconstitutional for same-sex couples to marry. In effect, they took what was a legal right and made it something criminal. All of this, because a majority of people in the state of California felt they were entitled—that it was their responsibility, even—to tell other people how it is that they should love.

I am flummoxed. I am crestfallen. I just don’t understand.

The connotations of “love” are abundant, to be sure, but let’s look to the gist of it, to the meanings and interpretations of the word that have long been accepted throughout the world. Dating back to the times of Shakespeare and beyond, to be in love has been to feel affection for another, to be devoted to someone, to care for them, to worship and adore that person.

That is it. That is all.

What part of love is dependent on nearly 53% of California’s population coming together to agree that one’s particular brand of adoration is just like theirs, and therefore “okay”?

I am befuddled. Gobsmacked, even. Again, I just don’t get it.

There is beauty in this idea called America, in that we’re not always quick to get things right. But we keep trying. Our founding fathers had the audacity to bother with fractions, and now, thank God, we have the audacity of hope. Our President-elect is a person possessed of what the columnist Nicholas D. Kristoff called a “fertile mind”. Oh, and he just so happens to be African American.

But what if he were gay?

Would it honestly matter, even one little bit?

There are pundits and politicians aplenty, and on both sides of the aisle, who have endeavored to make an argument similar to the one here. Nearly every one has done a far better job of this than I have, but then again, it wasn’t my intention to add to this debate with new insights, or to unearth additional layers of meaning. I’m not harboring any illusions, here. I'm just telling you what I think and how I feel.

To put it simply, I believe that love is love.

In the political cycle that has just ended, the debate over Proposition 8 was merely one of many. Nearly every one offered plenty in the way of nuance, and there were no easy answers. So, why does this outcome seem so blatantly erroneous?

Maybe it comes down to this: As much as I might like to find that girl who makes me weak in the knees, I know that it isn’t easy. (I suppose it could be the person who commented on my last posting, except that she did so anonymously. In any case, I hear she’s quite a catch.) I’ve got special treatment on my side, like a resolution newly passed in the state of California, and yet it doesn’t place me any closer to walking down the aisle.

Meanwhile, we have friends and neighbors, family and loved ones who are in committed, caring relationships. They want the very same things that I would hope to find with you. The only difference? They are homosexuals, and so some lame-ass law says that they can’t have them.

Along with more than 47% of Californian voters, I am calling bullshit.

POSSIBILITIES

2008-10-29T17:47:00.009-04:00

On any given day on the isle of Manhattan, the possibilities alone can be enough to level me.

My commute this morning? No less than four.

Crossing the street this afternoon, on my way to grab a cup of tea? Two.

A week ago, while standing on the corner of Bleecker and Broadway? There were at least fourteen, and just in the time that it took for the light to change.

As for what it is that brings these on, these possibilities? It might be nothing, but that’s all it really takes. Chalk it up to a wayward glance, followed by a smile, or to the way that someone will continually, absentmindedly tug loose the hem upon her sweater. Maybe it’s a kind gesture, one slight and seemingly unnoticed, that she makes when she thinks no one else is watching. Honestly, it could just be that she drinks beer from the bottle.

The point is, not a day goes by that I don’t run across someone who, from my brief and fleeting vantage point, would seem to be the kind of girl that I might like to meet. Someone, by chance, who might be you. (There it is again: Possibilities.)

Of course, these things are seldom as simple as they seem. I can’t possibly ask after every girl who I might find attractive, but let’s suppose for a moment that I saw you standing there, and that instantly I knew; I wouldn’t be able to walk away without asking your name. Never mind that I’d be nervous, or completely uncertain as to how to proceed. Prior to taking a step forward, long before the words began to form inside my mouth, my heart would make the first move. It would take the shape and form of a simple, unspoken plea.

Don’t be married.

It’s not asking much, really. Just keep a safe distance from walking down the aisle, from secret betrothals, from seeing someone else. Keep that heart of yours open to the possibility that the boy you were meant to meet is out there, still.

I just need for you not to be wearing a ring upon that all-important finger.

It is the first thing I look for, you know. From the moment that I see you across the way, once your eyes catch mine, I am casting a long, hard look in the direction of your left hand. So maybe you can help my cause, and think before putting your hand in your pocket. As for the gloves that might be warming that same delicate hand, perhaps you can find an excuse to remove them—if nothing more, then while indoors. If all else fails, might I ask that you run your left hand through your hair, if only so that I’m certain to see it?

(Besides, I’m going to like that anyway.)

While I might not be advocating the wearing of rings, at present, it’s not that I have an aversion to them, or to diamonds, for that matter. On the contrary, I adore all it is for which rings stand, and don’t even get me started on the Four C’s. I just don’t want to see a diamond, a ruby, or any precious stone in place on your ring finger—not yet, anyway, and not until I have something to say about it.

So then, I’ll ask you again, just one more time.

Don’t be married.

It will dash what possibilities we may have had.

DEFINITELY (MAYBE)

2008-10-19T10:45:00.006-04:00

The other day, my cousin wrote to say that she had watched the movie Definitely Maybe, and that the actor in the film had reminded her of me (apparently, in the best of ways).

It was odd that she would think so. Several years ago, I dated a woman who, at some point prior, had dated the actor Ryan Reynolds.

As for what that mere coincidence might say about Ryan Reynolds or me, I can only speculate. It’s fair to assume that at certain points in time, we both took a liking to the same girl. Beyond that, I don’t know. He’s moved on to six-pack abs and a wife named Scarlett Johansson, while I’m still mastering the art of being single.

Someday. Somewhere. Someone.

I was in Texas yesterday, waiting by my gate at the Dallas-Fort Worth airport. A Starbucks wasn’t far away, and so I walked over to grab a cup of tea. It was still the early morning, and I thought that cup might make the perfect companion for the book that I had tucked under my arm.

Ages were spent nursing that Earl Grey. Chapters passed before the cup was finally empty, and only then did I think to remove the little cozy that was meant to keep the cup from burning my hand. I wanted to read from the feature they’ve been printing, the series titled, “The Way I See It.”

I don’t go to Starbucks often. In fact, I kind of make it a point not to, but you can imagine that “The Way I See It” would be the type of thing I’d just adore. (It is.) My cup featured words from Augusten Burroughs, the writer of the memoir Running With Scissors. I haven’t read his book or even seen the movie, but I’m aware of the guy’s name. I know that he writes for a living, and that he used to work in advertising.

In any case, I have been living in New York for the past several years, and have been struggling of late with this nagging feeling. Never mind that I always have something to do, or that within a mile, I can stumble upon an entire gaggle of those I know—friends and family alike. Even in a city of eight million people, it’s all too easy to feel alone.

That thought lingering in the back of my mind, all the while staring at the side of this Starbucks cup, I began to read the words that Burroughs had put forward. He was talking about how he used to feel the very same way, so alone while living in the city. The man didn’t know how to meet new people, or how to make a personal connection. He struggled with the prospects until he finally realized, until he just decided, that all it takes is to say, “Hello.”

That is how it starts.

The way he put it, the person might think that you’re totally crazy, or they might end up being the person you marry. Chances are, he reasoned, the possibilities were worth that single word.

I loved the notion—so much so, that I decided then and there to steal a page from Burroughs' playbook, and see what I could do about adopting the practice.

So far, at least three girls at the grocery store think I'm completely insane. (Oh, and did I mention that I’m mastering the art of being single?)

No matter, for today is a new day, and with the morning comes more in the way of opportunity. Besides, I might walk up to someone this afternoon and decide to say, “Hello."

Who knows? You might think to smile in return, and maybe take a chance.

I like the thought of that.

TODAY

2008-09-11T11:31:00.006-04:00

It has been this way before, and while I suppose the feeling will always remain, it is particularly affecting to be in New York on the anniversary of September 11, 2001.

Of course, this morning marked the seventh anniversary of that tragic, fateful day. In years past, my Mother would call the night before and advise me to stay away from public transportation (just in case). I would always make a deal with her, that I wouldn’t admit to using the subway, provided she didn’t ask.

A couple of years ago, on the eve of September 11th, I made my way north to 107th Street and to an evening mass at the Church of the Ascension. Near the end of the mass, the priest began to detail the next day’s arrangements, and the efforts that would be made to honor the fallen, and to remember those who rushed to their aid in New York, in Washington, and in a field in Pennsylvania.

The useful information of times and locations was suddenly upended by a personal note. “I won’t be here,” he told us. “As many of you know, I lost my nephew when the North Tower fell, and I’ll be gathering with my family at Ground Zero.” He paused for a moment before going on. “It’s the closest thing to a cemetery that we have.”

Seven years removed, and what a different world this has become. Still so many of our men and women are stationed overseas. Our civil liberties—the very lifeblood of this democracy—have been subject to debate, our privacies put in limbo over an administration’s seeming need to tap our phone lines. The aftermath of those attacks—the war in Afghanistan and the chaos in Iraq—is still an electoral lightning rod, even if both candidates have put down their rhetorical barbs, if only momentarily, and gathered together today to recognize those we lost.

Seven years removed, and I have to think that the questions still remain: Are we safer? Are we prepared? Could it happen again? With an election looming on the horizon, it is absolutely pertinent to wonder… Where do we go from here?

The 1 train runs along the west side of Manhattan, north and south from the Bronx to Battery Park. I am sitting in my office on Franklin Street, one stop north of Chambers Street, only nine streets removed from the former site of the Twin Towers. Throughout the day, ceremonies will be taking place just down the road, only a stone’s throw away. I would imagine that they’ve read the names of those who perished, and that they have stood quiet in remembrance. Meanwhile, life around the financial district quite likely presses on, at times oblivious to all that’s happening, and to all that’s happened in the past.

For a long time, I was resolved to feel that way. I wanted to wipe away the memory. Every part of me had wanted to forget, and to push away the recollection of how it felt to be alive that day.

On September 11, 2001, it wasn’t a question of where you were, or who you were, or of the flag you pledged allegiance to, with a hand pressed firmly over your heart. If you were human, and with the capacity for tolerance, then you couldn’t help but be affected and somewhat changed by the sick reality of what had transpired.

For a very long time, I had wanted nothing more than to tamp those feelings down, to keep them hidden below a placid surface. I had wanted to look the other way, to forget those names and to never again feel the way that I did that morning, when first I heard the news of an “accident”, or when the report of that accident was amended to read, “attack”.

Then I went to that mass a couple of years ago, where I was privileged to witness a priest—someone I had never met—reaching out to a congregation of strangers.

“I’ll be on the east side,” he continued. “We’ll be gathering at my sister’s parish, but you’re all invited to come over and join us.”

It was in that moment, in the sharing of a simple story, that my attitude was forever changed.

My apologies for rambling on, but I was reminded this morning of a story told some seven years ago, by a man named John Hodgman, at what was supposed to be a literary reading. It is posted every year on this date, at www.mcsweeneys.net.

Delivered in the aftermath of the attacks, his remarks were poignant, touching, and deceptively profound.

Here and now, some seven years later, I find them comforting.

'TIS THE SEASON

2008-07-31T18:42:00.005-04:00

For some time now, summer plans have taken shape and form based not on the amount of weddings I’m invited to, but on the number of those I am able to attend.

From May on through to Labor Day, the march is on. Blushing brides are heading down the aisles, while the rest of us go running toward the nearest bridal registries. As guests at these weddings, we can hardly be blamed. Any one of twelve might land a table setting, but it is only the anxious and fortunate few who triumphantly snatch up the Delonghi Gran Dama Espresso Maker.

There was a span of time during which I decided that the bridal registry was something to eschew. I know it is filled with things that the bride and groom have asked for, but come on, already. Who sits around in thirty years and says, “Oh, Honey… remember this soup ladle? George and Nina Banks bought us this soup ladle!”

Truth be told, I’m not convinced that registries still matter.

Going back a generation or more, people truly needed place settings. They didn’t have tumblers, or television trays, or any of those otherwise fancier things. Guys and girls would go from their childhood homes straight onto the bridal suite. They did so without those basic tools that could transform a house into a home.

Nowadays, the landscape has shifted. Society isn’t what it used to be; neither are priorities, meaning that those of the marrying kind are choosing to wait before walking down the aisle. Frankly, it’s because they can.

Women are having kids at a later age, and so people are putting the wedding off for a while. Instead, they are going places and doing things. They are choosing first to see the world, and figuring out what it’s like to be single. As for the filling of kitchen cupboards, it is a straightforward process. In every port of call along the way, they find themselves a Crate & Barrel.

Considerate of the circumstances, and being mindful of how far we’ve come, isn’t it fair to say that we’ve got this whole thing wrong? It is not the marrying lot that needs the registries; it’s the single people!

Give the KitchenAid® Tilt-Head Stand-Up Mixer to the kid who has just graduated from college. I mean, let’s be honest. We’re talking about someone who still believes that a Hot Pocket constitutes a full meal, and therefore an integral part of a balanced diet. The least we can do is help to wean him off the toaster oven.

When I got out of college, I didn’t have two spoons to rub together, let alone a can opener. The sheets didn’t match. Neither did the towels. My flatware I found at a nearby garage sale. (I liked to tell people that it was vintage.)

Those things have been remedied, over time, but not without some effort. I now have what people might consider a respectable abode. Maybe the lean years made me appreciate it more, but I’ve still got to wonder.

Where was Williams & Sonoma when I needed them most?

MYSTIFIED

2008-07-30T17:15:00.003-04:00

Will someone please explain to me the puzzle that is Capri pants on men?

I’m honestly not certain if they’re pants or shorts, and therein lay the problem. When Thom Browne upped the hemline on his signature suits, it was by mere inches. Though to my mind, his pants looked adolescent and a bit immature, you knew full well—still—that they were made to be purposeful, if not proper, suit pants. But Capri pants? I just don’t understand.

This afternoon, as I was making my way down to Wall Street, there was a guy on the 2 train who was wearing these… “pants”. Hitting, as they did, just below the knee, those things didn’t do a single thing for him. It was as though he woke up in the morning and said, “Yeah, I want to cover my legs in big, skinny tubes that have no drape to them, whatsoever, and therefore cling to me in truly unfortunate places.”

Maybe I’m missing something here, but isn’t the whole purpose of shorts simply this: That when you’re wearing them, you’re not wearing pants? There is a reason that civilized people don’t eat with the spork. I’m thinking that in the case of the Capri “short”, the same logic should apply.

Guys aren’t always the most fashion-conscious of people. I am a guy, and I’ll be the first to admit it. But here and now, I’m instituting a new rule. Unless you’re a woman, else a person from Europe who has the accent enough to compensate, there shall be no wearing of Capri pants.

They freak me out.

THESE ARMS OF MINE

2008-07-27T22:46:00.009-04:00

What am I doing right now, at this very moment?

I am going to tell you.

This evening, while I am here and you’re away, I am listening to the music of Mr. Otis Redding. God knows what I was thinking, when I pressed the button labeled “Play”, but I should have known that this wouldn’t be a good idea.

Anyone familiar with the music of Mister Otis Redding (remember Dirty Dancing?) cannot help but appreciate the passion as it pours from every single lyric that man delivers. Just listen to him. This man is hurting, and bad. Either that, or he is feeling it, just as badly, with every sweet, soulful syllable spit from that mouth, that beautiful, dead mouth of his.

Did Otis Redding have a beautiful mouth? I don’t even know what the man looked like, but I can tell you how he sounds. He sounds like something that I shouldn’t be listening to alone.

It’s the blessing and the curse of this, now isn’t it? Here I am, spending time with something of such quality, something so very good, and yet I can’t quite enjoy it in the way that I should, not unless it is something that I can share.

Suffice to say, but these arms of mine? Well, it’s just as Mr. Otis Redding sings... so sweetly, so earnestly, with that beautiful, dead mouth of his.

TERPSICHOREAN

2008-07-17T09:45:00.001-04:00

Come with me.

Far from the frenzy and the steeped skyscrapers, away from the noise of the nattering class, we can find a place.

There we will spend our days barefoot, wandering up and down the shore, until the nighttime skies come alive with wonder, peppered with the pinpricks of primordial light.

I want to go there, to that place where I can hear your heart beating, even as I feel it, hand held in mine.

We’ll pack light. What we don’t have we can buy; else blithely go without.

Far from those places with the rarified air, where blue-blooded people employ “summer” as a verb, we will find ourselves a sanctuary. In a shack or a chalet, in a cabin by the woods, our days will idle by, spent absent of our mobile phones, without a laundry list of things to do.

This, my Dear, will be living.

In my life, I have known of places much like this. It is where I have been these many days, away from it all and in a place like this. I want to go back, before long, and quite often. I just don’t want to do it in the very same way—not alone, not by myself. Not anymore.

Come with me, and soon.

Let us find that place together, and when we do? Say that you will grant me but one request: Dance with me. Be it in the mornings or in the waning hours, I want to be the one to spin you round the room, to make you float across a well-worn floor until we both fall over, laughing, giddy, dizzy with delight.

I do so like it when we dance.