Apology and Promise

I know I haven't posted anything since May 9 (yikes!) and for that unannounced hiatus, I apologize. As an excuse of sorts, I must plead "happiness." I have come to realize that many of my essays derive from my unhappiness, disquiet, or just plain curmudgeoness. Lately those sources have been unavailable to me, as I am going through a period of unexpected happiness and contentment. A beautiful woman has come into my life and given me a great gift -- the knowledge that love, and all that goes with it, is still possible at my age, and that I am incredibly lucky to have found it. As a consequence, I will be attempting to write for a while about the amazing circumstances that brought us together, and what I am learning from the whole process. Of course, as always, you can count on all of what I write to be a combination of non-fiction autobiographic material, and wholly made-up stuff for purely entertainment purposes. It shouldn't really matter to you which is which because, no matter what, all of what I write is truth from my perspective. My promise is to do my best to be more regular with my posts.

But before I get started down that road, my first essay, which follows, is all about some particular trials and tribulations of mine as I took up the hobby of motorcycling. I wrote it a few years back, but I have had some recent requests for it, so here it is . . .

Ninety Degrees of Separation

How Do I Drop Thee . . . Let Me Count the Ways

Dropping a motorcycle is not as easy as it looks. I am not talking about low sides, high sides, laying it down, acing the bike, hitting some oil, coolant or black ice, or any other term for getting ass over tea kettle at speed -- anybody can do that. Just get a bike, point it straight down the road, pin the throttle, and wait for the fun when it comes time to turn the damn thing. I am talking specifically about the almost forgotten art of getting the bike to fall over at any speed from 0 to .5 MPH. Most people just don't know how to do this correctly. I mean there are young riders out there on some little ZZX1RY2VF Mach 3 sport bikes that weighs just over 40 pounds, and it never occurs to them to practice dropping and picking them up. And then they wonder why we call them squids.

I, on the other hand, have chosen as an adjunct to my motorcycling hobby, to become an expert on the various methods and styles of getting the thing to just fall over. I practice all the time, and have attained the level of Black and Blue Belt. Now, for the sake of those of you who are always on the lookout for riding tips and drills, I will set down some guidelines by which you too can discover the joys of falling down and going boom.

First, it is essential to get the right equipment. Since dropping a motorcycle is somewhat counter intuitive, it helps if you get the right bike for the job. Ideally, you want something with a whole bunch of weight carried way up high in the frame. That way, once you let that puppy lean more than 5 or 6 degrees from vertical, the choice is no longer yours. You are committed to going down so you might as well enjoy it. Another important characteristic to factor in is seat height. Eye level is best, or at least high enough so that you can only get two feet down if you are on Pointe. (Note to self: Find out if Alpinestar makes ballet boots.) Finally, it really helps if you are naturally gifted with an inseam of 29 inches or less. If you are tall, what can I say? You must learn to undercome your handicap.

The choice of motorcycle is certainly up to you, but I have two personal favorites that I highly recommend. Both are elegantly tall and heavy and can be dropped by almost anybody. The first is a Honda V65 Sabre -- truly a classic – big, tall, heavy, and unstable at a standstill. Just sitting there parked, it seems to call out to you to kick up its side stand and try to walk it forward. I will never forget the first time I was pinned under my Sabre at a gas station. What a glorious feeling of helplessness, mingled with embarrassment, coupled with an inability to breathe, tinged with rising panic. It was a truly sublime. The V65 Sabre is indeed a great starter dropee, making every stop and go an adventure in possible outcomes.

Recently, however, I have come to appreciate another bike, the Honda ST 1100, for its lithe delicate beauty at 80 MPH, that masks its unbelievable wallowishness at a walk. Unlike the Sabre, which usually bends or breaks something when it hits the deck, Honda designed the ST with horizontality in mind. It has a well placed engine and body guard on each side that prevents serious damage while still giving you the thrill of waving goodbye to 700 pounds of determined machine. Believe me, that ST can be dropped over and over and it keeps coming back for more. Of course if you feel you must do some damage to the bike to prove your prowess, you can always drop it on a curb. If you play the angle and deflection just right, you can easily destroy $200 worth of mirror and mirror housing. It's your choice. Either way, the ST responds to letting go of it every time. Of course, there are many other examples of good dropping material, and the choice of machine is certainly a personal one. But I would like to remind you that the more expensive and undamaged your bike is when dropped, the more satisfying will be your emotional catharsis. There is almost nothing to compare to dropping a brand new Harley Extra Wide Glide BFD on the way out of the dealer’s lot.

Now, once you have mastered the basic stepping-on-oil-foot-slide, and the equally simple gravel-under-the-boot-whoops, you can move onto the more sophisticated drops. Here are a few of my favorites. The first three involve effective use of the dropper's ally, the side stand:

Parking the bike on the side stand, facing downhill with the transmission in neutral. Yes, it’s an oldie bordering on cliché, but somehow it manages to remain on the top ten list, year after year. I am sure it brings back memories for many of you. That exquisite first squeak of movement, followed closely by the delicious catching of breath and rise of nausea as we see our brand new (of course it is) motorcycle slowly work its way forward on the side stand and then head for pay-dirt (actually pay-asphalt).

Lowering the side stand on a perfectly positioned bump that causes the bike to be too vertical. That way, when you dismount left, the bike has a really good chance of diving to the right when the suspension unloads, or escaping that, at the moment when you gently break the camel's back by removing the weight of your key. Now those two are what I like to call "Watching it Go" drops. Very pleasant to behold, especially since they always seem to happen in slow motion.

The following are co-dependent drops where the rider is astride his beloved steed, and both go down together, Mano et Machino:

Leaving the side stand down while backing the bike up. I promise that if you get in the habit of doing this, one of these days you will be fortunate enough to run that stand up an incline or bump and realize that you are about to experience the confluence of going over with your motorcycle. It's sort of like bungee jumping without all those cumbersome rubber bands. If bodily injury is your thing, hold on tight and try to stop the bike from going over. On the other hand if you would rather be able to step away and join your friends in admiring your handiwork, by all means allow yourself to be thrown clear from the soon-to-be-parts-bike. You can then get up, dust yourself off, and pretend it’s not yours.

The next couple of drops have a higher degree of difficulty because you are on your
own -- no more side stand to help you out. They both involve critical decision making as to where to stop&drop, or walk&drop the bike.

The stop&drop. For the stop&drop, there is but one simple rule: Always choose to stop the bike on precipitously sloping terrain. The perfect location would be on a crest, with the ground on both sides of the bike sloping away at an extreme angle. Picture in your mind parking the bike on the edge of a knife. You will know you are in the right place when neither of your feet can touch the ground, and you have the option of choosing either side as ground zero. However, since such perfect terrain is rarely available, you should expect to use the more common terrain that only slopes to one side or the other. My personal favorite, an example of which I recently revisited in Chattanooga, Tennessee, is stopping in the curb lane of a street on which the center line is much higher above sea level than the curb. Sure, I could have leaned it left and kept every thing on the up and up, but imagine the glorious moment of terror I felt as my right foot wildly sought purchase on nonexistent asphalt. Then, after what seemed like an eternity of falling, I was rudely spit out prone upon the sidewalk, while my ST’s body work exploded against the curb. Did I mention that this happened on a busy thoroughfare with oodles of bemused bystanders? Oh, yes. I also recall that as I lay there, I was actually trying to transport my body to another location by the sheer power of wishing it so. I know I would have been successful in beaming up to the Enterprise had I not been brought back from deep space by a policeman asking me if I was okay.

The walk&drop. Walk&drops most often occur when you return to your bike after having parked it in a challenging location – tight, uneven terrain, where you have to ease the throttle, feather the clutch and waddle walk the bike away from danger. A really good example of this would be parking your cycle right in the middle of a line of customized Harleys at a rough biker hangout. If that’s still not enough of a challenge, you can add the element having to traverse an edge trap at a shallow angle. (NOTE: In this context I am not referring to edge traps as you find them on the road: uneven pavement joints, metal plates, trolley tracks, etc.) At creeping speed, many small items can have the same effect on you and your bike as say a railroad tie at 60 MPH. Always be on the lookout for such things as clods of dirt, seashells, and dead beetles, and be confident that any of these could deflect your front wheel just enough to start the dominoes falling. I was once tripped up by a garden hose and managed to take out three other bikes with me. That hose might as well have been a rattlesnake for all the grief it caused me.

Now for your final lesson. All of the foregoing techniques can have greater or lesser emotional impact on you if you also include an educated choice of dropping environment. In other words, do you choose to spiral in at a time and place where there are multiple witnesses, like New York City at rush hour, or in some desolate location where no one is around to score your dive? At first glance, you would think that the more populated drop environment would be superior in terms of pure shame, but the isolated drop has the more subtle reward of you having to look at your downed steed for a longer period of time. If it’s real isolated, say like the Mojave desert in August, this type of reward could last a very short lifetime – way too much of a good thing. Of course, you only have to worry about such things if you have made the right choice of bike, i.e. one that is much too heavy to lift up by yourself. (Lifting your fallen bike will be the subject of Part 2, “The View From Beneath.”)

So, there you have it, your rubber side up, shiny side down primer. If you practice these techniques well, I promise you not only a satisfying new hobby, but a deeper personal relationship with your dealer's parts manager.

Lost in the Isles of Gelson

I went shopping the other day at Gelson’s, a seriously high falutin’ supermarket. They have aisles as wide as Wilshire boulevard, and they’re totally clear of those little kiosks of merchandise that turn a trip down an aisle of Ralph’s into a game of bumper pool. They also have an army of employees who do nothing except patrol those same aisles, and whose primary job is to replace any item you put in your shopping cart with an identical replacement by pulling the same item from the back of the shelf up to the front. You look down the aisle and there are no dents in the product displays. None. The place always looks new. Speaking of carts, as you enter the store they have a germicide wipe dispenser “for your shopping cart” so you can wipe down the handle of your cart. Damn. Now, every time I go to a Lucky’s or even a Von’s Pavillion, I get paranoid about the Ebola virus I am sure is lurking on my cart handle. Ever try to steer a shopping cart with your elbows?

Now, I’m not your typical Westside Gelson’s shopper. For one thing, I’m not a WASP. Looking around the place is creepy. Every one of the shoppers is thin, and blond with skin tight faces, real or altered. Even the Jews that shop there are Wasps. Trust me on this, I am the only one, aside from the Hispanic housekeepers, who looks out of place. Of course the prices are upscale, as they say, which means that next to the meat department, where some cuts sell for $21.49 a pound, is a mortgage broker, where you can float a prime rate prime rib loan, or an equity line of credit for that rack of lamb.

Ok, ok. Here you are wondering “Why is this writer, apparently and actually Jewish, living on a teacher’s salary, walking down these gentiled aisles pushing his sterilized shopping cart before him? Surprise! If you live alone, and are willing to buy most of your stuff in fifty gallon drums at Costco, you can still get the Gelson’s experience by carefully limiting your choices. So, I breeze through the meat department, only fainting once when I glanced at the price on a Rib Eye, and come to at my in-store destination, the Deli section. And some deli section it is, with oodles of delicacies, hot and cold, impeccably displayed in perfect order. They also have a Wolfgang Puck pizza take out restaurant, and a “Chef” standing behind a cart where he carves, upon request, hot prime rib, roast pork, and fresh roasted turkey. That’s my target, the turkey. Enough for a nice dinner for one, with leftovers for lunch avec other teachers tomorrow.

I arrive at the carving station and find myself standing behind a woman waiting for the carving chef to get her order of 2 turkey thighs. While the man with the sharp knives is dealing with another customer, the woman turns to me and says, “The turkey thighs are the best deal in the store, $2.25 each.” Then she lowers her voice and conspiratorially leans in and says, “I get them for my dogs.” I am staring at her, mouth slightly agape, listening to the cart wheels not making noise, and the deli man calling out, “Number 62!” I notice the rock of Gibraltar on her left hand, and her growing realization that I may not be on this line to buy dog food. My fingers resting easily on the germ free cart handle, I realize that I am indeed out of place here in this palace of consumerism. “I want that food for me,” I feel like screaming, “Why don’t you feed some homeless people, for Christ sake?”

But in reality I am struck dumb and paralyzed by the enormous gap that exists between the world this woman walks and the one that houses me. I have no idea how to respond, and it is obvious to both of us that some response is in order. “I have no idea how to respond,” I say, thereby displaying my rapier wit and intellect. We stand silent waiting for the chef to wrap up her thighs (you know what I mean). After she leaves I ask for one of the fresh cut thighs which he dutifully carves out from the bird.

Later, I take my groceries home, unpack, and sit down to dinner with my dogs, they with their dog food, me with mine.

I'm learning . . .

That learning sometimes begins when you are hurting the most
That sometimes something good happens, even to me
That I don’t know how to listen, but that I can learn if motivated enough
That Love is one hell of a motivator
That good sex isn’t enough but it’s awfully close
That loneliness is dying alive
That I do not have to settle for a purely comfortable relationship
That I’m a good man but I can still fuck things up
That I will never understand women, and it's time to leave it at that
That leading with my heart instead of my head is the only way to fly, even though I might crash or get shot down
That falling deeply in love is possible at any age, especially this one
That I’m a morning person – also an evening, afternoon and middle of the night person
That I am changing, but sometimes I revert
That actually finding time for that long walk on the beach is difficult even when you live at the ocean’s edge
That the person I love thinks she loves me more, but she's wrong
That I am a married man between gigs
That a long, long hug is better than Advil
That I feel honored to be that important to her
That I have always been afraid and have spent most of my life trying hide that fact
That hanging on to regrets is regrettable
That I'm finally, thankfully, letting go
That having less room in a bed makes sleeping more difficult, and that's just fine with me

That I am missing her right at this moment

You Must Remember This . . .

Well, it’s time for another update on this getting older thing. You will recall, that when last we met, I was 61. Okay, it wasn’t that long ago, I’m still 61, but there’s a lot going on with aging that I haven’t talked about so let’s start.

First thing you should understand is that there is good and bad about getting on in life. We all tend to focus on the bad things, because these usually involve some kind of loss, and the losses are obvious, maybe not right away but one day you notice them like you notice being hit with a water balloon. For instance, every day I shave in front of a mirror. Most men do this, so you’d think that we’d have a pretty good idea of what we look like. Not so. When I shave, I’m not looking at my face, I’m looking at a part of my face that the razor is passing over (or slicing through depending on how steady my hand is). Then I look at my hair while I brush it (not much left – I know each of them by name), and my teeth while I brush them. Every so often, I have to look at my ears, nose, or eyebrows so I can deal with a plague of unwanted hair growth in those areas. See? All of these are pesky bad things. But once in a while I stand back and gaze at the whole picture of the me that the world sees. Holy shit, who’s the old guy? When did my hair get so gray, when did all those little spots and bumps sprout on my skin, and how can I feel this good and look so damn old? Talk about your shock of recognition.

Another bad thing is that my muscles don’t have that boing in them anymore. When I run, each footfall feels like I’m landing from a height of five or six feet. There’s no spring left, just a firm thunk that reverberates up through my bones and internal organs. When I throw something, it doesn’t get where it’s supposed to go, not unless I put a high arc on it. This really sucks if you find yourself in a middle school faculty/student dodge ball game, and the kids positively dare you to throw at them so they can catch it with one hand and get you out of the game. I know. What’s a 61 year old man doing playing dodge ball? Here’s the skinny on that. Even though I am old, I still think I’m no more than 25 or 30. That’s the truth, and it’s very common. If you don’t believe me, stop and ask any older man walking down the street, and he’ll tell you that he feels like a young guy trapped in an old man’s body (and he will also appreciate your concern . . . maybe).

Oddly enough, this leads me to one of the good things I told you about. Since I still feel young, I still feel like having sex, and if I’m lucky enough to have another person to do it with, it’s still damn good. No more hang-ups about pregnancy, technique, fear of failure, etc. Yes, sometimes the equipment malfunctions, or non functions, or starts and stops like a car with a clogged carburetor, but that can be handled with one of several pharmaceuticals, or the deft use of other, more dexterous appendages. That way she’s happy, and you can go watch ESPN. Also, did I mention that middle-aged women, for the most part, have got this sex thing down pat? They are very good, very free, and very grateful. So if I can’t get out of the starting gate every once in a while, they roll with it and go watch Oprah. I’m telling you that If you can’t laugh during middle-aged sex, you’re just not doing it right.

Ok, back to the bad. As you age you become invisible to various segments of the younger population. Cute young girls no longer see that twinkle in your eye as you flirt with them. At best they look right through you, and at worst they think you’re cute. If any young women are out there, pay attention here. Do not call an older man “cute.” Just smile and wink and he’ll be happy. He doesn’t really want you, he just wants to feel that such a thing might be possible, even when he knows that he doesn’t really want a relationship with someone who didn’t exist when Kennedy was shot. Think of it as a random act of kindness to someone else’s father. Now this invisibility thing also happens to women, and men and women together, whenever they go out to a restaurant. Waitpersons of all ages, genders, and ethnic persuasions no longer recognize your waving hand in their visible spectrum. Yes, they do get tired of listening to us order water without ice, steamed vegetables (without cauliflower of course) instead of the potatoes, and be sure that the fish is cooked well. Ok, maybe some of us don’t tip all that well, but some of us do, or at least we would if you’d stop by our table more frequently than Haley’s comet.

Once more, unto the good. Wisdom. If you live into your sixties and beyond you can’t help but learn a whole lot about life, and occasionally you can get someone (except your own children) to listen. Put ammonia on a bee sting. Wash baseball caps in the dishwasher. Pick up a baby when he cries, and for God’s sake, walk him out of the restaurant until he feels better. When playing Blackjack, don’t split queens. Fall in love, completely and deeply, but if it doesn’t work out, know that the gaping hole in your heart will mend. Then have the courage to do it again. The best car is the one that doesn’t let you down. If you get in an argument with your spouse, no one wins, so don’t argue in the first place. It’s best not to climb past the third highest step on a ladder. And ultimately you realize that all things, both good and bad, will eventually end – one way or another.

It was about a year ago. We sat there eating wonton soup and an appetizer plate and talked of nothing. We had just seen a blockbuster movie sequel, "Pirates of the Caribbean II, Dead Man's Chest." Another sequel that had lost its way -- all action and spectacle and not enough of the characters that had charmed us in the original. Everything comes out of a computer now, and she asked me if I thought the parrot was real. “Hell,” I said, “I don’t know if Johnny Depp was real.”

She looked frail and old, like she had just come through a serious illness. That’s because she had done just that. We’d been dating about three years and we were comfortable together. We enjoyed each other’s company and had a good time going out, but there was not much excitement in the relationship except in the bedroom, and I have no idea where that came from. The rest of our time together she felt comfortable, like a pair of favorite slippers.

I was never in love with her. She knew that and said it was fine with her that way. I think she may have loved me but always said she was “fond of me.” Probably didn’t want to scare me off. At two years I was ready to break it off, but then she got cancer. How do you break up with someone with cancer, pancreas cancer at that? So I hung around figuring she would either get better or die. I just couldn’t dump her then, you know? It just didn’t seem like the right thing to do. So she got better. Good for her. I know that’s not supposed to happen but they caught it early through a fluke and that cancer won’t kill her. I guess she’ll have to wait for the next one like the rest of us.

So another year went by while she recovered, and my disquiet had been growing – another kind of malignancy. It felt like the only thing we had going for us was inertia. Inertia fueled by comfort and sex. Most people my age would be content with that, but I grew more and more restless, and it was starting to show. I didn’t meet her eyes when we talked and I seemed to be snapping at her more and more. I’m was also weary of having to shout at her because her hearing was shot. So was her sense of smell. Too bad I didn’t have gas, she’d have been the perfect companion. On the plus side she had her very own handicapped parking placard, so we got fantastic parking spots. Comfort, sex, and good parking. That might be enough for some men my age, but I wanted more. Silly me, I thought that love might still be out there for me, just one girlfriend away.

That night, after the movie and soup, I thought it was time to break things off. We went back to my place, but even then I wasn’t sure. I once had an old dog who was dying, not in pain, but near the end of his life. The day we put him down he looked up at me, as if to say, “Couldn’t we do this tomorrow, or maybe next week?” So I’m thinking, "Why tell her tonight, why not tomorrow, or maybe next week? Why is this the night I choose to hurt her?" Ambivalent to the end, I am sitting there, not knowing if I’m going to sleep with her or leave her. Smart money’s on my dick.

She asks me to dim the lights. Gratefully, I do. She asks me if I want to smoke some dope, or have some wine. She wants me and I can be so easily had. “Not tonight,” I say. I look at her face. There is a stillness to her. She is smiling but I think she knows what’s coming. I feel the air from the ceiling fan wash down over me. I see the flowers on her blouse -- bright, red blossoms that hold their own in the dimness. I tell her that I need more in a relationship and that I want to see other people. We talk, say nothing, and do not touch. She smiles again, and in her smile, that I am looking at for the first time in months, I see the ghost of the beautiful, young woman she once was, long before we met. I wish I had known her then. Maybe I would have fallen in love with her, and grown slowly older with her, and always seen her through my memories. But my memories belong to someone else, and I can’t pretend anymore. More silence. We hug for a long time. The sound of the waves on the beach has stopped and my heart has stopped, and I’m not sure I can ever get it started again.

She collects her robe and toothbrush. I drive her home.


About a month ago, I received an email from her daughters. That cancer we thought she had beaten got up off the canvas and sucker punched her. I had seen her about three months ago, and she looked and said she felt fine. We had become friends, and I’m sorry that I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye. Nothing makes you know you are getting older more than when you hear that someone your age, or younger even, has died. I don’t really know how to handle something like that. I guess that’s a wisdom I haven’t acquired yet. When I got the news, I called her house hoping to speak with her daughters. The voice of my friend was still on her answering machine, “Of course I’ll call you back,” she said. Our last night together flashed back and my breath caught in my throat, and again my heart stood still. Several seconds of a lifetime passed by, as my computer screen in front of me lost focus, and finally I whispered, “It’s Milt. I just called to say hi.” I don’t know why I did that. It just seemed like the right thing to do.

A Cigar is Never Just a Smoke

A cigar is not a thing usually shared. You don’t pass a cigar from mouth to mouth. Well, at least men don’t do that. I don’t even think cigar smoking women would do that. But, a few years back, my younger son had come to visit with me in Seattle where I was managing a tour to promote Fruitopia, Coca Cola’s superfluous answer to Snapple. His name is Zach. His older brother is Ari. First one “A,” last one “Z.” It just came out that way, but I like to tell people we did it on purpose in order to keep the universe in balance.

It was Ari, as our firstborn, who seemed to draw from his mother and I all the energy and willingness to go on adventures with him. We were young enough to take in Disneyland and the Renaissance Faire, and see it through his eyes. We even did “Small World” enough times to permanently scar our brains with that insipid tune. (I know, now you’re singing it too. Sorry.) Zach, being second, often missed out on the willingness of his parents to schlep somewhere, because we’d done it with Ari, and we were getting older and more easily tired. We took him to Disneyland for sure, but we didn’t stay quite as long. He never did get to see the Renaissance Faire. (We never took either of them to Magic Mountain because I didn’t want them to see their father cry, or throw up, or both.) Second is just not the same as first. Ari went on a trip with me to Hawaii. Zach, at age 27, reminds me to this day that I still owe him one of those. I hope it might still happen, I really do.

It always seemed to Zach that Ari got the better deal – first one to the toys, first one to get a dog, and he would always be destined to tread on the road more traveled. It wasn’t until he got to school that Zach, faced with the taunts of a bully, realized with utmost glee, that only he could have a big brother to look out for him – Ari would never have his very own protector. That was some consolation for son number two.

So as I was saying, Zach joined me in Seattle, and that night the guys on the tour went out and got some really cheap-shit cigars, Swisher Sweets I believe. Blech! But the night wasn’t about the cigars, it was men playing pool, drinking, laughing and smoking cigars together. Zach was about seventeen at the time, and had never smoked a cigar. He never had smoked a cigarette either, or so I thought in my fatherly naiveté. So when we all lit up I offered him one. He was reluctant so I just passed mine to him and told him to try it. (I sound like a drug pusher, don’t I?). He smoked a little and he liked it, so we continued to pass the cigar back and forth like a joint. Not that he’d ever had weed at that time in his life. More fatherly naiveté I fear. So we had a great time, and Zach loved being accepted among the men. With his easy humor, he more than held his own.

About a month later, back in Los Angeles, Zach came over to my apartment and we sat out on my balcony and again shared one cigar, albeit this time of better quality. And as we sat there on a warm Summer evening, we started to talk, father and son stuff for sure, but for the first time as men, without the barrier of parent child roles between us. We talked about the divorce between his mother and me, and about the pain we both felt, and we talked about his travails with girls. I don’t remember all that we talked about, but there was an easiness to the conversation, and a caring that passed between us that we both acknowledged. It was one of those too few special times between father and son.

My father smoked four cigars a day, for the entire part of his life that I shared. Since my mother wouldn’t let him smoke in the house, that took some artful dodging, and as I think on it now, probably one of the reasons why he wasn’t home more. In his later years, when he had the money, he remodeled their ample apartment and he built himself a small room with a recliner, TV, and a whopper of an exhaust fan. When that thing was on, we had to tether the grandbabies, lest they be sucked out along with the smoke.

As a young boy I was never bothered by the smell of his cigars, even before the recliner days, so I spent many an hour with him, watching TV while he smoked and we talked, but only about the show or ball game we were watching. I think the reason the smoke smell never bothered me was simply because that was his smell. His clothes, his hair and skin, all smelled like . . . Pop. This ritual of ours continued into my adulthood and his old age in the recliner days, and I still can recall the sight of him falling asleep in that chair despite the considerable volume of the TV needed to overcome the noise of that fan-jet exhaust. (FYI, you know you are a senior when you find yourself falling asleep in front of the TV, just like your old man.)

So, as I sat alone on my apartment balcony after Zach left, finishing our cigar and my glass of Port, I realized that I had never had such an experience with my father. In all the twenty some odd years while I was an adult and he was still with us, he had never even offered me a cigar. I had no idea why not. I suppose it was fear of my mother, who surely would have killed him if she found the two of us puffing away, but she never came into our sanctum anyway. So there the question hung in the air, like the smoke I had just exhaled. Why not? The simplest explanation would be that he just didn’t think I would want to smoke, but I don’t really believe that’s the whole truth. My Pop, like many of his generation, was unwilling or unable to breach that boundary between father and son and accept me as a man, an equal. I never had a deep, real conversation with him in all our years together. I didn’t fault him for this, as I believed it was because I came along late in his life, and with the huge difference in our ages, I would always be in his eyes, the baby of the family. But it was also because he was incapable of any kind of heart to heart, any genuine closeness. I have since learned from my older brother that it was the same with him. My father would no more have looked us in the eye and shared his feelings with us than he would have gotten out of his recliner and gone fox hunting. In any event that fact that I and my day never had the kind of experience that Zach and I just shared, either with or without the accompaniment of fire and smoke, left me feeling sad, and more than a little bit cheated.

You see that cigar was a kind of talisman, a ritualistic object that my son and I shared – passed from me to him and back, a symbol of my acceptance of his elevation to manhood, and his acceptance of my descent from the mythical tower of omniscient Fatherhood. Those Native Americans knew what smoking was all about. For the first time as adults, Zach and I came together in shared sadness and joy. From that day forward we would treat each other more or less as equals in our strengths and weaknesses, and with a caring for each other that would forever more be somehow different, and special between us. Sure, I’ll always be Dad (or “Dude” as the little prick likes to call me) and he will always be my boy, but from that night forward we would see each other, always with love, but now eye to eye.

Zach and I have smoked cigars together on several occasions since that night, some ten years ago. I don’t really smoke that often, and I think he only smokes with me, but in any event, now he gets one of his own (of course, I’m still buying them). And each time we repeat our father and son ritual, we seem to have the most significant and genuinely intimate conversations.

I remember now that the last time we smoked together, we were in Laughlin, Nevada, where he and his brother, took me to celebrate my sixtieth birthday. We were outside on a path by the river, having consumed a wonderful meal and bottle of wine, and we all lit up. It was my birthday, and they had given be the best present I could ever wish for. I was in Dad Heaven. Then, while we walked, and smoked, and laughed at each other, an odd thing happened. Ari admitted that he didn’t really like cigars all that much, and crushed his under his shoe, while Zach and I continued to smoke as we walked along. I hadn’t thought about it until tonight, but as I sat down to write this story, it came to me that from the moment Ari dropped his cigar, Zach would always have something experiential with his Dad that is his alone, and that as far as his relationship with me is concerned, he will never again walk in his brother’s footsteps.

Bubbles

If you are old enough to remember the Ed Sullivan show, you will recall that it was a variety show on television way back when, 50’s and early 60’s I believe. Black and white, of course, with all sorts of strange and wonderful acts and guest star singers and comedians. The lesser acts were either animal acts, magicians, ventriloquists, etc., more suited to a circus I think, but Ed had an hour to fill so he hired them all. As a young boy, I became fascinated with the etcetera acts, the ones who came up with some ludicrous skill, like sliding down a wire, lifting heavy things with their teeth, or putting flaming swords down their mouths. Young as I was, I nevertheless became aware that these people had spent countless hours learning how to do a ridiculous activity, and do it perfectly, just so they could be in a circus or on TV. As far as I could see, the skills served no other useful purpose.

One of my favorites was the guy who balanced on his hand on top of a chair that was balanced on one leg, and he would continually add another chair in some impossible to imagine way until he was perched upside down on a column of chairs all on one leg. Then he would dismantle the whole thing while coming down. Where does a person go to get an idea for an act like that? Or there was another who would build two parallel towers of wooden blocks, alternating standing on one hand on each tower while he add blocks to the other one. Did I mention that these blocks were thrown to him by his lovely assistant, and he caught them, all while perched upside down on one hand? Then there was another guy (who knows, maybe the same guy with a different stage name so he could work more often) who would balance on one finger on top of a cane while he twirled rings on his remaining three appendages. With my mouth open, I wondered aloud “How does he do that?” My mother, as I recall, smugly informed me that there was a brace in the finger of his glove, like that was all one needed to do the act – if you could keep your finger straight, the rest was a piece of cake. I’m not sure but I think he would also balance something on his upraised head – maybe it was a piece of cake.

I don’t know what those people, or their children who might have taken up the family business, are doing now. I suppose the best gigs these days are the malls and boardwalks where they do their thing, and then pass the hat. There is one guy I see quite often on the Santa Monica 3rd street Promenade. He blows incredibly huge bubbles that lift off oh so slowly from his lips, and since they are not very visible at night, he fills each with cigarette smoke as he blows them, and then shines a light on them that must have once lit the deck of an aircraft carrier. He powers the light from batteries he wears on a belt around his waist. He is remarkable and his bubbles a thing of wonder for all, especially the children. Of course, you try not to think that you are watching a chain smoker, filling bubbles with cancer for the little children to pop and inhale. Hmm, I wonder if he isn’t secretly bankrolled by the R.J.Reynolds Company.

So I’m back in my childhood living room in Miami Beach, watching television one evening. My favorite Western was on, “The Lone Ranger.” That particular night, at the crescendo of a chase or fight scene, just as The Lone Ranger and Tonto were about to get the crap kicked out of them, my mother asked, of no one in particular but I was the only other person in the room, “Why don’t the musicians help them?” The first time she asked this, I said, “WHAT?” Only it came out of me as “Whhaaaaat” slow and long and deep like time itself was doing a double take. There was our 17 inch black and white RCA television, with the remote control that actually turned the channel selector with a loud “chunk, chunk” sound for every channel it passed. It wasn’t chunking right then, and it did appear as if the actors fighting on screen also stopped fighting and turned to hear her response. I became aware that the imitation bamboo naugahyde that I was sitting on was embossing its pattern on my legs below my shorts as I sat there with my mouth open staring at my mother. She had on a little smile, like she knew exactly what she was doing and liked it very much. “The musicians playing all the music during the fight,” she said. “They must be there so why don’t they put down their instruments and go help the Lone Ranger?” “Because the musicians are not there in the old West, they are in some studio out in California making the show,” I shouted. She smiled even more because by that time, my mother had accomplished what she wanted, which was to wrest my attention off what I was really into, and onto her. She did that a lot. From that first time forever more she would ask that same question in the same circumstances, and damn it if it didn’t have the same effect. Though I tried to ignore her, there was always part of me that got sucked into her reality and pulled the rest of my attention with it. It might just be for one brief moment, but the damage was done and my willing disbelief was unwillingly unsuspended.

There were other times like that. I’m ten years old, and they have been advertising for weeks about the coming of the Bell Telephone Science Hour. The first installment was to be “Hemo the Magnificent,” a special about the body’s wondrous circulatory system, using live actors and cartoon characters. Not that it meant anything to me then, but it was directed by Frank Capra, no less, with the cartoon characters voiced by Mel Blank. What did mean something to me was that I couldn’t wait to see it. Even my teacher at school was excited about it, and suggested that we all see it. I counted the days.

On the Thursday night that it was to be broadcast at 8:00 PM, I was very tired for some reason. My mother suggested that I take a nap after dinner, and promised (remember that word) that she would wake me up just before eight so I could watch the show. She knew how important it was to me, as I must have told her at least ten times. So I lay down and fell asleep, and instantly woke with a startle in my darkened room, heart pounding, flailing away with arms and legs to get untangled from my blanket and sheets. I rushed out of my room screaming, “What time is it, what time is it?” and saw the time of the clock on our mantle. It was 9:17. I had missed “Hemo,” and I would never get to see it. I was near tears and rapidly building a rage. I found my mother, calmly sitting by the TV in the living room. “You were supposed to wake me up! You promised! Why didn’t you wake me up?” I was screaming at her. In a calm voice without any trace of guilt or sympathy even, she explained, “Well, you were sleeping so soundly, I didn’t have the heart to wake you. I thought you’d sleep through the night.”

I’ve told that story many times and no one has ever taken her side, as if she had a side to take. You see, you make a promise to your child, you don’t break it. You bring your child into a world of way too much stark reality, and to make up for the selfishness and/or momentary lust that caused you to do such a thing, you put him or her in a bubble where they float in gentle bliss. It’s a large bubble to be sure, full of love, comfort, and tasty treats, toys and fairytales, and no cigarette smoke, for God sakes. Eventually that bubble starts to leak because, as we all know, reality sucks – and one day, as they grow up they will find themselves standing on their own, down here with the rest of us. But until that day, you should never, and I mean never, willingly spear that bubble and let your child fall and be hurt.

So, that’s how I remember my mother, smiling and carrying that cruel pin of hers, which she used at every opportunity to bring me down, prick by prick, where the Lone Ranger is just an actor, and Hemo the Magnificent is just another television show.

She is long gone, my mother, and I have forgiven her for most of her shortcomings as a parent . . . but not this one.

The Weekend

One was crushed by betrayal. One, lost in a world of women, had never known the friendship of men. A young one had the courage to show himself in front of his girlfriend’s father, and the father had the wisdom to invite him in. Another one brought his wounded soul that had sent him to the company of prostitutes where he could hide from relationships. Two were brothers, with rage and resentment stacked up like so much cordwood till they could no longer see each other on the other side.

So off I went to a BetterMen Retreat.

One was funny. He knew how to tell a joke, but had lost his joy in a fog of endless regrets.

Backing up a minute, you should know that I recently joined a men’s group. I did it when I realized that after a lifetime enjoying the company of men, I no longer had any men friends left. We had grown separate and otherwise occupied with families, work, and geographic challenges -- the too infrequent poker games unable to fill the gaps.

One had a small penis, or so he thought, even without the internet telling him so, insecure in the extreme, and yet he had the balls to speak his fear. Who feels the same? All raised their hands.

On the surface the group is a small bunch of men (but certainly not a bunch of small men), starting out as strangers, who meet once a week under the guidance of a facilitator to give each other support, advice, counsel, and straight talk. Along the way, some camaraderie and friendship develop. The weekend was just like the group, only a whole lot more. I mean A WHOLE LOT MORE. For one thing, instead of eight men, there would be thirty-five or so, spending the better part of three days in a camp in the woods.

Architect, lawyer, caterer, cab driver, executive, teacher, builder, filmmaker, writer, actor, computer geek, fitness instructor and more. Men of the arts, men of business, men who worked with their minds, and men who worked with their hands. Men.

I couldn’t believe I was going to do this. Of the first-timers there, at 61, I was the oldest. The youngest was 19. We would all spend the weekend together doing . . . uh, I had no idea what we would be doing, but I knew I would be sleeping in a sleeping bag on a bunk bed. Terrific. The 22 year old kid who was my “buddy” for the duration asked if I wanted the bottom or the top bunk. “Are you kidding me?” He gave me the bottom.

A father and son, separated by generations, and separated by the silence that grows between too many fathers and sons. Fathers and sons. My father, my sons.

The first night we arrived, we began by walking to a lodge for a sort of orientation and introduction. We were instructed to walk in silence. As we were walking, I realized that, not having been in the army, and not being a hunter, and having been in the Boy Scouts in Miami Beach, where we got merit badges in such things as beach towel folding, I had never walked silently through the woods as part of a group of men. The only sound was the shuffling and crunching of our footsteps (any animals we might have been hunting were probably falling down laughing at our stealthlessness.) But something inside me started to awaken, as I felt for the first time the feeling of being part of a group, a cadre, a tribe of men, come together for some unknown manly purpose and/or ritual. I wasn’t an old guy, I was an elder among these men, and I felt pretty cool.

One was a sage, who spoke so little and said so much.

Later, we sat in a large circle around a huge campfire. Our leader read us a most inspiring poem*, and we listened and talked and smoked . . . . . . . cigars. (I bet you thought I was going to say “a peace pipe,” didn’t you?) Yes, cigars were passed around for any and all, and no one commented on the smell or the health risks. Shit, we were men, and this is what men do. (Note to self: pick up some Febreze.)

So many husbands and fathers who couldn’t find a way to show their wives and children how much they loved them. And way too many broken marriages and open wounds that wouldn’t heal.

And so it went for three days. You want details? Here they are: we ate, we smoked, we kidded and we cried, we felt our pain, vented our rage, and we played and celebrated, but above all, we laughed -- such laughter that I have shared only in the company of men -- laughter that I haven’t known for way too many years, that primal expression of joy at being alive and secure among friends. And in this congregation I found, as did many others, a refuge from the Four Horsemen of the Lost Nuts-- Worry, Doubt, Fear and Regret.

Men. Isolated and disconnected, holding on to and hiding such anger and grief, the depths of which their women have no inkling.

I’m sorry. I won’t give you my ironic spin, my cynical eye, my perspective as an outsider looking in at life around me, as I usually do. Not this time. This time I was in the thick of it, and it felt good. Also, I won’t spill the beans on what went on in the lodge, while we walked, in our groups, and around our fires. You see, next time, and there will definitely be a next time, I hope to bring some other men, perhaps my boys, and have them discover in unknown territory, the men that they are and the better men they could become.

“You are perfect,” he said, as I poured out my grief on his shoulder. No man, or woman for that matter, has ever told me I was perfect. And so I was, and so I am.
Aho.

That was my weekend. How was yours?

(* The poem that was read on the first evening is called The Invitation, by Oriah Mountain Dreamer. You can find it at http://kalimunro.com/invitation.html. If it doesn’t move you, you are either not breathing or can’t find your glasses.)

Geronimo

I once jumped out of a plane. I had a parachute on ( I guess I don’t really need to say that). I had signed up for a full day of skydiving lessons, which would culminate in a type of beginner’s jump, called Accelerated Free Fall. I know you must be thinking, how or why would one accelerate a free fall. Isn’t terminal velocity fast enough? Do you strap Wiley Coyote rockets to your feet, point yourself downward and zoom toward a collision with the planet resulting in a small puff of dust? (If you are a fan of Roadrunner cartoons you know what I am talking about. If you are not such a fan, you are seriously missing out on an important life experience.) No, accelerated free fall means that you will experience free fall on your first jump. Of course you will do this while being held in correct position by not one, but two experienced instructors, who will be falling with you. You have certain skills to perform in the thirty seconds you will be falling, then you pull your own rip cord and you are snatched away from their firm grasp, to glide down to a soft landing.

After several hours of ground training, as we walked toward the plane with a crowd of serious sky divers, I started to have second thoughts. The plane looked like something you wouldn’t want to board even wearing a parachute. The other jumpers were all young and fit in their brightly colored jumpsuits, all pretty much into themselves. The men were hard and the women were just as hard, and here I was, middle aged and very soft, walking toward the plane with two nefarious guardians who would take me up and drag me out of the plane with them. The day was bright, and very warm, and I was sweating but not from the heat. The plane’s engines were on, noisy suckers, and my instructors were making idle chatter. I kept walking because the alternative, running away screaming, “Take this fucking thing off me,” would have been just too embarrassing. How’s that for self awareness? I would rather actually die than die from embarrassment. I understand I’m not alone on this.

So I climbed aboard, squeezed in with the others, and off we went. Almost everything after that on the plane is kind of a blur. I know I was feeling nauseous as we climbed, and that my instructors kept talking to me, probably because they could see my green skin and wanted to keep their very expensive gear vomit free. I do clearly remember that there was an old geezer on the plane. I had noticed him on the ground because he looked as out of place as I did. I call him a geezer because he fit the qualifications. He was short, with a scruffy beard, old jump suit with visible repairs, and he walked with a distinct bow legged gait. But I could tell from watching him that he had a gazillion jumps, and probably had made his first jump from out of necessity from a burning bi-plane that had just been shot from the sky by the Red Baron. Shit, he probably was the Red Baron. Now, as I sat across from him on the plane I noticed he had a hole in his left ear. I’m not talking about a hole for an earring but a hole you could slide a pencil through in the top part of his ear. Probably a bullet wound. I found myself staring at the hole, noticing that I could see out of the other side of the plane right through it. For the rest of the flight to altitude that’s all I remember, I could not stop looking at the hole. I kept looking at it even as he yelled something as he leapt from the plane. It wasn’t “Geronimo,” as I had half expected, but a cry of inarticulate joy like “Yee Hah!” or something like that as he fell away toward the ground, tumbling wildly, seemingly oblivious to the need for a controlled free fall.

Then it was my turn. My instructors guided me to the door where I held on to the frame just as I had been taught. I looked down, and noticed that being high up is so very much more compelling when there is not so much as a rope between you and 13,000 feet of nothing. At that moment my nervousness crossed over into anxiety and was rapidly approaching the land of fear and terror. But there comes a point in any dangerous endeavor that you cannot stop yourself from continuing, even if death seems a very real possibility. My instructors were hanging outside the plane grinning like they were about to play an enormous joke on me, and it was my time to count to three as I rocked forward, back and then just stepped into the void. The void in this case was not soft, or hazy. Time did not stand still, nor did I see any dead relatives. This void was chock full of things I did not like. I must not have leaned forward enough because I was falling backward looking at the plane shrink at an incredible rate. I was flailing to turn over, and I think my two attached guardians were doing the same. As we finally turned to face the ground and get stable, I noticed what had been bothering me even more than the prospect of death. It was the noise, incredible, terrible wind noise everywhere, crushing my mind and freezing my body. Sky diving is not silent. It’s as if every air molecule rushing past you at 120 MPH has something to tell you and they scream it in your ear all at the same time and all you can make out is this loud roar that drives everything else out of your head. Well, not everything exactly. I think I did my required maneuvers. I have no actual memory of all that, but I do remember that my instructor signaled to me to check my watch, which told me IT WAS TIME TO PULL THE CORD NOW, NOW, NOW!!! I did just that, and was very rudely yanked up and out of their grasp. And now everything moved in slow motion. I don’t mean some kind of cliché mental perception of time standing still, I mean actual slow motion. I’m floating toward the ground, very quiet, very peaceful. I check my chute, looks good. I calmly put away my rip cord in it’s special pocket and I’m at one with the sky. I do all my turns like I’ve been taught. I’m in complete control. I even try to make a fast 360 turn by pulling hard on the left control line. Bad idea, as I go into a very fast spin that has “here comes lunch” written all over it. Hokay, enough of that.

Setting up now for my landing. My instructor comes on the radio with final instructions. He’s already on the ground, probably sipping a beer, while I am setting up to land about a quarter of a mile away from the drop zone. I guess they don’t want to take the chance of a newbie crashing into the classrooms, or into the propeller of the jump plane ready to take off with another load. Bad for business. So I glide in, flare for landing (that’s skydiver lingo), and go in for an easy stand up landing. Perfect. Except that my knees, bathed in adrenaline as they were, have turned to Jello, so they buckle and I go kerplunk on my ass. Oh, I forgot to mention that my skydiving experience, from beginning to end, is preserved on video tape by the flying video guy who, for a significant fee, jumps along with you and shoots the whole experience from a camera mounted to this incredible camera helmet. For really cool gadgets and gear, I’ll put skydiving up against any other sport/activity, including scuba diving and rock climbing. To get more gear and gadgets, you have to become a fireman.

So I’m sitting there in this field on a very warm Summer day in Lake Elsinore, California. I’m not yet sure I can stand up so I decide to lie down and reflect on the experience I just had, and all I can think of is the old geezer with the hole in his ear, screaming with the pure joy of being alive and tempting death, while I, felt no exhilaration whatsoever. Such different life experiences brought us together for a brief moment in time in that plane, and I think that maybe he has had the more exhilarating journey. I have played life safe and secure without taking risks and never once have I braved true jeopardy -- no war, no swimming with sharks, no mountain climbing. And no duel, pistols at 20 paces, with a jealous husband, where we stand back to back then pace, turn, and fire. My aim is true and he falls mortally wounded, while I believe I am without injury. But the blood flowing down my neck says otherwise. Miraculously, his bullet has passed clean through my ear without even nicking any other part of my head, but it leaves me with a bullet hole in that ear, proof of my courage and bravery. Yes. From that point forward every day would be a glorious adventure on borrowed time. One “yee hah” moment after another, and now, I would be sharing a beer with those others who live life on the edge, instead of laying in a field wondering why no one has come to rescue me from my boredom, and saved me from dying. Well, not from dying, but certainly from a long, parachute laden hike back to the jump site.

Maybe I can call a cab.

Trying to Escape Valentine's Day and Failing Miserably

(This isn't really about Valentine's Day, but darned if that damn holiday didn't just jump up and bite me, so it seemed a good time to publish this piece.)

Love Like a Woman

A while back I viewed a photo of some soldiers having just gotten off a troop transport, and in the foreground was a woman, with her two children in tow, running across the tarmac to get to her man. The woman was moving away from the camera, so you couldn’t see her face, but you just knew that at that moment, her whole world, her whole reason for existence, was to love her man. And if she didn’t get to hold him and crush him to her at that very instant, that she would not just die, but cease to exist. What it must feel like to be so consumed by love that loving engulfs you, takes away your heart, soul, and very breath? It must be like turning into pure energy, as if that woman was about to burst into a brilliant light, a bolt of lightning, a heat seeking missile locked on his heart. What a lucky guy.

I want to love like a woman. Men don’t love like that. Yes, we love, we feel it kindle inside but rather than succumb to the pure experience of it, we contain it, control it, hide it, use it to our own advantage, twist it, warp it, inflict wounds with it, especially the self-inflicted kind, and then we stand back and watch in disbelief as it dies. Oh, how strong we are, we men. We stand powerful and solitary, and live and die weak and lonely.

I want to love like a woman. I have been loved like that once in my life of 61 odd years, but it was many years ago, and not recognizing it for what it was, in my youth, ignorance, and imperfect manhood, I killed the very thing I longed for and did not know how to hold. It may be possible that I could know again that fire and oh so lucky to burn in it’s awesome heat. I didn’t believe it could happen twice, but I am starting to think I was wrong. A few months back, I looked in a lover’s eyes and saw in her the glory of possibilities, the joy and pain of an all-consuming passion, and I thought that if only I can nurture this thing, hold it safe from the harm that only I am capable of inflicting, that maybe, just maybe, I would be worthy of it, worthy of her.

Or maybe not.

What I discovered was that there is a flip side to loving unconditionally. The person you think you love might just not be ready for you. My guess is that any woman reading this is now saying, “Duh?” But for me, this was a painful lesson, and it caused me to pull back to my customary manly boundaries.

But having felt the singular joy of flying without a net, I am greedy for that experience again. Only maybe the next time I will ease my way to the edge of the precipice, dunk my toe in the water before plunging in, crawl before walking, walk before running, or any other metaphor you can think of for taking things slowly, yet still end up at some point flying across that tarmac. Yes, I want to love like a woman, but I might just have to sneak up to that point of no return.

So now I’ve met someone new, and as they say, we are an item. We are both bearing the burden of each other’s losses, and helping each other heal. We are good together, that much is certain, and I suspect that she has moved a little faster than I, and is patiently waiting on the launch pad for me to catch up. I’m not all that far behind. I am hopeful that someday soon I will be ready to let this woman climb into my heart, where she will reach me, touch me, burn me, and send that same heart soaring along with hers. Now that would be something to write about, to sing about, to scream out to the universe of my joy and redemption.

Yes, I want to love like a woman.

I want to love a woman like that.

My Field of Dreams

I was going to write about procrastination. I am a black belt. But the fact that I am finally at this computer puts an end to my latest go round. I wish I could just get past it for one time in my life, but then again, life may be just my way of procrastinating until I die. I think I’ll write more on this later – if I find the time.

I have several favorite movies, but there are only two that if I come upon them while channel surfing, I’ll stop and watch them till the end. (Channel surfing is the number one weapon of the master procrastinator.) The first one is “Casablanca.” It’s a wonder of script, acting, scenic design, camera work, directing, and the most romantic movie of all time. It’s not sappy romantic like “Ladyhawke,” but tough guy romantic. The hero gives up the girl for a noble purpose, and goes off into the moonset with his buddy. (If you even think there is any latent homosexuality in that, I will punch your lights out.) Of course, by saying goodbye to Ingrid Bergman, Humphrey Bogart knows damn well that he will be up to his eyeballs in gorgeous women from that moment on – e.g: Lauren Bacall.

My other, stop-me-in-my-tracks movie, is “Field of Dreams.” I just got done watching it while I was not writing this. Damn, what a story. It mixes fact and fantasy, present and past, new and old; but what it’s about at its core is fathers and sons, and their connection through baseball. I don’t know if women get this film at all. I don’t care. They can have “Sleepless in Seattle,” I’ll take “Field of Dreams.”

Baseball. Having a catch with your father. Having a catch with your sons. I have no idea why that is such a gut grabber. I’ve written about it before, but seeing the movie brings it back to me every time. You see, even though I have seen it at least 20 times, when it gets to the end where Ray Kinsella meets his father, I choke up every time. And when Kevin Costner says, “Dad, you want to have a catch,” I lose it completely, every time. If I’m alone, the tears start flowing. If I’m with another guy, I go get a beer and wash my face. If I’m with a woman, just enough tears to show her my sensitive side and get me in her pants.

By the way, say what you will about Kevin Costner’s acting, but his reading of that last line of his, is an all-time classic, right up there with, “Frankly my dear, I don’t give a damn.” Next time you see the movie, watch how full he is when he says that line. I like to think he did it on the first and only take. Every actor should have one moment in his career like that. Perfect.

I miss my father. I wish I could just visit with him one more time. We’d talk about stuff. Not important things, just stuff that comes up between fathers and sons. You see, women know how to talk about important things – about love, and how they really feel. Men love too, but we just don’t like to talk directly about it. I wish it could be different, but it’s not. We’re just not wired for it. Instead, we do things together and connect in sort of Bluetooth, wireless fashion. So, my dad and I, we wouldn’t have to have a catch. We’re both too old and it’s too muggy outside. Maybe we’d sit by the TV and watch a Yankee game together. We did that when I was little, and I would give anything to do that with him just one more time. He’d smoke his cigar, and now I’d smoke one with him. And my mother would not be allowed to come into the room waving her arms and complaining about this smoke like she used to do. Ok, I take that back. She should be there too, flailing away and yelling about the smoke, as if that would make a difference. And my boys would be there too -- the four of us, all grown up now, drinking beer, smoking up a storm, and watching young men playing a perfect game. That would be a moment to remember.

Perfect.

Somewhere on Craigslist

So it's 10:06 PM, somewhere in the Near Valley, and a tallish, “some say attractive,” woman sits down to make an honest plea for an honest man. Sure, she's doing it on Craigslist, with it's clientele of men unwilling to take the time and/or money to invest themselves in a more traditional online dating service. CL is easy, quick, very cheap, which is good because that's what most of them are looking for in a woman.

This woman sits at her screen, in a dimly lit room. It's warm tonight in the Near Valley, and she's wearing her comfy sleep wear, maybe a tee shirt and panties, maybe sweats and bunny slippers. She's weary from the search, from the wanting for what she has always wanted, for what most of us have always wanted, but which now is, in our "middle" age, so elusive -- someone to love. It's very quiet now. She has turned off the TV or the stereo, which is her usual prairie home companion, and has decided to tell her truth to an anonymous group of strangers, most of whom will not even click in to read anything that a 57 year old has to say tonight. For some reason tonight is different. She's more than a little angry about the shallow men who are looking for women too young, too gullible, and too easily impressed by lies and half truths. But as I said, tonight is different. Tonight, she will speak from her heart, without anger, as much to herself as to the CL audience that isn't there.

She pours out her plea for honesty, for substance, for reality based self-appraisal, for a man of passion who, like her, is looking for a friend, partner and lover. She doesn't care if he's won the lottery (although that would be nice). She wants to hear from a person who, like her, is more than a little disappointed in the race for love, now that it's in the home stretch, but still willing to put himself on the line and say, "Here I am. Take a good look at me the way I am (although it would be ok if you don't wear your glasses). Listen to my story, look in my eyes, take my hand, my body (including the 20 pounds too much of it), and my heart. Maybe you and I can be a we."

Tonight is different. It's 3:00 AM in a mobile home right above the beach in Pacific Palisades, and a shortish, intelligent, hard working, and pee in your pants funny man sits at his computer and decides not to go back to bed. He has been sleeping, but as men of his age tend to do these days, gets up now and then to pee, maybe drink some cold milk from a chilled glass bottle, and give a quick look into his cyber window to check for that one email which could lift his spirits and set his heart stirring. It's not there. He's written more than a few women of Yahoo, women his age, who say they are seeking a man like him, but do not respond to his contact. Ok, his white horse limps a little. Some of his once thick, curly hair has moved on to wherever hair goes when it tires of life at the top. The ones left behind wave the white flag. But the person he once was, still is, and he wonders why these women aren't at least a little curious.

He sits on his Swopper, listening now to the waves down below, on the beach where he actually does take walks, although not as many as he would like to. He is also wearing his comfy sleep wear, his furry skin, which keeps him warm and has, on many nights, done the same for another. These days, it's a dog who shares his bed, but the dog understands that he's only holding her place. Whose place, who knows? And on this different night he goes on Craigslist. He's looking for a small dresser to put in his guest room closet, and maybe some bargains in potted plants. Oh, and as long as he's there, he might as well shop for love. This won't take long. Nothing much in the way of drawers and pots, and only young and younger women, who still believe they will find Mr. Right on Thursday, just in time for the weekend.

And there she is, this woman of the valley, and he reads, and doesn't go back to sleep. It's 3:30 now. He writes slowly and carefully, because he wants to answer her well, to let her know that there is at least one man, probably not even the right one, who understands her. And so he does. Sleepy now, he finishes by tellingl her that if she wants to know the details of whom she is hearing from, she should go on Yahoo and search the personals. He won’t be hard to find, he’s 60, his name is Milt, and the lead line of his personal profile is, “Still Frisky After All These Years.”

Two days later she writes back and thanks him for his kind email, but declines the possibility he offers. He sits there shaking his head.

A Short Film

(not that short, not all that long either, sort of an average length film)

FADE IN:

(The scene opens on a shot from above of a car speeding and weaving dangerously on PCH. The person driving is either running from or to someone. We watch as the car careens into a seaside jungle paradise known as Ocean View Trailer Park. As we follow the car up the twisting roads deep into the dark forbidding forest, we glimpse suspicious old people peeking from out of their huts. The car parks and we zoom in on the driver as she emerges sensually from the vehicle. Despite her casual attire, we notice that this is one hot babe. She’s got all the right equipment, in the right places, and from the look in her eyes, we can tell that at some time in the distant past, she knew what to do with it.

She approaches the front door of a palatial manufactured home, passing several women lined up with their Match.com profiles in hand. Obviously, the owner of this place is either an incredible stud, or likes to take long walks on the beach.

As she is about to ring the doorbell she hears the frightening sounds of an angry Welsh Corgi coming from inside. She is trembling, if not with fear, then certainly with anxious anticipation of what is to follow. It’s as if she is being asked to play a part in a movie that has no script, or at least none that she has been given until she walks on the set. Suddenly the door opens revealing Mister M, aka Mr. O, aka Mr. Overweight. He is standing there framed by sunlight shining around his head, wearing an outfit that can only be described as “special.” He is adorable. He smiles that adorable smile of his, and for a moment the woman feels like she is going to faint. As her knees buckle, she vainly tries to hold on to the door frame, but before she can slide to the floor of the porch, M takes her in his incredibly strong, masculine, yet sensitive and gentle hands, and draws her tight, we’re talking really really tight, against his strong, masculine, yet sensitive and gentle loins. She tries to speak, but can only manage a whispered plea.)

SHE: Take me.

HE: Are you talkin’ to me? Well, you must be talkin’ to me cause I’m the only one here.

SHE: I want you to take me . . . take me inside. I’ve been stuck in traffic for a over an hour, and I have to pee something fierce.

HE: Of course. I seem to have that effect on many women. The facilities are down the hall, the first door on the right. Remember, the door on the right, not the left.

(We see a CU of a far off look in his eyes as he recalls countless women who, unhinged by his raw masculinity, have turned mistakenly to the left, become lost in the detritus of the second bedroom and in quiet desperation, pee’d on the carpet.)

SHE: Thank you. I’ll try to remember.

HE: One more thing. You must wear this blindfold. There are things between here and the bathroom that you are not yet ready to experience.

SHE: Blindfold??? Are you fucking kidding me??? Never mind, I’ll hold it in.

HE: I was hoping you would feel that way. Now, take my hand and walk with me towards the sea.

SHE: You mean walk down the deck to the back patio where the dogs pee? Is that what you have in mind for me? Listen Buster, there is no way I’m squatting over that gravel pit of yours. You got some weird idea of romance here.

HE: Would you PLEASE get your mind off your bladder. I’m trying to weave a tapestry here. Work with me on this, ok?

SHE: (realizing how fragile her dream of finding that special someone has suddenly become, and suppressing her gag reflex) Oh. Yes, my darling. Take me to that place where only you know how to teach me how to see the sea through the eyes of love.

(They walk together out to the patio, where there is a magnificent vista of the pure blue sea, and a virgin white sandy beach, speckled with municipal trash cans. The only sound, is the insistent rumble of the Harleys on PCH, their riders on PCP.)

SHE: It’s all so beautiful. (Noticing the table set before her,) Is that what I think it is? Oh God, tell me this isn’t all a dream.

HE: No, it’s not a dream, and yes, it’s for you, and you alone. Please, take a seat. Whoops, I’ll take those. Imagine that, my neighbor leaving his panties on my patio.

(Quickly, he snatches the crotchless undergarment from the chair and shoves them in his pocket. Luckily she is so wrapped up in absorbing the view, she doesn’t notice a thing.)

(After a long period of quiet between them, they begin to enjoy what is set before them)

HE: How do you feel? You seem a bit anxious.

SHE: Oh, never mind the tee tee dance. This is just so perfect.

HE: Great, whatever you say. Let’s move on. I’m going inside now. This timer here is set for 3 minutes, exactly. When the time is up, you may enter and follow your heart. In case your heart is on a break, follow the road to paradise. (He starts the timer.)

SHE: I’m not sure I understand. You want me to go back out on the road?

HE: (stopping the timer) No. What are you talking about? It’s a metaphor, a metaphor for Christ’s sake. Just walk in and . . . and . . . oh, you’ll figure it out. Try not to trip. (He re-starts the timer.)

SHE: Why would I trip? Do you think I’m clumsy, is that what you’re saying? Or do you want me to wear that stupid blindfold?

HE: (Stopping the timer as he sighs heavily, his thoughts visible in a little balloon over his head.) [Why does she do this to me? I’m busting my hump here and all she wants to do is bust my chops. Women! The old saying is so true, “If it wasn’t for that little thing between their legs, there’d be a bounty on them.”] No, my sweet. I want you to enter with eyes wide open to the possibilities before you. “Legs too,” he thinks lasciviously, forgetting the thought balloon over his head. He notices her squinting to make out the words suspended in the air. Luckily they are written in Italics and she isn’t wearing her glasses.)

(Once again he re-starts the timer, aware of the precious seconds he has lost, and hurriedly exits into the house, parting the drawn vertical shades he purchased from 3-Day Blinds, just enough to allow him to slip through, but not enough to allow her inquisitive gaze to follow. Soon after he enters, we hear the sound from inside of someone falling down followed by muffled curses)

(During the following moments as the camera zooms in for a CU of the timer, we dissolve to a montage of her memories: getting drunk and holding hands at Home Depot, her first time at this unbelievable paradise, soaking up the view along with a whole lot of wine, running for her life across PCH, then a quick long walk on the beach then back to his bed for that first drunken embrace. We are suddenly snapped back to the present by the rather annoying chirp chirp of the timer.

SHE: Ready or not, here I come.

HE: What?

SHE: Is it ok to come in now?

HE: WHAT? I can’t hear you. What is that noise?

SHE: It’s the timer.

HE: Well, why don’t you shut the thing off?

SHE: How do I do that?

HE: You push the button marked “Off.”

SHE: Don’t snap at me! I just woke up from a montage, mister big shot romantic! Ok, button . . . button . . . ah, here it is.

HE: So push it already.

SHE; I did. It’s not working.

HE: Well, do something. That sound is driving me crazy.

(She grabs the timer and throws it about 20 yards down to the street below where it hits the asphalt and explodes into a million pieces.)

SHE: Ok, that did it. Coming in now.

HE: What did you do? That’s a very expensive timer.

SHE: Never mind, I’ll tell you later.

(She enters the house and as her eyes adjust to the dim lights she beholds something wonderful and unexpected. She is struck dumb with awe and admiration for this man who has gone to so much trouble to make this happen.)

HE: (from the bedroom) Hello?? Anyone out there.

SHE: You are so fucking adorable!!

HE: I know. I’m also adorable fucking. Ok, now follow the trail and find the envelope. Inside you will find the clues to your next adventure.

SHE: (She finds the envelope and tears it open. Inside is an even more wonderful surprise.) I don’t know what to say. I don’t deserve all this.

HE: Sorry, I think you do. Ok, now continue following your heart, till you come to where you will find what you are looking for.

SHE: (Following the trail down the hall.) Oh, you mean the bathroom? I don’t know about my heart but some part of me is really grateful. Just a sec.

(As she exits into the bathroom the camera holds on the empty hall and slowly zooms towards the closed bedroom door. After what seems like a long time to take a leak, even for a woman, we hear the sound of a toilet flushing. She then slowly emerges from the bathroom, wiping her hands on a towel of course, and walks towards the bedroom door. This happens in slow motion to emphasize the importance of her physical and symbolic journey to where she is destined to be. We watch as she opens the door and softly closes it behind her. The camera does not follow her, as we dissolve to stock footage of a very large train going into a tunnel that some joker in the set department has painted pink on the inside. Ok wait, it’s not a very large train. It’s an average train, certainly not a small train. I’ve seen a lot of trains and I know what I am talking about. It’s definitely not a small train. The picture then becomes hazy, and for a few moments the train looks like some kind of wiener, Oscar Meyer, Hebrew National, who knows exactly what kind of wiener, and for a moment the audience will worry if a soft limp wiener will make it into that tunnel. Not to fear. It’s a frozen wiener, and then it’s back to being a train and then we fade to Black.)

THE END

(As we roll the tail credits, we hear loud moans and oooohs and ahhhhs signifying that someone is either having a very good time or doing a damn well good job of faking orgasm. It hardly matters. Women are so easily fooled.)

What Happened

What happened? You want to know what happened? I’ll tell you what happened!! One day I’m looking in the mirror and I have no idea who the fuck is looking back at me. He could be Chinese for all I could recognize about him. I mean to tell you he was old. Not Strom Thurmond old, but well past his prime if you know what I mean. And he had the goddamnedest expression on his face. He looked like a dog wondering how the hell the cat got up on the kitchen counter.

Then it hit me. That son-of-a-bitch was me. Talk about shocked. I felt like I’d been kicked in the bread basket by a dyspeptic mule. And what’s with the hair? It seems I’ve hit the Daily Double, receding hairline and a bald spot? Worst of all, I didn’t actually lose the hair. No, it just migrated to my fucking ears. Maybe that’s why my hearing sucks.

Speaking of sucking. My current girlfriend really knows how to give a good blow job. I mean she can suck the chrome off a trailer hitch. But lately it’s like trying to raise the dead. I look down and I swear it looks like she’s slurpping up overcooked penne. Scratch that. It just feels like limp penne. I haven’t actually seen my dick without looking in a mirror since Namath was chucking ‘em for the Jets. Yeah, and it’s not a whole lot of fun to be drilling for oil with a Dodger dog either. Oh, I get hard alright, but my dick seems to have the attention span of a roadrunner on coke. “There it is, quick, put it in, put it in! Hmmm, I must remember to buy some Half and Half.” Bada bing, bada no bang, and that’s all she wrote folks! Goodbye hard-on, hello ESPN.

Next day I’m talking to a young thing who works for my doctor. Drop fucking dead gorgeous, and real or not, she’s got tits out to Bakersfield, and they’re always saluting in case a flag walks by. “What’s the problem?” she asks, smiling. Jesus, Mary and Joseph, if my dick went limp last night, it’s positively AWOL now. “Well sweetheart, I’m not going to beat around the bush, because that’s all I could do last night.” “I don’t get it,” she says. “Neither do I,” I reply. Nothing, not even a chuckle. Long on legs, short on brains sits there waiting for the light to go on. “What he means,” chimes in an old fat broad leaning on her walker, is that he can’t get it up.” -- and I swear I can hear those words echoing down, if not every canyon, then certainly the long hall of my doc’s office and into every exam room where my buddies and my ex all happen to be here at the same time for their check-ups. Can it possibly get any worse than this??? You bet your ass it can!!

Coming 'Round the Mountain

Writing isn’t easy for me, especially beginnings. Once I get rolling, it usually just flows out and takes me places I had no idea I was heading. When I have a plan or preconceived idea of what I want to write about, the piece usually sucks, with forced humor and words that just don’t sound like I wrote them. But starting a journey without any idea of where you are heading can be a scary thing. Life is like that. We should be frightened all the time because just over that next hill could be a truck on the wrong side of the road, or your wife leaving, or your dog dying. It seems like the only way we are able to function under the weight of so much uncertainty, is that we fill our lives with expectations, and little plans, and everyday stuff so that we can delude ourselves with the notion that we are in control. The irony is that the real meat of life, the stuff that startles us to the core and lights us up is also unexpected. And very often, the good and the bad get so tangled that we have no way of making sense of it all.

When I was first divorced, it was all new and all bad. I had never lived alone and wasn’t prepared for the quiet. I think that’s why so many people just leave their TV’s on, to fill the space around them with sound, because the quiet is just too empty. For me, I couldn’t go to sleep without classical music playing on the radio. I can still recall pacing and going from one room in my apartment to another without any reason (I do that now, except that I have a good reason to go into the room, but just forget what it was when I get there. Then I put my glasses down and leave, and later can’t find my glasses. I’ll have to write about that later . . . if I remember.)

So to fill my time, I spent many hours on the internet, and as it happened, I started an email liaison with a younger woman from Texas. Except for our common love of motorcycles, we could not have been more different. Me: middle-aged, Jewish, balding, urban. She: thirties, protestant, blond/cute, redneck. But there we were, both lonely and needing something good to happen, and finding it in the unexpected – an improbable, long distance romance. At some point, of course, we would have to meet and consummate our improbability. We did that one long weekend, at a Bed and Breakfast somewhere in the Lone Star State. (If there is any place better to have an affair than a type of hotel named after the sum of what you would be doing there, I don’t know what it is.) I got there first, and I remember how incredible it was to feel that awesome energy that only incipient romance can deliver. I did the room up with flowers, champagne, chocolates, Cokes (champagne before, Coca-Cola after). She was going to arrive that evening, and she intended to surprise me with something. The hours, delicious with anticipation though they were, dragged on and on. I think I showered four times. Just after dark, she arrived at the place driving her truck, and I remember I was surprised that she didn’t ride her bike. She came up to the room, accompanied by the grinning innkeeper and his wife, who knew the whole story. (When I wasn’t showering I was downstairs babbling on and on about why I was there and what was going to happen later.)

When Texas came into the room I noticed she was wearing a long coat, not unusual because it was cold outside. We kissed lightly and hugged for a very long time, like old friends who just happened to be breathing a little heavy. I turned to get the champagne and when I turned back she had removed her coat and was standing there in her motorcycle gear – boots, leather vest, and chaps. No shirt, no pants, and no underwear. She did a little spin so I could get the whole view. I think I may have blacked out. I do know for sure that after what seemed like an hour of staring at this vision of beauty and salvation, standing there wearing little more than a wicked little grin, I became aware that my jaw was wide open, and I was uttering unintelligible syllables. Trust me here, this was one of those coming 'round the mountain moments that sear themselves into your memory forever. Life, all of a sudden, was looking up.

We spent the weekend together, and she more than lived up to her coming attractions. But if that first meeting wasn’t enough to start me up, both at the time and for many a night of fond remembrance, (Forget finding my glasses. When I can’t remember something like that, shoot me.) something happened the next morning, that to this day I still recall as the sexiest moment in my entire life. I was standing at the mirror in the bathroom, shaving, wearing nothing more than a silly grin, when Texas came up behind me, snuggled into my neck and without warning, put a finger in a most sensitive place. Frankly, I do not know how I kept from cutting my throat. And best of all, I then did the coolest thing I’ve ever done. Without a word between us, I kept shaving. Forty five minutes later, I had the closest shave in the history of mankind.

Out of the blue, Texas called me today. It’s been ten years and I could tell from her words and the sound of her voice, that they had been hard years. She needs a favor from me and it seemed that she was very sad, drunk or stoned, and much older than the years that had passed. I told her I would help her if I could, but I wanted to do something nice for her right then, to take away the sadness and weariness in her voice, so I told her how fondly I remembered our time together, and specifically how I seemed to recall that one morning I was shaving and . . . It was good to hear her laugh as she told me that she too remembers that particular shave quite often.

I doubt if we’ll see each other again. I don’t think either of us wants to spoil the memory of what was with how the years have warped what is, but it is good for me, as I hope it is for her, to relive a brief time when unexpected followed unexpected. and jump started two hearts that had run low on love.

Lookin'

During the 11 years since the end of my marriage, there came a time when I decided I needed to date. That word still doesn't sound right to me. A man of middle age shouldn't "date," anymore than he should have a "girlfriend," unless of course she happens to be 19, and is totally smitten with you in spite of all your money. Even if I was a gazillionaire, I don't think I could have anything more than a one nighter with anyone who didn't even exist when JFK was shot. In fact, after two or three hundred of them, one night stands probably wouldn't be all that satisfying anyway. If I win the lottery, I'll get back to you on that.

So how does one go about finding a grown woman to go out with in this day and age? I guarantee that there are no singles bars just chock full of attractive, intelligent, and witty babes between the ages of 50 and 60, and blind fix-up dates are likely to be just as disastrous as they always have been. (I'm embarrassed to say that I actually had dinner with a woman my ex-wife fixed me up with. She was nice enough, but I couldn't handle the implications and ramifications of what continuing to see her would be. I mean do you really want your ex giving your new prospect inside tips? Is to shudder.)

These days, it seems we all eventually find our way to the internet and the plethora of dating services. I’ve used at various times Yahoo Personals, Match.com, AdultFriendfinder, and Jdate. All of these services suck. They lie, they match you with women too young, or too old, or too fat, or too tall, or all of the above. Worst of all they match you with women who haven't been on their service for "more than 60 days (which means anything from 61 days to deceased). But once in a while, one of them doesn’t suck. It all depends on if and where you find that actual, living, breathing, and hopefully loving match. I have had two “relationships” from the internet – both from Yahoo. The first turned out to be, what younger people call, “a friend with benefits.” When I initially heard that I thought it meant a partner with a great health plan. Then I found it meant a partner with a great plan to make you feel, for want of a better word, healthier. Big difference. I knew pretty early that I was not going to fall in love with her, but stuck around too long. It’s hard to say “no more” to those damn benefits.

The second relationship was a comet that burned hot and fast, and lit up my heart like I never thought could happen again. I jumped in with both feet, believing the Zen saying, “Leap and the net will appear.” Wrong. She not only cut the net, but then made sure to throw an anvil in after me. Picture this: We’re laying in bed after sex (ok, you don’t have to really picture that, especially if you’ve just eaten). Our sex life, which started off wonderfully (don’t they all), had now deteriorated to the point where I was considering faking orgasm. So we are laying there and she places her hand on my midsection and says, “You know, if you’d lose that you might get a lot more sex.” Nice, huh? I should have just walked out right there and then, or maybe come back with some childish retort like, “And did you know that sweatpants are not supposed to fit like pantyhose?” But I didn’t do either. I was in love, and let me tell you that love is not only blind, but also deaf, and dumber than a sack of hammers. I stuck around for a couple of more weeks to soak up some more abuse and then, still wondering what happened to us, pulled the plug. I should have known that a woman who writes a blog about middle-aged internet dating, would have too much invested in having relationships fail, the better to keep her in the game.

On the other hand, I have come to realize that after being married for 30 years, and single for 11, that I don’t do alone all that well. I mean you get used to it -- living alone with a dog or two, seeing friends, getting wrapped up in work, shopping, cooking and cleaning (or not), to the point where you have pretty much forgotten that feeling of loneliness that lies dormant way down deep. Except sometimes, just before you go to sleep, while nuzzling a dog or two, that feeling rouses from it’s slumber and whispers softly to you. “Don’t drift off yet,” it says, “You need to hear me before you put us both back to sleep. Schmuck, you are lonely and you need to do something about that. You need to find her, win her, and hold her close to you (ok, I don’t know who she is yet, but work with me on this). You need someone who fits into you like the last piece of that 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle of the Sunset over the South Pacific, the piece that fell off the table and bounced under the couch, and that you looked everywhere for and found years later, covered with dust but still gleaming with promise (no, I don’t mean literally bucko, it’s a tortured metaphor for attractive maturity). And as she completes your puzzle, you complete hers, and you both know this as she snuggles in your arms, where of course she fits, as you both drift off to sleep. Do that please, so we can both move on. You’ve let me hang around way too long.”

So here I am again, sitting at my computer, going online looking for love. I wonder if I can find it on Google. Now THAT would be some kind of search engine.

The S Word

I want to talk about sex – not sex in the abstract or sex in the past, but right now, up-to-the-minute, down and dirty, sex in the senior set. Those of you who are past 50 are now leaning forward, eager to read every word and savor the revelation that sexuality does not expire at 40. Also, you probably don’t see so good, so leaning forward helps. Those of you younger than 50, if you haven’t already run screaming from the room, are probably squirming in your seat, but since I have pointed that out, you will now lean forward and pretend interest, but hope you don’t read something that will make you more nauseous than you already are.

Right away I want to get something straight with any kids in the room -- not children, but kids, young people in their 20’s or 30’s. I like sex, I liked it then and I still like it -- and I like to have sex as often as my body will let me, which is not that often anymore, damn it. I also have news for you. Your parents probably like to have sex. They did it, and they still do it. And think about this. Sometime, maybe just last week, when you called them up in the evening and your dad, in a strained voice, said that mom was busy right now? Guess what she was busy doing. Still with me? Good, it gets better. Your mommy and daddy like to fuck and suck just as much as you do. They did it like crazy till it caused you to come along, and after that they still liked to do it. I know you think they only did it those 3 times when they wanted to have you and your brother and sister, but it doesn’t work that way (unless, of course, you get drunk and have a one-time, one night stand, forget the condom, and 45 days later you get that awful phone call. Don’t ask me how I know that.) Your parents jumped each other’s bones every which way they could come up with. They used every orifice, every appendage, and several household appliances in their quest for that mind blowing orgasm. Hell, I bet that unless they are sitting in the room with you, there’s a good chance they’re doing it right now. I know it’s not pretty, but I think you get the picture.

It’s not that I want to torture you with unthinkable images that I have forced you to think of (although that’s fun too). I just want you to know that being a sexual being, is natural, normal, and doesn’t fade away. So you can take some comfort in knowing that you probably have another 30 or 40 years of glorious bumping nasties ahead of you. As long as you want to use that thing between your legs, it will do it’s best to lead you to heaven and sometimes, unfortunately, to hell.

Mine has led me to both. I had a wife who loved me, and we had great sex. Thirty years, and I swear our sex life just got better and better, right up to the time that she walked out the door. She loved me and I loved her, but I fucked around and that’s the truth. I loved her, but I didn’t care for her, take care of her, take care of us. Had no idea what I could lose. Ten years later, and I still remember that last day, standing in the hallway of the house we built, leaning against the wall to keep my knees from buckling, my tears in her eyes. She had already rented a condo and was all moved in but she was taking a few last things. This was the first night she would never sleep with me again. “Please, don’t go,” I whispered, “Don’t do this.” The hall was lit from a window high above the front door. I looked up and through it I could see a white sky, and the hall was painted white and she had on a white tee shirt. How could everything be so white on this blackest of days? We stood there facing each other. I wanted to grab her and just not let her go, but the white was like ice and I was frozen in place. I watched her turn and walk down the hall. The hallway became a tunnel that stretched to the vanishing point, where she was headed. When she reached the hall tree at the door, she paused. I saw the key in her hand, and I knew that if she put it down, I would die. Frozen in place I would topple over and explode into a million shards. She stood there and held it for a time, for a lifetime, our 30 years together in her hand for one last moment. She gently placed the key on the shelf. Then she opened the door, took a deep breath, and as she walked out she exhaled, and it made a sound like silk sliding through my hands.

I met a woman this week. Yahoo personals. She’s 65. What’s with me and these old women? Oh yes, I forgot, I’m an old man. We met at El Cholo, had a margarita, ate green corn tamales, and danced that same first-date tango that everyone knows and loves, and hates. She’s a writer too, and we both laughed because without planning it, each of us brought our work to give to the other. She was attractive and lively, and got my motor to turn over once or twice. After dinner, I walked her across the street to her car. We said goodbye and kissed – a soft lips, no tongue, but nevertheless inviting kiss that we held a few moments longer than goodnight kiss protocol would suggest. I told her I would call, and I meant it.

At home, I got stoned and went outside, and lay naked on a lounge chair in the cool ocean air, and for more than a few moments allowed myself to feel the peace that comes with possibilities. After a while, I took the suggestion that certain chilled body parts were making that we all go inside. I sat down and wrote her an email. I told her what I had just been doing and of my fantasy of her lying naked on a lounge next to me, of us holding hands, eyes closed, feeling the night, and listening to our breath ebb and flow with the ocean waves. Got an email from her the next morning, saying how much she enjoyed our evening, my writing, but that she didn’t enjoy sex, was aghast at the idea of being nude out in the open. She didn’t want to mislead me. (That’s me sitting there, mouth wide open.) She had always felt that way, and was thinking maybe, after all these years, she could learn to like what she had in the past only tolerated. But then she realized that she could never relax and enjoy sex, that she would always be worried about, “ . . . what was coming next.” Well for one thing, neither of us would be cumming next.

Damn. I thought of all the excitement and ecstasy that she had never known, and how sad it was that she would never know what it felt like to give someone the gift of your very being, and receive the universe in return. See, that’s what I know now, what all the joy and sadness has taught me. That once upon a time, before I killed it, I was part of a great love – for 30 years, for a moment, forever. I crush that memory to me, and hope that maybe, with the grace of Yahoo, Jdate, or backing into each other in the supermarket, I can have all that again, one more, one last time.

(Ok, I know I said this one would be an up-to-the-date, new piece, but it's not. I'm getting closer though, only about 6 or 7 months behind. I'll definitely let you know when my writing is in present time mode. Soon, I promise. Very soon.)