Today, I am celebrating, because much like many of my fellow good flickr members I finally made the effort to make the most of an outstanding invitation from Getty Images to contribute to the flickr collection on their reputable website.
Take a look, I think you'll like what you see!
My Photos on Getty Images
"The only cure for vanity is laughter, and the only fault that is laughable is vanity."
Henri Bergson
November 14, 2008, New York City:
Wishful Thinking
Until very recently, just last week in fact, I thought I was immortal.
Well, perhaps I didn’t feel I could beat death, but rather, somehow, often hubris got the best of me and I felt that I aged better—less rapidly—than others.
Thus, until now, I mocked my mortality.
Any time that I noticed a sign that my years were numbered—a grey hair, ailing bones, tired muscles, weight gain due to ABD, withering eyesight—I merely accepted the inevitable and laughed my worries away.
That is, until now.
For last week I nonchalantly and naively went to get a haircut.
I thought nothing of it. I had a very long day ahead of me for I was managing both a 4-hour senior managers meeting for 80 people in the morning and our department’s annual holiday party for 400 people at night, so I got up at 5 and was at the barber shop by 7.
I told him, “Just give me a trim.” I didn’t need to say much more because Edie, a Russian Jew from Israel, had been cutting my hair for almost nine years now, the same amount of time I’d been working at the Company right around the corner.
Together we’ve been through two divorces, a second marriage, and four kids.
After he held up the mirror to show me how the back looked, I smiled and asked him to give me some hair gel.
He immediately responded, “No, no leave it like it is, your hair is getting thinner.”
“…my hair is getting thinner?” I thought to myself, both momentarily shocked and immediately thrown into a vertigo-of-explanation.
“What do you mean, my hair’s getting thinner? Really, my hair’s getting thinner?” I asked. And after spinning woozily through all the possible explanations—I didn't gel it this morning, knowing I was getting it cut, so it felt soft to him; I've been using a lot more conditioner lately, thus its lithe texture; it hadn't been too long since I got my last haircut—I finally accepted that my barber, the guy who knows my hair better than anyone in the world, was telling me my hair’s getting thinner.
He knew I was suddenly taken aback and somewhat in shock and tried to console me by lying, “Yeah, yeah, you know the gel can do that to your hair.”
I wasn’t satisfied by his ruse though and probed, to my dissatisfaction, even further. “Really, my hair’s getting thinner?” I grimaced, dazed and confused.
Tight-lipped, he raised his brow and conceded, “Yeah, it is getting thinner on top.”
Handing him his money, I smirked back and tried not to blame the messenger .
*
The rest of the day I worked literally nonstop from 7:30 AM until 9 PM, so that I had little-to-no time to ponder this startling revelation.
For the most part I shrugged it off, half in disbelief, half banking on 40 years of good looks and being told I had great hair.
I’ve been told numerous times by barbers and girlfriends alike, “Mexicans have great hair.” And they do. And I am.
But what I’m not, apparently, is immortal. Because, just like everyone else, Mexicans lose their hair too.
Thus on Saturday evening, when Chelsea and I were attending Anna’s art opening with the kids, I told Enzo that he must milk the recent compliments about his golden locks of curly jet black hair while he can.
Apparently, since his mother finally conceded to my pleading to let his hair grow out, women now constantly tell him, “I love your hair!”
Enzo received one such compliment after I introduced him to Sharon at the opening. His reaction was a nonchalant and unamused “Thanks,” walking away as if he had heard those same words a million times before.
*
Apart from this moment of paternal wit, I had successfully ignored the issue for a couple of days, focusing more on the shock of hair, a goatee, that I was growing and grooming on my chinny-chin-chin, than that which apparently had stopped growing atop my head.
That is, until later that same Saturday night.
Chelsea and I had just left the kids behind with the babysitter and we were walking briskly across 62nd Street to the Empire Hotel for Jennifer’s birthday party. It was snowing and bitter cold, so to warm us up I decided to share the funny anecdote about how Sweeny Todd, the demon barber of 28th Street, had told me my hair’s getting thinner.
I fully expected Chelsea to simply laugh with me as I mockingly made fun of my age, my diminishing sense of manhood, and my realization that I was on a journey of no return, but instead she said, “Yeah, that’s one of the first things I noticed about you when we started dating (a year ago).”
“What?,” I reacted, startled more than ever.
“You must be kidding,” I honestly questioned in disbelief.
“No, you're losing hair on the top of your head,” she said, without a losing a beat, without any thought that I might not handle this news very well.
“There is nothing so agonizing to the fine skin of vanity as the application of a rough truth” Edward G. Bulwer-Lytton
Thus, once again, within a matter of days, I was injected with a painful dose of reality—as wise as I may be, the price is determined by the rising costs of age; no comps or free passes here, no Pass Go and Collect $200, no exceptions to the rule this time.
Thus, for the rest of the night I had to allay my growing fears with self-deprecating humor.
Thus, began my obsession in earnest.
Thus, I had to come to terms with my hair-o-noia, the fact that my hair is thinning—i.e. it is falling out, I am going bald, I am getting older, and I’m not half the man that I used to be.
*
I kind of wish that I had learned this lesson before I blew out my candles a few weeks before for my 41st birthday.
Alas, that is only wishful thinking.
Nonetheless and allthemore, I think I’m over my crisis now. Writing about it has always been a great and reliable catharsis for me.
Besides, I have much to grateful for and a gradual loss of hair should be the least of my worries. For there are many-many-millions of people out there without jobs, without homes and without any hair right now.
Moreover, Chelsea said she’d still love me no matter what, with or without hair. So, I’ve got that going for me.
I love you too Chelsea.
Lorenzo
“The surest cure for vanity is loneliness.” Thomas Wolfe
Related Stories:
Stubble Trouble
It’s Not Easy Being a Baldwin…(I’ve got ABD)
Seeing, Into The Future
The Exuberance of Enervation
I am beginning…
But a Number
Aging and Anonymity
It was a good 40 years
Almost 40
*
Check Out My Bookstore:
www.blurb.com/user/store/lorenzodom
A hearty thanks to Mark Rapp and Paved Earth Music once again for their generous support of my book launch party for 25 Lessons I’ve Learned (about photography) held on October 25.
PEM recently posted photos of Mark performing on their website. Check them out here: pavedearthmusic.com
25 Lessons is exclusively available online at blurb.com. It is sold at cost because I prefer that my work be read and inspire many, than to make a small profit off a mere few. Click HERE to visit my bookstore.
So, if you are looking to give a meaningful holiday gift this year, please consider giving those you love a copy of 25 Lessons.
The relaunched and retitled version of the book, contains the same great story as the original (25 Lessons: The Art of Living) and now also showcases the 25 prints from my first solo show in New York, 25 Decisive Moments. You can see a slideshow of these photos online at ARTslant.
To find out more about the book, the story and the author, please visit www.25Lessons.com
I’d also like to recommend purchasing my friend Mark Rapp’s debut album, soon to be released by Paved Earth, entitled Token Tales. For more information about Mark, his debut album and where to purchase it please check out:
www.markrapp.com
pavedearthmusic.com
And please tell them Lorenzo sent you…
Regards,
Lorenzo
The famous psychiatrist, Dr. Karl Menninger said, “Attitudes are more important than facts.” That is worth repeating until its truth grips you. Any fact facing us, however difficult, even seemingly hopeless, is not so important as out attitude toward the fact. How you think about a fact may defeat you before you ever do anything about it. You may permit a fact to overwhelm you mentally before you start to deal with it actually. On the other hand, a confident and optimistic thought pattern can modify or overcome the fact altogether.
Norman Vincent Peale, The Power of Positive Thinking
Spread Happiness: Gay Marriage is a Question of Love
November 10, 2008, New York City:
Please take a moment to watch this important video, A Question of Love by Keith Olbermann, Anchor for MSNBC's 'Countdown,' and then pass it on to others.
You can read the transcript here: Marriage is a Question of Love
As is written on Paul Jeromack's facebook page, where I originally came across this beautiful commentary, "If you don't tear up watching this, you have no soul."
I couldn't agree more.
Lorenzo
Plotting My Escape
November 11, 2008, New York City:
It’s that time again.
The air is cold and uninviting, and my mood—lamentably somber.
The leaves are falling, people are coughing and constantly zipping their liners in and out of their coats; I have the urge to shutter myself away somewhere where no one can find me, so that I might find myself again, because, frustratingly, I’m feeling lost.
And my buttons are falling off again and the cuffs and collars of my shirts are fraying too, but this time—I’m not as inspired to fix them.
Things are in flux everywhere.
There’s a promising transition to power in place that has people dancing in the streets.
Yet, there’s also a looming concern that has people looking over their shoulders, worrying a little more than usual, being all-too-easily irked by strangers pushing against them in crowded subway cars, and fretting about the future—of our jobs, our homes and our disappearing retirement funds.
And yet, we are the lucky ones.
Because there are also a lot more people sleeping in the streets and in the doorways of empty retail spaces and under scaffolding and on top of any warm grate available in cities all across the country.
I recently went to Miami for a few days to try and relax, but instead I just became more restless. To relieve the boredom I took to taking photos in the streets of the night crawlers passing homeless people and hapless drunks sleeping on the sidewalks or in storefront nooks. I couldn’t help but notice that there were a lot of them.
Chelsea recently told me that the bums that come in daily to the hospital are complaining, “There ain’t no more spots anywhere, anymore” and that if they leave their spot to come into the hospital, its gone by the time they return.
A phenomenal number of foreclosures (over 2 million this year alone, almost double last year’s), the highest unemployment rate in 14 years, higher food and medical care costs, and decreases in social welfare programs over the last 8 years have all led to an “alarming” increase in homelessness across the nation, according to a recent article by USA Today.
Thus, my somber mood.
Thus, this lament.
Thus, the yearning to cloister and fall off the edge and into the fire, so that we may rise again ,renewed.
Alas, I am no Phoenix, I am no Christ, no Joan of Arc.
But, I can fix buttons.
Note: Photo taken at Nine Rivers Gala at Rubin Museum on October 7, 2008.
Kasidah Haji Abdu'l el Yezdi
There is no Good, there is no Bad;
These be the whims of mortal will.
What works me weal, that I call good;
What harms and hurts I hold as ill.
They change with place, they shift with race,
And, in the veriest span of time,
Each Vice has worn a Virtue's crown,
All Good was banned as Sin or Crime.
I thought I’d put in a plug for one of my best friend’s work. He’s a producer at NBC Dateline and on Monday night one of his shows premiered on TV to rave reviews (see comments on Rayner’s blog).
It can now be seen online on MSNBC.com.
As the following article denotes, the redemption of an innocent man, imprisoned for 22 years, and the capturing of the real Bike Path Rapist, highlighted the notion that Buffalo, with a population of over 275,000, is actually a small town, that is getting smaller.
It is ever-shrinking, not only in the sense that since 1950 Buffalo’s population has diminished as its industrial base declined—in the last 7 years alone, almost 6% of its people have moved elsewhere—but also in the more dramatic light that this investigation shined on the fact that many people had everyday, seemingly quite provincial connections with the serial rapist and killer of three.
Needless to say, this gave those involved a poignant sense that—indeed, it is a small world after all.
Strangely enough, this it’s-a-small-world-in-Buffalo phenomena hit home for me this past summer as well.
For while Rayner was in the throes of his investigative journalism on the case, unbeknownst to him, it so happened that I was dating a law student from Buffalo, who was in New York City for an internship.
One evening, fresh from one of his trips to Buffalo, which is 6 hours and 400 miles north of New York City, Rayner stopped by my apartment for a visit.
It so happened that Becca was visiting too, and so when I mentioned that she was from Buffalo, his eyes popped open and he was suddenly inspired to ask her if she happened to know the woman he had just started dating—the woman who would eventually move to New York City from Buffalo and become his live-in girlfriend, the woman who I would come to consider a good friend and who would eventually end up working directly across the street from me on Park Avenue, the woman with whom I would share our television debut, the woman who was a photographer and a fire dancer….
Becca smiled and immediately said, “Yes, you mean Karen? She used to live in the apartment directly above me…”
Needless to say, I too have come to believe that indeed—it is a small world after all.
On The Trail of The Bike Path Rapist
by Rayner Ramirez
One of the safest towns in America reignites a cold case that haunted police for decades after the mysterious killing of a middle class professor's wife and mother of four. Keith Morrison travels to Buffalo, N.Y. to report on the death of Joan Diver and the possible return of the town's "bike path rapist," Dateline
Buffalo, NY: The City of Good Neighbors is "not a small town, but a big room with a large couch." Local historian Bill Zimmerman says that it’s the type of town where everyone knows everyone -- or soon will. From my experience working on this story Buffalo truly is a city of good neighbors.
Perhaps one of the strangest coincidences in this story that reflects Buffalo’s small town feel is that Anthony Capozzi’s sister Pam Guenther attended the same high school only a couple of years behind Altemio Sanchez.
The multi-agency task force was made up of more than a dozen investigators; each brought with them their own personal history of the legendary bike path rapist.
Bike Path Rapist Take Force at Niagara Square, Buffalo, NY
Chief Scott Patronik from the Erie County Sheriff’s Department grew up with Detective Lissa Redmond who happened to attend the same high school as one of Altemio Sanchez’ rape victims.
State Police Captain Captain Steven Nigrelli’s father was a Sergeant in the Buffalo Police Department and his uncle was an investigator on the bike path rapist’s second murder victim.
Amherst Police Detective Joseph LaCorte was on patrol when Linda Yalem was killed in 1990 and has continued to work on the case since.
The tragic killing of Joan Diver, mother of four, brought the four agencies together four agencies -- the Amherst Police Department, the Buffalo Police Department, Erie County Sherriff's Department and the New York State Police. With the advent of modern-day DNA technology identifying the assailant's genetic make up as possibly Hispanic and the unprecedented cooperation and information-sharing between the agencies, the 20-year-old cold case was solved quickly.
Within two months of the formation of the task force, the suspect and admitted bike path rapist and killer was apprehended.
Many of the investigators consider this the best case of their career, not simply for solving a case but also for the silver lining of the investigation: the exoneration of Anthony Capozzi, wrongly imprisoned for more than 22 years.
Detective Dennis Delano (left) with Anthony Capozzi at a party to celebrate his release
As Detective Alan Rozansky said "I told my kids, I’ve been here 36 years. You'll hardly remember who I arrested. But you remember the one person that was innocent that got out because of our police work."
A party to celebrate Anthony Capozzi’s release was thrown by the very same restaurant where Sanchez had dinner with his wife and where investigators collected the glass and napkin that yielded DNA evidence that linked Sanchez to nine rapes and three murders.
In the end, Altemio Sanchez apologized for his crimes at his sentencing. He is serving 75 years but that brings no comfort to his victims or the children who will grow up without their mother.
View LARGE.
I know I’ve said it before, if you count my posted photos that’s practically 25,000 times before, but I just have to say it again—God, I Love New York!
I got off the R train this morning at 6:55 feeling exuberant after taking a few good shots on the subway and walked up onto Broadway at 23rd—I was in awe of what I saw.
Most people, especially hurried-frazzled, and often frustrated, New Yorkers might likely say, “There’s a bunch of people crossing the street—so what?”
So what is that I saw something much more magnificent.
For I saw a unified horde of dark and tan overcoats scurrying across the glistening wet streets of this teeming metropolis, streets that are often striped with incredibly-aesthetically appealing white lines; the moving scene as a whole, complementing an exquisitely grey-and-blue overcast sky that served as the backdrop to the landmark Flat Iron building in the near-distance.
At that moment I yearned to get my camera out and take more photos. Alas, I knew I had important work at the office waiting for me, and so I couldn’t linger and loiter about the streets as I would have otherwise preferred to have done. I thought to myself, “God, what I would give to be able just to take photos of the city and its people all day long!”
As I crossed Madison Square Park, I also thought, “God, I Love New York!”
Because, I do.
What I see everyday is often gut-wrenchingly amazing to me. Thus, I am often compelled to either take my camera or pen-and-pad out to somehow capture the ineffable.
In particular, I am especially enamored by city people, if only because I believe everyday people are beautiful—much more so than nipped-and-tucked, botoxed-and-otherwise “beautified” celebrities. And I think, if I lived in the country, instead of the city, I find the weathered faces and callused hands just as beguiling.
Nonetheless and allthemore, I am rather fortunate to live and work and love in New York City.
Thus, I practically creamed my pants this morning when I saw a young lady crossing the street dressed in a fashionable P-coat, Prince-purple velvet stilettos, an unlit cigarette coolly dangling from her hand, and jeans tattered at the cuffs—I was whet, not because it turned me on in some sort of sordid-lascivious way, but rather because it piqued the bestial aesthete in me.
Sometimes I walk about this city and think, “Who needs galleries and catwalks and glossy magazines when you have a vibrant-and-glorious living museum buzzing about you day-in and day-out?”
Fact is, if you open your eyes and allow all your senses to tune in to your surroundings, the scenery of your diurnal journey—you don’t! need others to curate, exhibit or otherwise display what is "beautiful" for you. Beauty is truly in the eye of the beholder, and thus, sometimes all you need to do is simply stop, if only for a moment, and behold.
Problem is, most of us, me included, are stuck behind a desk for most of the day. Most of us must grind and grunt and bend over, over and over again, all day long, so that ultimately, we don’t get to see or experience much beyond three grey carpeted cubicle walls. And most of us, are too frazzled and preoccupied otherwise when we leave to take notice of anything as we horse-blind our way home.
Regardless, on my short excursions to and from work, I still find myself invigorated by the little I do get to behold on the streets of my beloved city.
Much of the time what I feel about this town is equivalent to what one feels when you first fall in love with someone, and you want to tell them how and why and that you do—love them—over and over again.
And that’s exactly how I feel about New York City.
Thus, with this set I’m sharing a few sneak preview shots of four different sets of new photos that I am working on, which convey my exuberance and passion for NYC.
The subway shots here were taken this morning at 7 AM on the 1 and R trains, the other two were taken last Thursday night, during and after a photo shoot with my dear friend Gillian Crosson for a prospective upcoming advertising campaign.
January 10, 2008, New York City:
Ten of the photos in this set were taken of the crowd at the new Robert Rauschenberg Runts exhibition on opening night at Pace Wildenstein.
I kept hearing everyone asking, “Are these paintings?” Amazingly, they really do look like photographs.
“The paintings Runts on exhibit each measure approximately 5' x 6' and are the smallest works the artist has produced in many years. These channel surfing montages are assembled from Rauschenberg’s archive of photographs, which he then transfers onto polylaminate synthetic material mounted on aluminum panels. Runts represents a decades-long involvement in transfer images that began over 50 years ago transferring the medium of photography into painting.”
And yes, Jessie, he was there; he’s still alive, in a wheelchair, but after 60 years of shows and hundreds of solo exhibits, he's still quite alive…
Occasionally, I will complain that men have little choice when it comes to what we wear. Or at least, we have a lot less choices than women do.
On New Year’s Eve, I went out with Chelsea and the night before she told me she wasn’t sure what dress she should wear. I rebutted that I wasn’t sure what I should wear at all, since I had very few choices to begin with.
I didn’t want to wear a suit, because I wear one everyday, and that’s no fun. New Year’s Eve is meant to be fun! and so how could it be fun if I dressed as if it were any other day?
I didn’t want to go casual, i.e. khakis or jeans or even black dress pants with a v-neck sweater, because once again, it’s New Year’s Eve! and dressing casually on New Year’s Eve just didn’t seem festive enough for me.
Hence, I was left with but one choice. One choice, which I knew surely put me at odds with most other men in the crowd—black tie.
You see, I love wearing black tie, and I wish I had an opportunity to wear it more often. Especially since I take some pride in the fact that I can tie a bow tie and don’t rely on a clip on.
Thus, although I knew the party we were going to wasn’t a black tie event per se and inevitably I would get a smattering of “Waiter, more Champaign please!” jokes from the sorely underdressed, I didn’t care. I wanted to dress up for the occasion, and so I was willing to tolerate the jibes in order to befit what I felt should be a time for extraordinary revelry.
*
Besides, dressing in black tie in the past has brought me good luck.
On New Year’s Eve, 1995-96, my girlfriend—eventually to-be wife—eventually not-to-be wife—and I, decided to attend First Night in New York City. We decided to dress the part and got all fancied up, long black dress for her, black tie for me.
Our first stop was dancing at Grand Central Station, where two photographers from The New York Times, took our photos while dancing. Subsequently, we made the front page of The Times, “Dancing (and Kissing)” on New Year’s Day, 1996.
*
However, all that said, after seeing some ghastly outfit on some random girl this morning, I realized that our wardrobe disadvantage can also be a distinct advantage. Because a dearth of dress choices also means it is a lot more difficult for men to make bad dress decisions and fashion faux-pas (paws).
It is the first day back at work of the New Year
and all day long I’ve been looking out the window.
I can’t help but notice that the sky is the limit out there.
Whereas, here inside there’s a pretty short ceiling;
If I get on my ergonomic chair and stretch, I can touch it.
These chairs are designed to keep us comfortable,
they say—to prevent debilitating back and wrist injuries;
I say, they’re so we stay in our chairs longer.
I know I can’t complain, and I’m not, but I am realizing
that, if I’m lucky I have another 40 years of life to live,
and I’m just not sure I want to spend the next 25 of them stuck
under a short ceiling. Actually, I'm sure I don’t.
Yes, I understand a ceiling means shelter, it means safety
and it means security. But it also means less fervor, less fresh air,
and less freedom to do and roam where I want, whenever I want to.
I think I’ve just realized my first New Year’s resolution—
to make a change, so that for the next 25 years I don’t spend my days
simply looking out windows.
I want to look in a little more often.
*
Excerpted from Courage, the Joy of living dangerously by Osho:
But would you like to remain always in your mother's womb? It is very protective. If it was given to you to choose, would you choose always to be in the mother's womb? It is very comfortable, what more comfort is possible? Scientists say that we have no yet been able to make a situation more comfortable than the womb. The womb seems to be the last, the ultimate in comfort. So comfortable—no anxiety, no problem, no need to work. Sheer existence. And everything is supplied automatically—the need arises and immediately is supplied. There is not even the trouble of breathing—the mother breathes for the child. There is no bother about food—the mother eats for the child.
But would you like to remain in the mother's womb? It is comfortable but it is not life. Life is always in the wild. Life is there—outside.
The English word “ecstasy” is very, very significant. It means to stand out. Ecstasy means to get out—out of all shells and all protections and all egos and all comforts, all deathlike walls. To be ecstatic means to get out, to be free, to be moving, to be a process, to be vulnerable, so that winds can come and pass through you.
Reversal of Fortune
Funny how easy it is to feel like you’re on top of the world one day, and then feel like you’re at the bottom of the barrel the very next.
And vice-versa.
Last night, I experienced just such a change of fortune, as my flatmates, Dr. Lorenzo and Jane hosted a belated birthday dinner party for me. In attendance were Caroline, Ezra, Robert and Stephanie.
Catered by L&J, we all sat down to a sumptuous Mexican meal of tacos: corn tortillas stuffed with superbly sautéed chicken, peppers and onions; freshly cut cilantro, tomatoes and limes; jalepeños, guacamole, pineapple salsa and lots of cheese (because as Enzo, my oldest son, loves to say “Papa, Mexicans love cheese! They like to put cheese on cheese.”).
Needless to say, the libations overflowed and laughter careened throughout the evening, eventually carrying us all out and onto Havana Central at The West End, where we danced the night away, until midnight, when age became of us and we decided to let the college kids continue on with the revelry.
So, once again, I was reminded of how fortunate I am to have such great friends. Once again, my companions helped me see the light at the end of the tunnel. And once again, I could rightly smile again.
Thank you one and all for making 40 years extraordinarily meaningful.
Lorenzo
"Understand that friends come and go, but with a precious few you should hold on. Work hard to bridge the gaps in geography and lifestyle, because the older you get, the more you need the people who knew you when you were young.">
— Mary Schmich
November 22, 1967, San Jose, CA - November 22, 2007, New York City, NY:
In the photo above, my flatmate, Dr. Lorenzo, gives a thumbs-up! to our first evening out together as flatmates. He is one of the two Lorenzo's that make up our household, me being the other one of course. The lovely and fun-loving Jane, is our third flatmate.
It is easy to tell the difference between the good doctor and I, when one realizes that he looks a lot like the football (soccer) player David Beckham...or at least, that's what his mother recently told him...Mothers say the darndest things don't they?
Man, where would we be without the unconditional and blind love of our mothers? I can't imagine, especially since we truly owe our lives to them.
Coincidentally, it was on this day, some 40 years ago, that I was brought into this wonderful life by my mother. And being that today happens to also be Thanksgiving this year I want to convey a few words of gratitude to one of the women that I love most in the world....my mama.
I wrote the following piece some years ago, but I beleive it bears repeating in honor of this special and momentous occassion. Thanks for everything Mom. Even though we are a country apart, and duty and olbigation often keep me from calling you more often, feel reaasured that I love you dearly and think of you often.
Your Mijo on The Other Coast,
Lorenzo
For My Mother
For my mother than and there, teaching truth subsequent years would sully, mar, overturn; her tenets and her rules and her love and her unrelenting piety; bearing her cares and woes and concerns before the Guiding Force that eventually, I would come to disavow.
For how my mother's fortitude always reigned supreme, the sacrificing of everything: trust, hope, dreams, joy, pleasure, greed—the toil taking another day away, with each meal alone being a sacrament of its own: the shopping, the chopping, the stewing, the stirring, the serving, the feeding, the cleaning, the conceding to barely noshing a meal of her own while standing smiling over the stove.
For the countless days of comfort; shameless embraces, kisses and administration of drugs and tea and spoons of honey with lemon-brandy, patient prayers at my bed, the wonderful Seuss stories she read, the surrender of self and never a complaint, its no wonder I know my mother is a saint.
For the devoted dark years she sat waiting, anticipating a call, eventually resigning to it all, preparing for the fall of her faith—the matrimony of the wife to HIS life as sanctioned by heaven, for the embarrassing task of taking him from Alberto's bar where he would inevitably be. For all the lonely nights women endure, while their men sin and cruelly enact their Manifest Destiny.
For all the years we went to school and she held our hands, let us cry, could not deny us the prolonged goodbye, showed us how to catch the bus, packed lunch everyday for all three of us, always made sure we had breakfast too, ensured that no matter how smart we proved and bullies pushed we would never be their fool, and she made sure the homework was done, helping us with everything from one plus one, to "Joe ran with Sam to school."
For the eerie evenings she would sit up with me as a somnolently three pointing to shadows at window sills, to scarier nights when at midnight I'd still not returned, as I had turned from precocious kid to boy-becoming-man who was learning to go out into the land to roam away from the nest, the mothership, the comfort zone of home.
For the skimping with which she had to acquire us clothes, second-hand customer with first-grader, toddler and infant in tow; the pittance of penance she was forced to pray for the doubts and the sentence of a marital mistake; the shy look she might take to the mirror with the ravaging that giving birth left in its wake; a hidden tear shed in fear of what nurturing, the mothering, the matrimonial suffering would ruthlessly pillage and the years of youth it would take.
For the guiding light, the well of joy, the gifts of practical wisdom and undaunted mirth; for the reassurance of our worth with hugs and words, and the constant warmth of mother earth; for the celestial meals that after twenty years I would finally learn to appreciate, and for her ardent belief, despite the grief of my deepest doubts, that St. Peter will be awaiting me at Heaven's Gate.
For the lack of griping when at 6 AM she was typing helping me turn in my essay on time, for the prime example of benevolence, altruistic energy's expense, and the selfless giving sublime; for the magic act of making more of less, and for hiding all her humanness that might be misconstrued as sin or crime.
And by this poor recounting, I am accounting for the pangs of childhood, the bliss of my coming-of-age, and all the strife quietly endured by my blessed mother, the sage. But this is much more than an acknowledgement of Mom alone, for now that I have grown to raise two angels of my own, I must let it be known that their mother, who gave them life, is my Mama cloned, and I could not be more fortunate to have her for my love, my wife and the matron of our home.
*
Uh, it may seem that the last stanza is a bit out of date, considering things have changed a bit over the last couple of years..., but I will say nonetheless and allthemore, that my sincere appreciation remains intact. Just because it didn't work out between us as partners, it doesn't mean that we still can't and don't try in earnest to act in unison as parents.
The poem above was originally inspired by For My People by Margaret Walker and is part of a collection of 222 poems I wrote some years ago entitled A Letter To A Muse: Part 1 and Part 2.
“Every man I meet is my superior in some way. In that, I learn of him.“
—Ralph Waldo Emerson—
I don’t like board games, or “bored games” as I like to spell them.
I just don’t. Never really have, never really will.
Give me a deck of cards, and I’ll play poker with you for hours on end. But ask me to play Risk or Clue or Monopoly, and well, I’d just have to pass.
However, I learned to like them in a different way today, when I sat and watched my two boys play Monopoly with my mother, their grandmother, for a couple of hours this morning.
I was intrigued, impressed and inspired by their genuine enthusiasm for the game. Watching the boys smile and get excited whenever they passed Go, or better yet, whenever one of their opponents had to pay them, made me realize how fun the game can actually be, if you know how to play it right.
The first cardinal rule of play being: you must play for fun, you cannot take it at all too seriously, in other words, you must play when you play, not work. It’s not about whether you win or lose, its about how you play the game, at least…until you lose, then it’s all about winning.
Nicky, the six-year-old, was the best sport of them all, because whereas Mom and Enzo, his older and rather intellectually astute brother, were buying property left and right, he decidedly to wait and wait and wait before moving to trump over his opponents by belatedly jumping into the real estate mogul game, and somehow pulling out in front within a matter of an hour.
The entire time he was joking and having everyone pay him with the smallest denominations possible, because he felt that having ten dollar bills was far better than simply having one ten dollar bill. In turn, this frustrated his opponents, as it always took them ten times as long to count the money.
As we get older, we learn efficiency—e.g. paying a $40 rent with four ten dollar bills is better than paying with 20 one dollar and 4 five dollar bills; and i.e. buying property at the first opportunity possible, is the best strategy.
Oh, but apparently not for Nicky—because he just focused on having fun, and regardless of whether or not he won, I found that somehow he was slated to come out on top, if only, because he had a genuinely good time playing.
And despite a slightly more earnest demeanor, Enzo also exhibited great exuberance for the game. In fact, and I am somewhat embarrassed to admit this, he connected the mental dots for me with one such display of excitement.
He had just bought the third hotel to complete ownership of all purple-colored properties, when he suddenly sprang to his feet and began dancing, simultaneously singing, “I’ve got a monopoly! I’ve got a monopoly!”
It was only there and then that I truly made the connection between the name of the game and the ultimate objective. Until now, after almost 40 years, the primary means of trumping your opponents and the 8-letter word hadn’t crossed in my mind. Duh.
Nonetheless and allthemore, observing this dynamic made me happy, and moved me to realize that perhaps the reason board games have always bored me was that I played them with the wrong attitude, for I’ve long found them frivolous, a matter of time that could be better spent in earnest reading or writing or doing something that endowed me with greater knowledge or insight. Not realizing that sometimes there is no greater insight or knowledge than knowing what it is that makes your kids smile, excited, and ultimately, happy.
Moreover, as I will be celebrating my 40th birthday in a few days, I am wholly appreciative of these gifts that my children have given me. For there is no greater gift than when someone teaches you something, especially when that someone is your child.
To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have succeeded.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson—
*
Originally posted as part of the lost man chronicles, a long-long time ago.
August 12, 2007, Atlanta, GA:
Goodbye, Sweet Georgia
On my last day in Georgia I decided to go take a look at a bunch of dead people, a big-ass chicken and a grocery store, all of them in what appears to be a rapidly growing Mexican enclave of Atlanta—Marietta.
The first stop was the Marietta National Cemetery.
I love going to cemeteries, for it is almost always a beautiful respite to the usual scurry of life, it is peaceful and respectful, unlike life in the city can be. Moreover, the aesthetics are usually extraordinary—meticulously carved marble statues of cherubs, eerie looking ladies and the like; a well-kept and crafted landscape; as well as a sun that streams the essence of life through trees—combined these elements make me feel like a teenager gawking at all the girls on the beach.
Alas, there was no wood to bury in the sand this time. The only thing that turned me on was the dead wives club gathered at the top of the hill. I was ignorant of the fact that apparently wives of military men can elect to be buried along with them at our national cemeteries, and thus it tickled me to learn something new. Most of the gravestones in this area were conspicuously absent of any names though, apparently plots to be filled by those widows who never marry again.
Moving on, I had planned to visit the Confederate Cemetery, but with a little more than a couple of hours left before flight time, I skipped it and stopped by Harry’s instead. This made my little detour back to Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport all worth the while.
But first, I paid my respect to The Big Chicken, a wonderfully unique historical landmark which the locals apparently use to direct people about — "In the shadow of the Big Chicken" being a common phrase around town. The original owner, Tubby Davis, decided to ward off competition to his hamburger franchise, Johnny Reb’s, by focusing on fried chicken instead and thus commissioned Hubert Puckett to design and build the sheet metal structure that rose 56 feet above the ground.
Over time though, the giant bird dilapidated until finally KFC (Kentucky Fried Chicken) came to the rescue in 1993. After pressure from the community to keep it, the company chose to refurbish and keep the gargantuan icon.
Apparently, Pepsi made an even more prudent choice when it bought KFC. Because, not only did it acquire a staple of food in the south—fried chicken—but it also got a notable landmark in turn. Quite a coup, considering Atlanta is staunch Coca-Cola country.
At Harry’s Farmer’s Market, although the synopsis on roadsidegeorgia.com intrigued me—“The ethnically diverse staff at Harry's crosses every racial line and geopolitical border. So do the vegetables. It is easy to find vegetables that you probably have never heard of, and probably can't pronounce the name, so don't try.“ —admittedly, I was pleasantly surprised to find much more than I could have ever imagined or expected.
Beyond the impressive variety of fresh produce, the arrangement of every basket of exotic fruit, root and vegetable was more aesthetically pleasing then any visit that I’ve ever paid to the Met, MoMA or the Guggenheim. I was convinced that whomever arranges their food must have went to art school. Moreover, I haven’t been this picture hungry since the last time I was in aVallarta popular Mexican supermarket in Pasadena, California.
That time though I was accosted by the store manager and asked to stop taking photos—with anthrax scares and 9.11 weighing heavy on everyone’s souls, having some uninvited phototog taking pictures was a bit too unnerving.
I also figured that they might also be afraid that I was a health inspector or journalist looking to exploit the fact that Mexicans like me eat chicken feet and tripa,stomach lining, which is a key ingredient in the Mexican breakfast of champions, Menudo, one of my all-time favorite dishes.
Nonetheless, this time I got away with it and I felt as if I had just stolen a bunch of Mirots, Pollocks, and Manets.
As I finished my tour of this amazingly artful supermarket, I realized that I was only an hour and a half away from my flight.
Of course, suddenly my corporate AMEX didn’t work at the check out counter, so I had to pay for breakfast out of my own pocket today. Despite the delay, the young man at the counter assured me that I was only half an hour away from the airport.
Thus, with all the good folks in churches there was very little traffic at this time I was able to cruise along at an 80-mile an hour clip (no one seems to heed the speed limit down here). This allowed me to say goodbye to sweet Georgia, with a few self portraits.
Along the way I heard a new favorite song, Bucky Covington’s It’s a Different World, which is number 6 on the country charts right now. It made me feel quite nostalgic. More importantly, it made me think about how much I miss my boys—because I truly miss them a whole damn bunch. I can only hope that their childhoods don’t pass me by while I vie to make an example of my life.
We were born to mothers who smoked and drank
Our cribs were covered in lead-based paint
No childproof lids
No seatbelts in cars
Rode bikes with no helmets
and still here we are
Still here we are
We got daddy's belt when we misbehaved
Had three TV channels you got up to change
No video games and no satellite
All we had were friends and they were outside
Playing outside
It was a different life
When we were boys and girls
Not just a different time
It was a different world
School always started the same everyday
the pledge of allegiance, then someone would pray
not every kid made the team when they tried
We got disappointed but that was alright
We turned out alright
It was a different life
When we were boys and girls
Not just a different time
It was a different world
No bottled water
We'd drink from a garden hose
And every Sunday,
All the stores were closed.
It was a different life
When we were boys and girls
Not just a different time
It was a different world
—Bucky Covington, A Different World—
After dropping off the sporty Mariner at the car rental station and taking the shuttle to the check-in counter, once again, for some strange reason, my charge card failed to work for me.
The e-ticket kiosk said it could not check me in. When I asked for some assistance I was informed that it wasn’t the card’s fault. Apparently, no one had bothered to tell me that beyond dressing in pajamas so that I can get through the security line easier; putting liquid toiletries in a clear zip-lock bag, and not carrying nail clippers, lighters and corkscrews, two of which I’ve lost to the security agents before, one of them this time around; apparently now you have to arrive at least 45 minutes before your scheduled departure at the ATL or otherwise they won’t let you on the plane.
At least you’re not supposed to be checked in—for even though I had missed the cut-off point by five minutes the stern lady gave me a break after I softened her up with her my biggest, most charming, humblest smile ever and politely asked if she could please make an exception on my behalf this time around. Gratefully , she did—and so I ran and was the last person to board the plane.
It was a fairly full flight but to my delight I was able to switch to a three-seat emergency exit row, which I had to myself for the next 2.5 hours, while everyone else had to share their rows on the plane.
I scrawled away and read most of the time, and as usual, was also inclined to take a few pictures of the majestic sky at 30,000 feet. Very few things beyond the beauty of a woman, art, and now, some gorgeously arranged groceries have so consistently turned me on aesthetically as the heavens above have, especially when I’m flying or enjoying the good life down south in sweet-sweet Georgia.
Nonetheless, as great of a time I had while working and spending time with good ol’ and gorgeous new friends, I’m looking forward to coming back home—and seeing my children, getting back to the grind, and taking more of the kind of photos that I love to take most—of the city, the streets, and its people.
For as much as I love the country, I still thank God that I’m a city boy.
The most beautiful girl in the world isn’t Garbo, isn't Dietrich…
No, she’s practically every woman I know.
Inspired by my friend innita’s group ginotropia, I’ve compiled this set in honor of those who make my life complete—as well as fun, exciting, blissful, meaningful and always worth the wile.
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a fashion model's size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
I say
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride of my steps
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please
And to a man
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees
Then they swarm around me
A hive of honey bees.
I say
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth
The swing of my waist
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say
It's in the arch of my back
The sun of my smile
The ride of my breasts
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say
It's in the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand
The need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
—Maya Angelou, Phenomenal Woman—
Disclaimer: Oh, boy…apparently a lot of my female friends, especially those who fall within the infamous 24-42 Rule now have a big bone to pick with me…
Hello! This is sarcasm and it is supposed to be brutally honest, it is about a moment when men are being men when they free to be so; it is old hat for some and insight for others. It is not meant to be the final word on anything nor does it necessarily reflect my true opinion nor those of the friends involved. It does represent a genuine moment of male bonding though, and sometimes empathy, the glue that bonds, is evoked at the ribald expense of the innocent.
So, don’t continue reading if you are easily offended…
A Little Love and Affection (Is All We Need)
January 26, 2007, New York City:
I’m drinking a lot of water this morning.
I had a great time last night, or as Claudio might say “I had SUCH a great time, Lorenzo.”
I will miss Claudio. He is returning to Switzerland next Wednesday. He has been such great flatmate to have over the last three months. I have been very fortunate to have had such a fine fellow, a gentleman and a scholar, a general all-around good guy, to share my apartment with, to play soccer with, and to have great times with, as we did last night. My kids quickly grew to love him. And even my mother, who met him when she was here a few weeks ago, often asks me to say hello to him for her.
Despite what others might think, I’m not afraid of gushing. Because my sentiment here is based on genuine amity and an appreciation for our newfound friendship. Besides, one should be able to acknowledge and express the most positive things in our lives without having to think twice.
Nonetheless and allthemore, Claudio, Robert and I met up at the apartment last night and we began the evening with a toast of champagne and a little smoke. As often happens, we eventually ended up laughing over a not-so-deep discussion about the great differences between the people of Venus and those on Mars; the twain rarely seeing eye to eye, because our desires and aspirations so often clash or cross or run off track, a track that we try so desperately, so futilely, to run on together.
The 24-42 Rule
At one point, we began discussing dating. I conveyed that a friend, a lifelong bachelor, had once told me that he learned, somewhere along the path too-often-taken that it was important to abide by The 24-42 Rule – “I only date girls that are 24 or younger, or 42 and older. Everyone else is only interested in one thing—getting married and having babies. And, I ain’t getting married or having babies.
I relayed that he added, “Ultimately, it proves to be the primary reason that women in this stage of their lives insist upon an ‘LTR,’ the dreaded “long-term relationship.” It’s the old tender trap. They convince you that “commitment” and a “relationship” are in your best interests, and then before you know it, you’re setting a date. And then, alas, you’re trapped! Very few escape.”
After I poured another round of champagne, I added, “Alas, although it seems like a sound rule to abide by, there are some holes in this logic and practice and paradigm that one should be aware of.”
“First of all, albeit the young (those under 24) are inherently pliant and nubile and exuberant, and thus fairly exciting (at times) to be with, they also can prove to be rather stubborn idealists.” This is when old fogies like us have to sit back, listen and patiently cast long sighs.
“Moreover, many are exhaustingly inexperienced. They are not familiar with the lessons you learn along the way, rather simple things that we eventually take for granted with our experienced peers. Things like—brush your teeth (often). Because after a while you learn that there is nothing worse than a lover with bad breath—for the kiss is the most intimate part of love-making, and most of us know that a repulsive kiss can kill the mood—immediately.”
“And than, if they are over 42, a lot of them tend to be angry, too cynical or just plain crazy—and they all own and are in love with mangy cats (and then you have to pretend you like their pussycat too, and you have to play with it, and stroke it long enough, so that they feel that you are probably a half-decent guy) Not to mention (sigh), that many are lacking the sprite pliancy of a 24 year old.”
We could say all these fatuously-inane, ludicrously-vain, wholly-crude things because we weren’t in mixed company, rather we were free to be simple brutes being men, bonding over our differences.
At the tail end of this ribald conversation we downed the last of the bottle and then decided to go out and try a relatively new Cuban restaurant, which was located up the street at Broadway and 113th.
We walked through an invigoratingly cold night, the night before what was being touted as “the coldest day of the year,” forecast to get as low as 10 below zero.
Upon entering the restaurant, the hostess smiled and asked “How many?” “Three please,” I answered, immediately noticing that she was fairly attractive. She seated us in the back room and handed us the menus. Looking her straight in the eye I said, “Thank you,” punctuating my gratitude with a smile. She smiled back.
Robert mentioned that Havana Central had recently replaced The West End, and that there had been a pretty big stink about it from the locals in the neighborhood. Apparently, the West End Bar and Grill had been around for ages, had ushered in the jazz age, played homebase for a lot of beatniks like Jack (Kerouac), and had been good to the general student and faculty population of Columbia University, which was across the street. When I was attending Columbia as a graduate student 15 years ago I occasionally came to the West End, but was not at all aware of its rich history at the time.
Robert showed us the blurb in the menu that spoke about the restaurant’s history and how the new owners were aiming to “carry on the tradition” with “Havana Central at The West End.” We chuckled, impressed by the fatuous spin on the facts.
Somehow, this got spun into the ice-breaker for conversation with the hostess when she came around again. I conversed in Spanish with “Alli” who told me that her father was from Cuba and that her mother was from some other magical far-far away place; or at least, that is what I imagined, as I quickly became bewitched by and lost in her willingness to talk with me, if only for a moment.
Alas, she knew exactly what she was doing because a few minutes later she was being just as friendly with another group of fellas that she had seated across the aisle from us. Alas, I knew it was her job to be the “hostess” after all.
Regardless, after she left their table I asked her for a recommendation on the menu. “Pernil, roast pork. It’s great! I eat it here all the time.” I loved pernil too and often eat it whenever they serve it downstairs at work. So, I folded up the menu and declared, “Okay, that’s what I’m going to have than. Muchas gracias Alli,” sticking out my tongue slightly so as to soften the “s” and put a light touch on the “eee” at the end of her name.
A minute later, Rebecca, our waitress, came around to take our drink orders. She did not seem as cheerful and willing to entertain our imposing male egos, as much as Alli did though. We all ordered draft beer, Dos Equis Amber. I asked for a glass with my beer, so that I could put lime and salt around the rim, a Mexican tradition that I liberally apply to all light beers like Heineken, Stella Artois and Tecate.
After she came back with our drinks and took our dinner order, I soon realized that I must have confused her when I asked for another glass for the beer, because I had ordered draft , duh, after all.
So, the next time I saw her I called her over. She crouched down at the side of the table, so that we could converse eye-to-eye, and I said, “Sorry if I confused you dear, with the whole glass thing,” letting out a little chuckle. I continued, “I was wondering why you looked so confused, and seemed to think I was crazy or something, because I just realized that, draftbeer comes in a glass—‘Hello!’—and not in a bottle…” She smiled and laughed a little too and suddenly seemed to loosen up a bit, relax and forget, if only for a moment, that men try to pick up on her all day long here at work.
The boys and I began with the appetizer sampler platter which included chorizo, a Cuban empanada with ham, pork and cheese; maduros (fried sweet plantains) with Cuban cole slaw, tostones (fried dry plantains), and salsa with ajo (garlic) y yerba buena. They were all absolutely delicious and cooked to perfection, I was now quite ready and eager to try the perrnil.
Fifteen minutes later when our meals arrived, we each received mile high platters of savory food. Robert and Claudio had both ordered Paella. We all had yellow rice and black beans as well.
Over dinner, Robert regaled a time when he was living in Germany as a fullbright scholar and a girlfriend had come to visit him. The night of a full moon she suddenly got her period, and so, Robert had to go out to the local grocery store to purchase some feminine products.
Apparently, asking for tampons is phonetically similar to the words for masturbation, so that he ended up errantly asking the guy behind the counter to please him instead - "Bitte, koennen Sie mir einen runterholen?" Claudio couldn’t stop laughing and promised Robert he would become a legend the likes of William Tell once he got back to Switzerland.
About half way through the meal I was pretty satisfied and full. Alas, my senses overpowered any common sense or sense of discipline, and so I continued eating until all but a few scrapes were left on the plate. Claudio, to my surprise, did much the same; Robert, as expected, picked at his like a bird.
When the busboy came around to take our plates, Robert asked him to wrap up his meal. Claudio, as expected, immediately noted, “Back home we would never do that,” (for I’ve found that all Europeans are seemingly compelled to mention how repulsed they are by this uncouth American tradition). Like a true scholar, for he is now writing his history doctoral dissertation at Columbia, Robert responded somewhat defensively by going on and on about the history of “Doggie bags, American gluttony and modern-day waste.” I just listened, finished off the dregs of my beer with a last squeeze of lime, and sighed, satisfied that I didn’t have to worry about taking anything home.
When the check came Claudio insisted on treating us. And despite our aggressive offense, Claudio put up a better fight. I acquiesced as long as he conceded to me buying a few drinks at the bar.
It was at this juncture that Robert bowed out, claiming he had to run and “be somewhere.” I laughed, padding him on the back, smirking, “Okay…Tell her I said ‘Hello.’” He laughed nervously, as well as huffed and snorted in reply.
As we were headed for the bar, I sped up ahead of the boys to talk, for a moment, with Alli, who sat alone at her podium.
The live band had just begun to play two steps away from her, so I asked her if she ever came to dance here when she wasn’t working. She smiled and said she liked to dance on some circuit of salsa parties in New York City. She also added, “…I have a boyfriend.”
I looked at her for a moment, slightly confused, and said, “Okay.” For really I just wanted to know if she liked dancing, because I love dancing and I was eager to dance this evening.
And admittedly and not-so-secretly, since there weren’t many people around, and Alli was certainly an attractive woman, and most likely knew how to dance (if only because she’s a latina), I did hope that I could somehow get her to step away from her duties to dance with me, if only for a song. Alas, after the “boyfriend” comment I knew that it wasn’t going to happen tonight. So, I spun around, and after shaking hands with Robert who was waiting, eager to exit, at the door, I joined Claudio at the bar.
I immediately ordered two shots of tequila and we took them like men, and continued our conversation about women—how we love them, even if they are nothing but trouble. We also discussed how difficult it is to imagine getting married (again).
Suddenly, I was feeling a little too sober again, and so I ordered a couple of Cuban Mojitos (a bitter sweet blend of rum, seltzer, sugar, mint and lime; HC puts a little red plastic monkey stirrer and a strip of sugar cane in theirs) to toast the fine time we’d had together this evening so far, as well as the pleasant time we’d had over the last three months as flatmates. I promised that I was going to make an effort to visit him in Switzerland next year in January or February, and that I was going to work hard this year to make a little extra money by selling some pictures and books in order to do so.
At this point, Claudio smiles and suddenly mentions her. After Claudio took a long sip of his Mojito he said that he could tell that she was special to me, because I always “lit up,” whenever I spoke of her. He added, with an intonation that seemed as if he was truly trying to convince me, that I literally had some “magical light in my eyes.”
I smiled, knowing, feeling, understanding, exactly what he was saying, for I did often feel a glow inside, even when I simply thought of her.
To console myself I took a big swig of my drink. At that moment I had a sudden epiphany and immediately conveyed it to Claudio with a smirk, “I’ve just realized that there is one important exception to The 24-42 Rule—married women. For, many, if not most, eventually end up pretty unhappy. Moreover, married women don’t want to get married and have babies with you, rather all they really want is just a little love and affection. That’s all. Nothing less and nothing more, because their husbands, who were all once fawning boyfriends, almost immediately—stop giving it to them—L&A that is…”
For a quiet moment I thought to myself, “It is not surprising though, for marriage generally generates a lot of unhappy people, many of which, after truly making a sincere effort to miraculously make things work, finally give up and simply seek a catharsis, decide to look for a little love and affection now and then, here and now, despite the taboos and the guilt and all the rules that are not supposed to be broken. For many, long-term affairs and one-night flings are the things that bring solace and help people emotionally and spiritually survive until they have to face the inevitable—the pain and the suffering, the fears and the tears, the hassle and the hustle that are separation and divorce.”
Claudio half-smiled in response and conveyed, “There is a German proverb that goes ‘Marriage Kills Love.’”
I sighed and turned toward the bar and for a moment we sat there in silence. As I listened to the music and din of the surrounding revelers, I began to think about how a couple of days earlier I was at home in Jersey in the den, and my estranged wife came in.
For no real reason, she just stood there closer to me than to the door. For a moment she twisted her hair, seemingly waiting, wanting, for me to acknowledge her presence. I suddenly knew exactly what she wanted and so I stood up and asked her if she wanted a hug, she smiled and shyly said, “Yes.”
While embracing her I commented that pretty soon she would disappear if she got in any better shape. She replied, “Do you think I look good?” Hesitant to answer, because I felt a wee bit awkward, I curled my lip and said “Well, yeah, of course I do.” She continued, “Would you date me if you didn’t know what a pain in the ass I was?” I laughed out loud, and retorted, “You know, it goes both ways, for if I knew what a pain in the ass all women are, I wouldn’t date any of them.” She laughed too, because it was true. If men and women didn’t continue believing that there were exceptions to the rule (out there, somewhere, over a rainbow), the pursuit of the holy grail of love would have died out a long time ago.
After I left the study, I got in the shower and reminisced a bit about her and this little habit of hers.
Over the years we could be in our house, one with more than a dozen separate spaces to be in and she would just show up with no purpose other than to seek a little love and affection—that’s all, nothing more, nothing less. I’ll confess that toward the end our relationship this little quirk of hers would annoy the shit out of me, because I just wanted to be apart, I had lost all desire for her and I just wanted her to be stronger, rather than so goddamned needy.
Maybe that’s because I was really the weak one (maybe not), because it is not so hard to give a woman just a little love and affection, that’s really all they want (its actually what we all want, regardless of our gender). It is only when men begin to hold back and not provide this basic need that women begin to bleed us for other things like babies and rings and the finer things that make a gracious home; for these are all just substitutes for that little love and affection that we all started out believing in.
Alas, ironically, it is the pursuit of all these other things that often kills love itself, that makes men (and women) stay at work or out late with their “friends,” because no matter if we are men or women, we all just want a little love and affection. So that when we’re not getting a little L&A we look to fame and money and looking good and going out and acting out as individuals to get us the attention that will eventually grant us the little love and affection that we really need, because often it really doesn’t matter from who we get it from.
So, as I turned off the faucet and let the excess water drip to the tile, I felt a certain warmth run through me as I suddenly appreciated my estranged wife’s little love quirk. Now that I’ve been away for awhile, now that we live apart again, I realized that space affords us clarity. Yes, now, even though the desire is gone, even though I know she is a pain in the ass sometimes, I can stop what I’m doing to give her a hug and just a little love and affection. Funny how things work out.
Turning back to Claudio I conveyed that I had recently seen a beacon of hope in the distance though, for I had read an article indicating that “staying single” was on a significant upward trend. In other words, many more people aged 25-41 were consciously choosing not to get married. Even more importantly, was the recent report I had heard on the radio that concluded that there were 185,000 more single women in New York City than there were single men. So, apparently, there is a God, and she is merciful to men.
Claudio got the next round of Mojitos. By this time, I was now feeling the rum course through me. And thus, I was incapable of escaping what and who I really wanted to talk about. So, I began to blather a little.
“Claudio, you know, you’re right. And the funny thing is that it also doesn’t matter that I'm seeing and talking with her every night, and e-mailing and writing to her every day, and that I have lunch with her on occasion and drinks with her often—it doesn't even matter that she will sleep with her husband (again) tonight.”
I thought to myself as I took another swig, “It doesn't even matter that she had some sort of warm happy reunion of sorts the other morning, when he went into work late, and she had to mention it, because she tells me everything, because she trusts me and wants to share and has shared some of the most intimate and important moments of her life with me, recently.”
Looking down for moment, I thought, “Really, it really doesn’t matter.”
I continued conveying that it didn’t matter if I had to wait or feel great pangs or make an effort of no expectations. I had many relationships in my time, a number of which were quite special. A few had come and gone, but many, if not most, I was still good friends with. So, I wasn’t too preoccupied by this one, I would let myself get obsessed as long as it was healthy to do so, as much as it would allow me to demonstrate my passion for her and to make her feel loved and wanted and desired, as only I knew how.
Consoled, I held up my glass and offered a toast, “Claudio, Here’s to ‘a little love and affection’!”
After we toasted, I looked away to ponder what I had just said, but before I could process what I had been talking about, I noticed two women bouncing lithely across the bar. Needless to say, I was immediately distracted. The band had been playing salsa, merengue and mambo, and so, apparently, much like me, the girls were feeling it.
I didn’t hesitate and gestured to Claudio with a silent neigh of my head and a raise of my eyebrows. I took another long sip, crunched some ice and firmly put the glass down, so that I could stride around the bar and ask the dirty-blond to dance.
Thankfully, Adriana accepted. Thankfully, she was a great dancer too.
Over the years, I’ve discovered that good dancing partners are never easy to find. Alas, I had found one in my wife, but she doesn’t want to dance with me anymore.
It seems that many American women find it hard to accept one of the most important rules of ballroom, latin, and swing dancing—the man leads, the woman follows. It is not a commentary on the historical imbalance of gender power, it is not unfair or unjust or an otherwise unpleasant rule to abide by. In fact, when it comes to dancing, it is actually quite pleasant when you are in sync with your partner, and you both feel the natural ebb and flow of the rhythm and the beat.
I was immediately intoxicated by Adrianna’s perfume, and asked her what it was called. “Burberry,” she said, smiling over her shoulder, as she took my hand and led me to the wide-open space on the black and white checkered tiles laid out directly in front of the band.
Her enthusiasm further inebriated me, and as we began to spin and twirl and jump about the dance floor the rum swirled quickly through my bloodstream. Once I realized that there indeed was a basic kinesthetic compatibility I let myself be taken by this spontaneous moment of serendipity and revelry and synchronicity.
Gradually, and then quickly, our dancing styles meshed. The glee grew exponentially, as we became more comfortable with one another, and we began combining traditional sashays and steps with more contemporary spurts of excitement. She had this mean little hop that I immediately adapted and expanded upon. Her pep was so genuine, that I took it as a sign that she was truly enjoying herself. This made me happy.
After our first spin, we returned to our friends at opposing ends of the bar. Smiling, Claudio and I picked up from where we left off in our conversation.
A few songs later I danced with Adriana once more. Not wanting to wear out my welcome, I later asked her friend, Jodi, to dance. She was a pretty good dancer too.
And, eventually, Claudio danced too. However, at first, he put up a good fight, but I was more determined, and set on winning this time.
He argued that it was “genetically impossible” for him to dance. He made the analogy that just as I would never become the great skier he is, he would never become the great dancer I am. I countered, “Claudio, my friend, perhaps this is true. But, you know what? That doesn’t really matter. For nether of us are ever going to be the world’s best at either of those things. And so what is really-truly important is that we accept this and enjoy life to its fullest. Even though I suck at skiing, fuck! I’m going to ski anyway, because regardless, I still want to have fun. Thus, you should do the same, because dancing is fun. You must dance, no matter how much the Swiss naturally suck at it.”
I went on to say that it is akin to chapter 16 of 25 Lessons—“You need to set your own standards Claudio. In the end, it doesn’t matter who we compare ourselves to, what matters is that we strive to participate and engage life at our own rate, challenging ourselves to exceed our own limits, but not those set by others. If you have to compare, compare yourself to yourself.”
Ultimately, I had to pry him away from the bar with the wile of a woman, after I enjoined Jodi to help me out by getting him to dance with her. He did, and he later told me that he was happy that he had done so.
In the end, the evening left me in high spirits. And although I am feeling it slightly this morning, thinking and moving a little slower, in a hung over sort of way, I am still feeing quite exuberant about life, and love even.
I'm going to miss Claudio.
Dedicated to my good friend Claudio, who returned back to Switzerland yesterday, January 31, 2007.
