After a long absence, today is a double blog day. Feel free to read the earlier entry for prior thoughts.


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My first kiss with a girl was a debacle. Really, it was such a disaster that the story isn’t worth retelling. But sometimes, a little humility is good for the soul.

Her name was Carrie and she was a very pretty girl with an ear-to-ear smile and curly blonde hair that bounced as vivaciously as her personality. She was a freshman in band class where I met most of the girls at a time in my life when I was still too shy to venture beyond the boundaries of my cloistered world. I was a gangly mess of a nerd, unable to detach my outward identity from my Oriental brethren, the likes of Long Duk Dong (). It didn’t help that I wore oversized glasses starting in the sixth grade, sported the occasional bowl cut, read D&D manuals for fun, and really was a good student. You earned your stripes as a nerd in those days before Internet playboys, Xboxes, and anything resembling geek chic hit the pop culture circuit.

Despite my nerdiness, I knew how to turn on the charm when the situation called for it. Not only could I hold my own as a flirt but I also learned that some girls just have a predilection for Asian blood, a little Yellow Fever (Just LOOK at that cute little Chinaman!). So, shortly after meeting Carrie, I was already making plans for my first honest-to-God date. Since I wasn’t old enough to drive, I had no choice but to make it a double with my best friend, Ron. His primer-and-green 1971 Buick Skylark wasn’t the prettiest set of wheels but it would get the job done.

While I didn’t know much about girls, I knew that a horror movie would be the ticket. After all, first dates are breeding grounds for cheap thrills, both on-screen and off. Eerie violins crescendo to bloody climax as an arm glides around a shoulder. A boogeyman leaps from the darkness as you try to cop a feel. Hands clasp, fingers interlock, and nerves finally relax as our hero stands in triumph… or does he?

And so Ron and I decided on the big screen adaptation of Stephen King’s “Misery.” I remember very little of the date itself except for vague recollections that me, Carrie, Ron, and his girlfriend Amy had a fantasticly teenagerly time. The highlight of the film came at the moment of climax when, just as Cathy Bates crushed the legs of an incapacitated James Caan, I blurted out, “She shoots, she scores!” Tension was broken and laughter ensued.

Driving home, Ron dropped off Amy first. As I continued flirting with Carrie inside the car, I couldn’t help but watch the couple on the porch, cooing and kissing each other. I looked back at Carrie, still too scared to have made any moves, wondering how I’d pull this off without completely embarrassing myself. I was pretty sure she liked me, but you never can tell with these things until the actual Moment of Truth.

A short drive later, I was walking Carrie to the front door of her house, my heart palpitating, palms sweating, and my legs begging to run far, far away from here. I wanted very badly to kiss this girl. I wanted to sweep her up in a Clark Gable-like way and kiss her. I just had no idea what to do or how to do it. I was petrified.

We stood on the porch awhile as she laughed at my bad jokes and I laughed back nervously. My knees threatened to buckle at any moment with tension mounting as the minutes ticked by and nothing at all happened. I was painfully conscious of what had to be Carrie’s growing impatience and also of Ron, sitting in the car and muttering obscenities about growing balls and needing to get home. Time dragged on as I grasped for one zinger after another, desperately searching for my opening, that elusive Perfect Moment to reach forward and plant one on her lips. My head swirled as the words formed by her lips were drown out by the sound of my thundering heart. Ron’s beat-up Skylark idled in the driveway, a rumbling reminder that something, , needed to happen.

So I just went for it. Halfway through her plans for homecoming I reached forward, grabbed her, closed my eyes and planted my lips onto hers. We both shuddered, caught off-guard by this unexpected moment of ecstasy. Euphoria and courage charged like electricity through my entire body. I had reached up and seized the brass ring and now it was mine.

And then I panicked. Freaked out with no clue or plan for whatever was supposed to happen next, I instinctively reached into my bag of jokes and pulled out the first thing I could find. I blew a raspberry. Ppppppbbbbbbbbbllllllllltttttttt!! I. Blew. A. Fucking. Raspberry.

Carrie recoiled in horror. The muscles in her face contorted in agony, struggling to maintain her big Stepford smile, as if Miss America herself had lost her bikini top in the middle of the swimsuit competition. Dumbfounded, I mustered a sheepish and shit-eating grin. I would have performed pratfalls down the front porch if it proved my blunder was a deliberate, and actually funny, joke. I prayed for the ground to swallow me whole.

“You know Alex,” she forced through her smile, barely using her lips to speak, “I should go inside.”

“Uh…” I stammered. “Ok. I guess I’ll see you later.”

I tried talking to her several times over the next few days but my ship had clearly sailed. Shortly thereafter she quit band entirely. Adding further insult to injury, two weeks later she was dating the quarterback of the football team. Somehow, though, that last fact made me feel a little better. No question, I still had much to learn about girls. But, nerd though I was, I realized I was playing ball in the same league as the Big Man on Campus.

Two days ago I found myself in a hot tub with close friends, two blocks from the beach, in a rainstorm, watching the wind lash the tops of palm trees in the distance. I started to laugh, when my friend Morgan asked me what was so funny. I told her that I was laughing because of the beauty of that moment, observing the endless wonder of the world and how truly fortunate and blessed I am in this life.

This past year turned out to be one of the most emotionally difficult that I’ve experienced. Without indulging in the details, it was a year dealing with great loss, unrelenting upheavals, and abject loneliness. I became lost, confused by the surging waves of mighty storms, which, at times, seemed to threaten the seaworthiness of my ship. At times I lost faith in myself, in my ability to right this craft and find my course. Without even realizing it, I lived fearfully.

But I was also given the tools I need to heal, to regroup, to bring back my inner strength, and to confront these fears. I have been learning to trust myself again and restore faith in my abilities. I have been reminded to love myself and to forgive myself when useless feelings of guilt begin creeping in.

I have begun to understand the need to plant the seeds of growth and love and healing that may not show themselves today but lie dormant under the soil, waiting to blossom when conditions are just right. I’ve begun to understand the importance of stillness in a world over-crowded with anxieties and demands and hollow promises of gratification that offer only a fleeing distraction from underlying pain. Only in that quiet stillness can I focus and understand the inner voice that offers peace.

I need to lean into my fears to understand them and overcome them. I need to lean into pain to understand it and be at peace with it. I need to lean into uncertainty because that’s what life is. I need to let go of the past, because clinging to a time that no longer exists only perpetuates suffering. Despite my loneliness, I am and will always be surrounded by people, even strangers, who give to me their loving and kindness.

I apologize for such an esoteric and unspecific entry that has little context for anybody who has read this far. But for those of you who’ve made it here, I hope that you find something in my testament of value to you.

A few days ago my adventure consisted of a trip to Los Angeles’ Museum of Neon Art, a place that had intrigued me for years given the city’s long and prolific relationship with all that is gaudy and all that is automotive. One of my first accomplishments upon becoming unemployed was to figure out the days when each local museum offered free admission; most do, often at unusual times such that day, from 6PM to 9PM, the second Thursday of the month.

This museum is small, easily viewed within an hour, if not twenty minutes if you’re in a hurry. I’ve long had an interest, if not obsession with neon. Its cool, unnaturally luminescent colors draw me like a mindless moth instinctively flutters toward the certain doom of the electric blue bug zapper. Neon says night; it is powerless in the day. Neon says sex, best served at night. Neon says seduction, that precursor to sex. Neon smiles hello, the first step toward seduction. Neon, you devilish siren, you.

Years ago I dreamed of a room in my house, decorated in dark earthen tones, maybe a study, maybe a lounge, finished with beautifully curved art deco or nouveau accoutrements. And, all along the ceiling, shielded by a stained wooden trim, ran pale lavender neon lights, filling he room with an eerie, sensual glow. Sue me and my gay taste.

Upon entering the museum, I was greeted by a pretty woman, several tattoos visible from beneath stylish clothes, obviously bored and waiting for her day to end. “Go ahead and go in,” she mumbled, hardly looking up from text messaging on her cell phone. “Admission is free tonight.”

I was immersed in the distinctly harsh buzz of neon, bathed by the peculiar light generated when an electrical current is run through glass tubes filled with the noble gasses: neon, argon, helium, xenon, mercury. Each of the gasses or a combination thereof, produces light of a specific wave length when charged by electricity, producing a palette of about 200 colors. Unlike most museums, which tend to be well lit to provide ample visibility of the art, this one is designed in reverse; darkness pervades nearly all of the space that isn’t illuminated by the various installations. The flashing lights and droning hum of electricity gave the place an ominous feel not unlike Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory.

The museum was largely devoid of visitors this evening. A pear-shaped, middle aged woman, dressed like a college professor on vacation (fanny pack, Birkenstocks, permed hair) milled quickly through the collections. In the distance I could hear a strange electronic peeeew… peeeew… peeeew… noise reminiscent of a cheap arcade shooter game from the 80’s. Unseen feet shuffle nearby me. A video crew was shooting footage of a vintage sign.

I stood before a four foot tall marionette of a devil perched atop a clear plastic box which was framed with aluminum, its arms and head connected by wire to an overhead motors. On the front of the box was affixed red neon flames and the words,

A DIME
A DANCE

…which blinked in alternating fashion. The devil puppet was dressed in a hooded robe sewn from crimson satin. Its macabre face was also painted crimson and constructed of what looked like papier-mâché, with a hooked nose, baring pointed teeth, small hollow sockets where its eyes should be, looking a little like something from Dante’s Inferno.

Curiosity got the best of me so I plunked a quarter into an adjacent coin deposit (apparently a dime isn’t enough for the advertised dance), and the otherwise sinister puppet sprang to comical life. The instantly recognizable guitar riffs of the Ventures’ surf anthem, “Walk Don’t Run” began playing from a tinny-sounding speaker as the motor whirred into action, pulling wires and the grotesque doll into a painfully slapstick dance. Knees bending, arms flailing, ass shaking, guitar walking up and down scales like a Big Kahuna walking up and down his longboard on the face of a wave.

And, just as quickly as the show began, the music stopped, the motor died, and with it, Lucifer’s little ditty. The soft click-click blinking of “A DIME” and “A DOZEN” proved that the bewildering performance I just witnessed hadn’t been imagined.

I sat momentarily in a nearby chair to collect my thoughts, peeeew… peeeew… peeeew… still firing monotonously in the background. A tall, lanky man wearing square, thick-lensed Poindexter glasses walked by. He was dressed in a denim muscle shirt that revealed hairy arms, shaved cleanly from the elbows up, tattoos in reverse. An elastic waistband pulled just above a paunchy belly held up tie-dyed weight lifting pants. A black cap, worn slightly askew, covered his balding head. The man shaved his neck too, the open muscle shirt revealing a clean line of demarcation below which a thick pelt of hair on his chest poured out.

He walked toward an orange obelisk-shaped contraption that stood at least eight feet tall which was covered on all four sides by marimbas, both mallets and keys. Curiously, no neon. As the strange man walked toward the piece he triggered motion sensors which in turn caused the obelisk’s mallets to strike the wooden keys randomly, making very satisfying plunking noises. This created a cacophony of rat-a-tat-a-tat-a-tat, something like a giant wind chime being thrashed in a hurricane. Unable to solve the Sphinx’s riddle, the man kept cocking his head side to side, pondering a little like a dog, mentally engineering the sculpture in his mind.

I decided to leave and stood up from the chair, satisfied with my adventure. “Have a good night,” said the pretty tattooed woman, without looking up, still engrossed in her phone.

A friend recently asked me to tell her about my happiest memories. It was an odd request, if only because I don't often take the time to make lists like this. But I wanted to provide an earnest reply and began writing for myself some of these recollections. Now I'd like to share one of them with you.

Summer, 1986. Kobe, Japan.

I lived nearly two months of that summer in Japan with my grandparents, Tatsuro and Yoshie, known to me as To-san (grampa) and Baba (nana). I spent many days building and painting complex models that my overly generous grandparents bought for me at the local toy store, located only blocks from their home. I delightfully discovered that the Japanese have no compunction about publishing photographs of topless models in Baba’s fashion magazines or even on the sides of Coca-Cola vending machines. Though I was considered too old, I still captured cicadas in the local parks and kept them in green plastic cages, a summer pastime for young Japanese children.

I hiked with To-san up the side of Futatabi-san, the tall green mountain overlooking Kobe and its bustling port. We began by traversing the narrow city streets that led, mostly in grid-like fashion, to the base of the mountain. We’d pass cafes and restaurants that displayed plasticized renditions of their foods and desserts in their windows, as is common in Japan. Along the way were built a handful of Shinto shrines, small boxes sitting atop three foot high granite pedestals, which presumably contained little statuettes of deities; I could never be certain since I was strictly forbidden from peeking within the small shrine doors.

Up the steep road that led to a children’s park filled with jungle gyms, monkey bars, a pirate ship, and a long, concrete slide that seemed to plummet for hundreds of feet down the mountainside. From there, only dirt paths continued further into the dense forest. I was certain that the surrounding old-growth vegetation was a veritable breeding ground for ghoul and spirit inhabitants, fascinating yet terrifying because they couldn’t be categorized by my American mind.

Only a twenty minute hike further up the mountain uncovers an ironic wonder of technology obsessed Japan, a large, centuries-old Shinto shrine built right against the edge of cosmopolitan Kobe. The reveal is impressive; steep, myriad stairs must first be summitted, literally taking your breath away by the time the edifice can be seen. The last several yards visitors pass through the tall, distinctive gateway called torii, constructed of heavy timber and painted a deep orange and black, opening at last to a courtyard, the shrine, and a basin of water.

Rarely, if ever, did I actually see any monks, although evidence of their immense care and handiwork was everywhere. Railings dusted. Leaves raked. Soil groomed. Bushes trimmed. Floors polished. An unattributable serenity pervading everything. And, really, even as a kid of eleven, the peace here was as tangible as the bamboo growth that surrounded me. I could reach out and run my hands through it.

The shrine itself, also painted orange and black, consisted only of three main walls, the facing wall being absent as to provide a view of the inner sanctum, or haiden. It is as easy to describe these shrines to the uninitiated as it would be to paint a picture of a cathedral to a blind person. But this particular one was adorned with gold painted inlays in floral pattern along supporting beams, paper offerings left by devotees, and paper lanterns hung from the ceiling. Although the main room was set in the darkness of the shrine and forest, it was lit by a handful of indeterminable light sources which cast eerie shadows reminiscent of a film noir movie set.

The water basin is a curious fixture, provided for worshippers to wash their hands and mouths before entering the temple proper. It was square in shape, constructed of stone, and shallow. Water could be drawn using a copper cup that had been affixed to the end of a bamboo handle. As an adult, I can’t begin to guess the source of the water, where it drained, or how it was recycled, but the mystery is completely in keeping with everything else vastly unknown to me about this holy place.

Pressing still further up the side of Futatabi-san, now at least half an hour hike from its base, the dirt trail eventually spits travelers onto a small plateau that offers a panoramic view of the city. Kobe is home to one of the world’s busiest sea ports, first as an American naval base in the wake of the Second World War, and later a bustling commercial destination for merchants from around the globe. The city is very long but narrow, perhaps less than two miles wide, sandwiched between blue sea and verdant mountains that rise precipitously skywards, the product of Japan’s volcanic Ring of Fire.

Just off the coast sits the island of Awaji, longtime home to a community of fishermen and the place of Baba’s birth. It was also from this island that To-san watched American B-29 bombers incinerate the city of Kobe while he recovered from injuries sustained when his transport ship was torpedoed and destroyed, en route to his assignment at a military factory in Java. Today, the world’s longest suspension bridge spans the passage between the island and mainland, a two-and-one-half mile long feat of modern engineering.

From the vantage of this plateau, the mountain trail turns away from the city view and begins to wind its way around to the backside of Futatabi-san. Visitors become more scarce, the trail becomes less maintained, foliage becomes more dense. It’s within this in-between place where civilization begins to yield to the wilds of the mountain. On more than one occasion, To-san and I spied a furtive fox leaping into dense undergrowth, a wild predatory cat slinking away hastily, and even wild boar the size of a horse, albeit with much shorter legs, standing directly in the middle of the path, obstructing further progress.

After hiking another fifteen minutes, a small but paved road meets up about thirty feet below the trail, serving as the last link to the outside world for the people who live in this secluded place. By the road stood a few dilapidated houses that seem to have existed there forever, although corrugated tin roofs and concrete sewage fixtures belie such notions. The trail eventually joins the road at its terminal point, a place where a small grouping of houses were built along with a noodle shop that offers rewards of home cooked Japanese meals to those curious enough to traverse into the mountain interior. To-san would take me here to hunt for freshwater kane, crabs that lived in a stream which ran through the little hamlet, tiny creatures not much bigger than the small of your palm. Afterwards, we would trudge up to the noodle shop for lunch were I would be treated to orange Fanta served from a glass bottle and a delicious bowl of soba noodles, a prize for the efforts of the day.

And this was always the final destination of my hikes with To-san. He would chat with the owners of the establishment who responded with the leisurely banter of long-time friends. He would tell me fantastic folk tales about the spirits and creatures that inhabited the depths of these woods. All around us cicadas cried out in a rhythmic meem… meem… meem… meeeeeem…a Japanese dialect peculiar to these vocal insects. The humid air buzzed with the warmth of summer. This moment of bliss seemed it would never end.

Reconnect

I’ve spent the last several months contemplating the relationships I keep with my family, at times marveling at the distance that’s somehow crept between me and the kin. The reason, though, is as simple as me putting space between myself and the others. Intimacy between each of us is hard to find. It’s easier to remain at arm’s length than open up to the prying and potentially judgmental eyes of those who know your weaknesses more intimately than anybody else on the planet.

I’d like to think that I’ve matured, though, realizing the importance of closeness with blood. Yes, there exists the practical needs of emotional and financial support that are normally only found with family. But, beyond these immediate tangibles, is the simple fact that I am them and they are me. I am the product, the literal marriage of genes from my father and genes from my mother, fused together to make me. No matter how far I run or how fast I fly, this inescapable fact always remains true. And, by extension, I am also my brother as I am my sister as I am my grandfathers and I am my grandmothers and I am my cousins, and so on and so forth.

I can’t abandon my family because I can’t abandon me. Yes, I am still my own separate self, but I am also indelibly them.

And it’s with this realization that I’ve consciously chosen to take proactive steps to break down the barriers that have built up between me and my family. I want to take down these walls that separate me from those I love and who love me. Life is fleeting and its sheer idiocy to not live each moment as if it will never again exist.

Which is exactly why I started an email correspondence with an aunt of mine. She and my uncle took me to see all the original Star Wars movies. I was a kid to them before they had children of their own. Because I want to take down these barriers, I asked my aunt if she minded if I just referred to her by her first name. Using “Aunt,” as a title, just seemed so stodgy. And this is what she said:

As for stodgy... well, yes I suppose our culture does put certain impositions on what is considered acceptable behavior among friends and family. And no, I do not mind you addressing Robert and I by our first names only. But please know that it is the familiarity of being one's aunt or uncle which distinguishes you from so many acquaintances out there in whom we have no special or particular interest. It is a term of endearment to us (as we grow old) setting you apart as special, not childish. It is sadly looked upon as a child-like term by so many, but it is the culture we live in and I understand that. So please feel free to address us by our first names. We are not at all offended. But if every now and then you quietly slip the words "Aunt" or "Uncle" when speaking to us, it will only remind us of your special place in our lives.

Love, (Aunt) Beverly

What a stunner of a weekend. Within an hour of reconnecting with a dear friend, I learned Friday that I would be laid off from my job by the end of this week, file for unemployment, and receive two weeks’ worth of back pay. This all came quite unexpectedly, to say the least.

But I am not fazed. Yes, it throws off a number of plans that I had in the works. Yes, this will challenge me to be the resourceful motherfucker that I can be. No, this is not a fate I would deliberately choose for myself. But, it will also force me to move forward in directions which I’ve been meaning to proceed for some time.

I don’t know the exact reasons my employment will be terminated, nor does it ultimately matter. The decision has been made, and I could expend a needless amount of energy speculating the minutiae of why. But to do so wastes energy I could otherwise spend looking for my next job. I’ve been told my performance was much appreciated, that I will be the first rehire when conditions are right, and that’s good enough for me.

Saturday, I visited the local taco shop for lunch, where two young Mexican girls held up signs and shouted catcalls for a car wash. At first, I ignored them, and even turned down their request for a donation of some kind. After a few minutes, though, I realized they were raising money to help pay for the funeral of a friend. Knowing that my money would be more important to this family than my unemployed ass, I decided to find the fund raiser.

“So what’s with the car wash,” I asked sheepishly, aware that but moments ago I’d blown off the girls entirely.

“We’re raising money for our friend’s funeral,” the pair chimed in unison. “She was nine months pregnant.”

The girl in question was named Michelle Berlin Cabral, a very pretty seventeen-year-old who was expecting her first child within the next week or two. She was found dead in a bathtub, apparently after experiencing a seizure from unforeseen pregnancy complications. I was told she enjoyed taking long baths so that it was hours before the body was discovered, long after either mother or child could be saved.

I truly live a charmed life. Despite being a week from losing my job, I still have all my basic needs cared for. I have my health. I have a loving family. I have many loving friends. I am intelligent, reasonably attractive, entirely employable, compassionate, giving, and resourceful. I have a fantastic apartment, live in a vivacious city, own a (mostly) reliable car, and have a dog that loves me more than life itself. I also just ate my first pomegranate, of the season; tart though it was, it portends of good things.

I don’t own a house devastated by Katrina nor did I loose my job in its aftermath. I live in a (relatively) civilized society where I can not only buy the foods I need but the foods I desire. I have the capacity to appreciate beauty and to cause it to grow. I still believe in love and am not discouraged by my losses. I still maintain hope that, at some point, it will be mine.

I am remarkably blessed. And, as such, I cannot help but to love the world and share with it that which is my own.

Despite some hiccups, my life is pretty goddamn amazing. Any complaints I have only stem from a hollow self pity. I rather appreciate this quote from Millicent Fenwick, a female American politician from the middle 20th century:

"Never feel self-pity, the most destructive emotion there is. How awful to be caught up in the terrible squirrel cage of self."

Wow. Indeed.

A well-known Buddhist koan goes like this: Does a dog have a Buddha-nature? As with most koans, the answer isn’t nearly as important as the process of meditation and reflection to determine an answer. But when I look at my dog, Chavez, that answer is obvious.

Like many domesticated canines, Chavez has been spoiled by his owner. I never intended to get him hooked on human food, really. But he’s unquestionably developed a refined taste for the stuff even though I offer only on occasion. It's rare that I can walk into my kitchen without my four-footed friend in tow, forever begging for the smallest of morsels. Just a crumb, a spot, a smidgen, please… please! Every time I eat a meal or even retrieve a snack I have to endure his pitiful stares of hope and desperation. His eyes bore through my plate and into my food, inducing gastric daydreams that make him slobber uncontrollably (and disgustingly) onto the floor.

Given that he has at least 25 times more olfactory receptors in his nose than I do, I can’t blame the guy for following his urges. It only stands to reason that if he can smell that much better than me, then he can probably taste that much better than me. Still, I have to maintain some basic level of decency and respect. So, much to his eternal dismay, he’s usually ordered out of the room.

But something shifted.

I opened the refrigerator door to fix a sandwich, prompting Chavez’s Pavlovian response of lumbering into the kitchen to investigate. I glanced down briefly at the black beast and muttered sarcastically, “Sure buddy, today is going to be your lucky day.”

I began spreading out the sandwich ingredients. “Chavez,” I mused aloud, “You think every day is going to be your lucky day.” He sat next to me and stared, utterly convinced he was but moments away from hitting pay dirt. “You think every day that I’m going to give you the most delicious treat you’ve ever tasted,” I said.

The truth of my statement suddenly stopped me dead. Chavez really thinks that today is his lucky day. He really does think that I’m about to hand him the most delicious treat he’s ever tasted.

It was then that I realized that while I’d always dismissed his behavior as pitiful, annoying, irritating, and perhaps even rude, in reality, he was eternally optimistic and forever hopeful. Every time I reach for some food Chavez thinks it’s his lucky day. Neither thunder from the heavens nor a calamity of Biblical proportions could ever convince him otherwise. He always holds out hope that things will go his way.

With that epiphany, I tossed him a slice of the most delicious smoked turkey.

My father has always been a tough nut to crack, coming from the school of walking softly while carrying a big stick. As such, he’s been a difficult man to become intimate with for anybody save my mother. She and I have gotten along fabulously for years, but not the same with pops. He just doesn’t know how to open up.

That’s why it was so strange, almost uncomfortable, to hear him this weekend reaching out to me for help. For years I’ve wanted him to be more my friend and less my father. After all, I’ve turned the corner on 30, and I’d like to think I’m largely self-sufficient.

This all came about as I very reluctantly asked my parents for some relatively small assistance with money. I need to make clear that it’s extraordinarily unusual for me to do so because it always turns into such a big ordeal. As such, I’d much rather solve my own problems than contend with the guilt and obligations that will surely be attached to their help.

In recent years, though, my overweight father has been diagnosed with diabetes. His doctor now feels he needs to be medicated for this condition. As a last ditched effort, my father decided to go on a crash diet and begin a regimen of regular exercise.

But two weeks into the experiment, little had changed.

“I walk two miles a day and I’m on a diet too,” dad said. “But I still haven’t lost a single pound.”

“Dad, it’s only been two weeks. Give it some time,” I replied.

“Yeah, well, sometimes I need some encouragement too,” he snapped, with more than a small hint of frustration and bruised ego.

It suddenly occurred to me that as much as I’ve yearned for his embrace as not just son, but as friend, that my stoic father equally needed such an embrace from me.

“Dad, you’ve got to just keep at it. It’s only been two weeks,” I said. “You’ll come around.”

I love my father. And now I realize that it’s my own responsibility to make him my own friend.

These days I wake up at 5:30 in the morning to swim at the Pasadena Rose Bowl facility for an hour and a half. No doubt it’s a struggle each day to convince myself that the exercise is worth the trouble when I could otherwise be comfortably asleep. The task is made no easier by the fact that the sky is still dark from the waning night. Not even my dog stirs this early in the morning.

By the time I entered the somewhat chilly water, the sky had begun to brighten, painting the horizon in rosy hues from where the Sun would soon rise. A thin layer of mist hovers just above the surface of the pool. I dive in feet first then begin to move quickly, trying to raise my body temperature with vigorous kicks and strokes before I start to shiver. Within a hundred meters I’m moving comfortably through the water, clearing my mind of all thoughts, worries, and concerns.

I turned at the wall to begin another lap then flipped over to begin a set of backstrokes. As the water cleared from the view of my goggles, I smiled to see the face of the Moon, smiling back in profile, equally pleased as I was of it to have met this early morning. Through my increasingly labored breathing, I marveled at the encounter. I was pulling smooth, clean strokes through still water, observing a large piece of space rock that rotated in perpetual orbit around a larger piece of inhabited space rock we call Earth. A courageous astronaut named Neil Armstrong once walked across the surface of this heavenly body, spinning about 238,857 miles away from me.

I flipped and turned to swim back in the opposite direction of the pool.

The Moon continued smiling at me, its face now a little less bright compared to the radiance of the rising Sun. All around me, people in their homes were beginning to stir, rising from their beds and wiping the sleep from their eyes. I was in awe to realize that within the next twelve hours, every being on this planet would have the same opportunity to observe the same smiling Moon, gazing upon us in more or less the same pose. As I kept swimming, I couldn’t help but hear, over and over, the beautiful words of a different Mister Armstrong, one named Louis:

I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

The colours of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shakin' hands, sayin' "How do you do?"
They're really saying "I love you"

I hear babies cryin', I watch them grow
They'll learn much more than I'll ever know
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world
Yes, I think to myself, what a wonderful world

Oh, yeah.

I wrote the following journal entry in response to an entry written by cklarock. It seemed like a waste not to post it here, so I offer this up for your reading pleasure.

What I found particularly interesting was CK’s response:

“That is a FANTASTIC story. You karmically took that beating so that the woman at the bar didn't have to take worse. Because had you not taken her home, surely the two predators would have gotten her. She'll never know it, but she owes you one.”

He took what was for me, an unnerving experience, and made a rather remarkable paradigm shift, reframing the events in a way that is probably closer to the truth than I’d realized. “Don’t look at it that way,” he said. “Look at it this way.”

Violence and Philosophy

Last summer I spent a week on vacation in Santa Cruz, one of my favorite cities in the world (I haven't really visited enough cities in the world to give an objective opinion, but it sounds good). I stayed with one of my best friends, Morgan, who lives only a couple blocks from the beach. I was very much looking forward to this respite since it had probably been two years prior that I had anything more than a long weekend to break my stride.

The second night there I decided to mosey down to a dive bar that I'd spotted earlier in the day because it was within walking distance of home base. Morgan and her boyfriend had decided to retire early but I always enjoy meeting locals over a few rounds of drinks.

I was mildly disappointed to find that The 529 (as it was named) didn't possess more character. It was a somewhat run down sports bar occupied by small groups of men who were shooting pool, playing chess, or throwing dice. Mostly, it was just a room with four walls and a concrete floor where you could get drunk for cheap. It was an unassuming evening as I chatted with various patrons, engaged in a game or two of chess, and slowly started to wind down from the vigor of living in Los Angeles.

Shortly thereafter, a pretty young woman entered the establishment, alone, and promptly ordered a Long Island Ice Tea or some other such obnoxious concoction designed strictly to lay you out cold. Then she ordered a second. And then a third.

By this point the eyes of every man in the bar was on our lass as it was evident that she was going to get fucked up. I decided to make my move and help her out before somebody far less scrupulous took advantage of her inebriated state. I don’t remember her name but she was nice enough, a pretty blonde with hair pulled back in a ponytail, who definitely had an agenda that evening.

“I think you should probably slow down there,” I said, sidling up to the bar next to her.

“I’m doing just fine,” she grinned back, blue eyes already starting to glaze over.

We chatted a bit until it became obvious that walking was going to become something of a challenge for her. I’d learned that she, too, lived within walking distance of the bar so I offered to escort her home where she could pass out in peace. She was open to my suggestion, if only because she clearly had designs on me. Over catcalls of “Kobe!!” we left the bar as I assisted her stumble for the couple blocks to her house where she nearly crashed through her front door, started throwing off clothes, then, quick as lightning, fell face first onto her sofa. I turned her over, pulled a nearby throw blanket over her, locked the front door and left. Satisfied with my Good Samaritan deed, I returned to The 529.

“Sojafucker?” the bartender sneered.

“No, but give me a seven and seven,” I replied. It made no difference that he likely didn’t believe me.

“Fuck who?” the guy next to me asked. I explained my story to this stranger, who chuckled. Since I don’t remember his name either, we’ll just call him Jack.

Jack and I hit it off immediately. I was a little self-consciously out of place at this dive since I was still dressed a little like I’d just stepped off the bus from Hollywood, but Jack was himself from Los Angeles. He said he was a club promoter around Southern California, so it didn’t take long before we started shooting the shit about music venues with which we were both familiar. He was about my own age, from Santa Cruz, and had moved to L.A. to chase the stars. Somewhere along the line, and not long ago, he said he’d spent time in prison for reasons that were unclear to me. I found this very intriguing.

Jack was a little flashy for Santa Cruz, a town known more for its wealthy hippies, scruffy punks, and gnarly surfers than its club promoters. He was a sharp dresser, drove a decked out Acura TL and rather seemed to enjoy throwing his money about, buying drinks for virtual strangers. As last call fell on the bar, a friend of Jack’s had joined us for a drink, a curly haired and wide-eyed man of medium build who could aptly be described as a ruffian. Since I didn’t have to be anywhere the next day and none of us was particularly in the mood to call it a night, we decided to pile into Jack’s car and drive to his house in the hills. We’d play some pool, have a couple more drinks, and chill out with girls that Jack promised he could conjure at this late hour of the night.

Jack’s house was really something more of a mansion, sporting a two-car garage (a Porsche parked in the other bay), more rooms than could be easily seen from the spacious, open living room, a small swimming pool, an extravagantly full bar, big screen television, and myriad other amenities that doubtlessly cost a small fortune, especially in an place as affluent as Santa Cruz. Given the alleged time he’d spent in the cooler, I became even more curious as to the source his Jack’s wealth. Club promotion seemed an unlikely if not inadequate source. Was he a con? Drug dealer? Gunrunner? Pimp?

By now I had a pretty good buzz going so I limited any subsequent drinks to beer. I was enjoying my vacation, had made new acquaintances in a strange town, and looked forward to reading books and stretching out on the beach under the summer sun.

My evening then took a turn for the surreal.

Jack’s friend hadn’t really warmed up to me from the moment we met. Something about him seemed out of place, maybe even a little antagonistic, enough to keep my Spidey sense at a dull tingle since we’d been introduced. I don’t know if it was the alcohol, some other illicit substance, or the fact that the girls who were promised were no shows, but suddenly, and without warning, Jack’s friend turned very hostile.

“So you think you’re fuckin’ all that, huh, Hollywood?” the friend scowled, arms sprawled with swagger over the back of the overstuffed chair he was sitting in.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied.

“You think you’re fuckin’ bad ass?” the man challenged, standing up out of the chair, his eyes now locked on me.

“You need to chill out, man,” I said, trying to subdue the tension in the room.

“Who the fuck do you think you are, Hollywood?” he shot back angrily, now starting to stalk toward me.

As I looked around the room, I found Jack watching the scene unfold in his house with undisguised amusement. I suddenly realized that I was alone in a house with strangers, in a location I couldn’t identify, at a place where nobody knew I would be. We’d all be drinking, and that didn’t bode well. Jack said he’d been sent to prison and the question of why sprang to the front of my mind. Drugs? Manslaughter? Homicide?

“We all need to calm the fuck down,” I stated boldly, standing erect and posturing my shoulders backwards as a sign of physical defiance. What the hell was I going to do if somebody pulled out a gun?

“Fuck you!” Jack’s friend spat out, pacing across the living room floor, glaring, increasingly agitated.

“Dude, you really just ne--”

“Don’t be a pussy, man,” Jack interjected, grinning from ear to ear. “Fight him.”

I’ve been in fights before although I don’t go looking for them (except with close friends and when we’re drunk). They do nothing for me and I’d prefer to avoid than needlessly engage. Especially when convicts outnumber me and nobody can help if things go bad.

“Fuck this,” I said. “I’m leaving.” I backed away to the front door cautiously, with both men staring at me, and Jack’s friend still pacing angrily.

Outside, the night air was crisp and refreshing. I pulled out my cell phone to call for a cab only to discover that I couldn’t get a signal up in the mountains. I still didn’t know where I was and only vaguely remembered how I got there; a few city streets, a good stretch of freeway, and a long, winding drive through the woods. I zipped up my jacket and began walking down the pitch-black driveway illuminated only by a smattering of stars that broke through the overcast night sky.

“Hey, where are you going?” I heard Jack shout out from behind me. I turned around to see him walking out of the doorway to his house.

“What the hell was that all about?” I asked testily.

“Man, he’s just messing around. He wasn’t going to do shit.”

“Yeah, well, I really don’t know either of you guys so how the hell am I supposed to react?”

“Come back inside and have a beer, dude. It’s a long walk.”

Jack’s friend stepped through the front door.

“The fuck you want now, Hollywood?” Jack’s friend yelled. “You decide to stop being a pussy?”

“Shut the fuck up,” Jack yelled back. “Get back in the fuckin’ house, man. He’s my guest.” Helluva way to treat your guest, if you ask me.

But in a heartbeat, Jack’s friend sprinted the 20 yards that separated us, eyes filled with rage, throwing his fists at me with a vengeance. The skirmish lasted only a few seconds as I took a couple blows to my head and face before stumbling away. Regaining my composure, I lunged back at the man, my own anger now pouring out of me. I took several more violent blows before I was thrown to the ground, my ear ringing from a punch, cheek swollen, blood now oozing from my nose and mouth. I never claimed to be much of a brawler. I was now starting to pay for my lack of experience.

I looked up to find Jack’s friend glowering at me, almost snorting with satisfaction now that his thirst for blood was starting to be quenched. Jack, too, was taking pleasure in the turn of events, laughing heartily while wrapping his arm around his comrade’s neck. The two thugs were relishing this moment. And I was fully aware that short of some Bruce Lee berserker maneuvers that I’d never learned, this might not end well.

“Get up,” Jack’s friend hissed as he licked his lips.

“Fuck you,” I replied defiantly, reluctantly prepared for whatever consequences would be meted out. “I’m not going to fight.”

“Then maybe I’ll fuck you up more. Maybe,” he sneered, “maybe I’ll just fuck you.”

Until that moment, it had never occurred to me that I could find myself in a place where my sexuality could be compromised. Until that moment, I’d never fully understood the safety issues that women can never, ever take for granted, particularly with strangers. Until that moment, I never considered that I could be the victim of rape.

Despite my fears, I knew that I had to leave immediately, either fighting or fleeing. Staying put with this company was not an option as it could get me maimed, killed or worse. I pulled myself back up on my feet.

“Jack, you’re going to fucking drive me the fuck back to my home,” I screamed, blood spraying from my mouth. If nothing else, I probably looked pretty scary. “Get me the fuck out of here,” I demanded.

Jack’s friend, clearly not ready to give up, started to approach toward me once more.

“Keep him the fuck away from me,” I shrieked at Jack, eyes bulging from my head.

Much to my surprise, Jack stepped between me and his friend, restraining his comrade. I’ll never really know why, but I gave him enough reason for pause to stop the situation from unraveling completely. “Drive me the fuck home,” I growled.

Although my fate was still uncertain as the two goons argued about me and Jack protested that he was too inebriated to drive, eventually, he acquiesced. Jack convinced his friend to get back in the house. And, after he finished apologizing for his friend’s behavior almost like a child would to his parent, the drive back to Morgan’s house was silent, almost serene. Once we hit the public roads I knew that I was safe. My cell phone picked up a signal again and I could easily flag down a passerby, even at four in the morning.

Not wanting to push my luck, I had Jack drop me off two blocks from my destination.

“Hey, we’re cool, right?” Jack asked obsequiously as I stepped from his car.

“Fuck you,” I replied as I walked away.