Paying It Forward

Several months ago my dad had some car trouble on the freeway on the way to work.  Somewhere on the 405 between home and LAX his radiator went kaput and left his 1989 Toyota Cressida on the shoulder steaming and smoking.  He was only a couple exits away from his destination, and he wouldn’t have made it to work if it weren’t for some Good Samaritans who took time off their daily rat races to offer bottled water for his radiator to get him moving again.

I was on my way home tonight turning left onto my street when I noticed a car on the other side of the street had its lights off.  I turned my lights on and off to signal the other driver, but then I noticed the old lady in the car was having difficulties beyond faulty headlights.  The car was stalled out in the middle of the intersection and a line of cars was steadily building behind her.  As I passed behind her car and completed my left turn, I could hear the futile clicking of her starter.  I parked my truck and ran up to the lady to tell her to put the car in neutral so I could push it to the side of the road.  The intersection is on a bit of an incline, but I was lucky that the two guys who live on the corner came out to help.  Her alternator was shot and her battery was dying quickly so her hazard lights and all other electrical systems didn’t work.  I called the Torrance PD to send over a unit to make sure she was okay until AAA sent over a tow truck.  The lady, Sandra Lincoln, was effusive with gratitude for my help.  She wanted to pay me money, but I couldn’t take payment for doing the right thing.  I told her to pay it forward and be there for someone else should a stranger need help.

The good feeling I had for helping her out was payment enough.  I’d like to think that if my grandmother, mother, or any of my friends were in a tight spot and in need of a helping hand, the kindness of strangers would shine through.  There are times when I watch the news or read the paper that make me think that this world is going to shit, but it doesn’t have to be that way.  You start with one person, and that person is you.

Well, That Was Quick

I have so many things I’ve been wanting to write about.  A lot of them have found their wasted fate stuck in draft folder purgatory: my sister moving out to Vegas, my best friend moving to San Diego, my son moving closer and closer to teenage angst, etc., but here I am in the second week of school and I’m already behind.  I really have no else to blame but myself — as usual — for not printing out my class syllabi and realizing that I have an assignment due tomorrow night at 23:59:59.  The writing of the assignment is only one aspect of my doom.  I have to read the text to actually formulate a smidgen of what I’m supposed to throw onto paper.  Since my professor is a self-professed stalker of the author, I can’t just bullshit my way through it and expect her to appreciate my style and delivery.  It doesn’t help that this class is probably the most labor intensive class I’ve ever attempted to tackle.  Why I’m stuck drudging in a 4-unit English class with an eight novels by one author workload is entirely chalked up to my own irresponsibility.   The bright side in all this is that, historically, I’ve  managed to get by when I’ve found myself in these unenviable positions.  So there, there’s the silver lining in all my stress.  It’s worth something, I hope.

Political Discourse

I’ve been feeling a resurgence in politics lately. One of the websites I’ve been frequenting lately is the Arena section of Poltico.com, which features a running bipartisan dialogue between dozens of featured columnists, political analysts, and others of that ilk.

Another website that I turn to for comprehensive political coverage and opinion is the Wall Street Journal Op-Ed section. I particularly enjoy reading the reader comments which are usually more thoughtful and civil than most other political comment boards. Here’s a sampling:

Shreya Mishra replied:

To Mr Weeks,

Can you honestly say that power is not already concentrated in the hands of corporations? Do you not believe that corporate america has gotten this country and its citizens hostage at the altar of profit? When Halliburton wants profit Republicans go to war, the Republicans want to tax bonuses of hedge fund managers at long-term gains rate while they ask average citizen to take tax-breaks and go spend it in a mall. Your average person is breaking his back working 2 jobs just to see ALL his money being drained out by bills and insurance company costs. Corporations are sucking the people dry and their lobbyists are hand-in glove with Republicans. This economic crisis has one and only one cause and that is the corporate america has successfully bankrupted the citizens of this country.

We wanted to be a government of the people, for the people, and by the people. What the Republicans have left us is a government of the rich, for the rich, by the lobbyists. They have preyed on the weak.

There is no semblance of free-markets left. The financial markets are completely rigged to make it profitable towards companies like Goldman Sachs. We have truly become a socialist country for the powerful and capitalists for the weak.

And the reply:

Lawrence Weeks replied:

I’ll tell you something I believe — George W. Bush, like Barack Obama, Bill Clinton, George H.W. Bush, Ronald Reagan, Jimmy Carter, and those before them are all men who loved their country and did and do what they think is best for their country and their fellow citizens. While I may disagree with some and agree with others, I think they are and were all patriots. These shrill juvenile diatribes, whether about Halliburton or birth certificates are just partisan idiocy. Bush did not send us to war in Iraq for the profit of Halliburton — he sent us to war because he thought it would be best for American interests if we were to get rid of Hussein, and AT THE TIME most Democrats agreed. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, isn’t it?

I’m not a Republican, and I’m not a Democrat — I’m an American. I have spent the majority of my life working in small business. What I see every month is a very large chunk of my money going to Washington DC, the largest chunk of taxes I pay by far. I don’t live in Washington DC. I live very far from Washington. I am not wealthy, in fact with a wife who does not work and a small child, I’m rather far from wealthy. I am also not bitter, and I am not a wh*re — the fact that I am not wealthy and others are does not embitter me, and Democrats cannot buy my vote with the tax revenue of others, rather the opposite. I am an American, and I value our unique form of limited government and the preservation of the sovereignty of the American people greatly.

Corporations are, like government, just a collection of people. Unlike corporations, however, governments have the power to take your freedom from you against your will, to appropriate your money to give to others, legally, without redress, without a class action lawsuit. That is a power that must be restrained and limited, not gladly expanded for every perceived good that can be thought of. As was written long ago, “good intentions will always be pleaded for every assumption of authority. It is hardly too strong to say that the Constitution was made to guard the people against the dangers of good intentions. There are men in all ages who mean to govern well, but they mean to govern. They promise to be good masters, but mean to be masters.” When Obama speaks of the “moral” argument to take control of our health care system in order to help the downtrodden, what I hear are Daniel Webster’s words.

Our economic crisis was not brought on solely by faceless evil corporations, secretly plotting to eat our children. It was brought on my neighbors borrowing money that they had no hope of ever repaying, fully aware of that fact, yet still committing to it. Those of you who consider them innocent “victims” only belie how little you regard the intelligence of your fellow citizens. It was brought on by companies foolishly lending that money, and other companies buying those loans, and foolish investors world wide buying into those loans. There is blame enough to go around. My lowly individual neighbor, just like the big bad corporation, just like the greedy evil investors, were chasing profit, dirty profit. Get rich quick on real estate. Governments were happily cashing in on the property taxes, the real estate transaction fees, the sundry permit fees, with record revenue and spending. Congress was happily promoting expanded home ownership. Bush promoted the ownership society. We are all to blame, except in the view of your partisan blinders. As P.J. O’Rourke once wrote, “every government is a parliament of wh*res. The trouble is, in a democracy, the wh*res are us.” Indeed, a government of the people, for the people and by the people.

Politics is heating up, which tends to be the case when one party controls the White House and Congress. Stay informed.

64 Drafts

There are 64 unfinished posts in my draft log.  If this posts makes it past the chopping board in my head, it will be the 41st post on this blog.  What is about me that makes it so damn difficult to follow through with things?  Even in the realm of creativity, which is something I’m supposed to hang my hat on, I am 1.5 times more likely to scrap an idea than actually express it.  I have this whole inverted triangle thing throwing me for loops.  Most creative types are able to churn shit out at a breakneck pace because reason dictates that eventually something will stick.  I have an ass-backwards mentality that confounds me into believing that I can just wait until I get lucky and catch lightning in a bottle.

It sucks.  I suck.

Whether it’s my total lack of belief in myself or the disillusionment of having once foolishly harboring that belief, I’m languishing, drowning in possible ideas that won’t see the light of day.

And Then It Was As It Should Be

How long is seven years?

Not quite two Olympics but enough time to earn a bachelor’s degree and finish law school if I were so inclined and motivated.

It’s enough time to teach a kid how to play tee-ball then watch him blossom into a unanimous all-star selection in the league’s highest division.

It’s enough time for my luck to return if I had broken a mirror.

It’s enough time for Britney Spears to go from “the hottest piece of ass in the world” to “knocked-up trailer trash” back to “hot piece of trailer trash that I’d bang because she’s still rich as hell.”

It’s a long time to reflect upon.

Seven Junes ago at the tender age of 21, I effused effervescent optimism as I braved a sweltering downtown summer day to cheer on my heroes — Shaq, Kobe, Big Shot Bob Horry, Rick Fox, Fish, Mad Dog Mark Madsen, B-Knuckle Brian Shaw, Samaki Walker, Devean George, Slava Medvedenko — as they paraded down Figueroa Blvd. from City Hall to the Staples Center where Chick Hearn was waiting to get the celebration started.  I turned to my friends, Mars and Big Pete, and made them promise to come back with me the next year to celebrate a FOURTH consecutive championship.

A lot happens in seven years.

2003 – I paced the floor of my room in front of my TV yelling, screaming, pleading the Lakers to mount the typical comeback and rally against the Spurs.  The clock began to dwindle down while the Spurs’ lead continue to grow.  The game was essentially over before the clock reached zeroes.  Not In Our House banners strewn all over Staples Center rang hollow as the din of the crowd was reduced to the disgruntled murmur of shock.  Tears welled in my eyes.  Kobe was sitting on the bench in tears as well.  I forced myself to watch those waning moments to ingrain the feeling of disappointment and dejection to make the following year’s triumph all the better.

2004 – Coming off the “Colorado Incident” the Lakers reloaded their roster adding future hall of famers Gary Payton and Karl Malone to the mix to form what many called the greatest starting line-up ever assembled.  The Lakers breezed to the league’s best record and were the prohibitive favorites going into the Finals until Malone injured his knee setting up an epic fail as the Lakers got bounced by the Pistons in 5 games.  Thus began the the precipitous fall of the once-great Lakers dynasty as Kobe opted out of his contract and Shaq demanded to be traded.  Forced to choose between its aging superstar center and the young superstar guard coming into his prime, Jerry Buss chose Kobe and traded Shaq to Miami for Lamar Odom, Caron Butler, and Brian Grant.  Phil Jackson isn’t offered a new contract and Rudy Tomjanovich is brought in to oversee a new era of Lakers basketball.

2005 – Enter the anti-Renaissance… the Lakers missed the playoffs for the second time in my lifetime.  Tomjanovich didn’t make it to midseason and Frank Hamblen was elevated from his assistant position to finish off the season.

2006 – Phil Jackson returned and Kobe almost single-handedly leads the Lakers past the high-octane Phoenix Suns in the first-round.  The Lakers were up 3-1 and came within a close-out on a Tim Thomas prayer 3-pointer in Game 6 of winning the series.

2007 – The Lakers get bounced in the first round of the playoffs by the Suns again, but this time they went meekly in 5 games.  Kobe was all up in a tizzy about his alleged lack of support and made a very public trade demand.

2008 – After a summer of apprehension that teetered on the news of whether or not the Lakers will deal Kobe, the team got off to a surprisingly good start with the emergence of Andrew Bynum as an interior force.  Then Bynum went down with a knee injury and all seemed lost.  Then Mitch Kupchak, who’d been killed in the press and by the fans, performed highway larceny and traded perennial stiff Kwame Brown, Javaris Crittenton, a couple draft picks, and the rights to Marc Gasol to the Memphis Grizzlies for Pau Gasol.  The Lakers made an improbable run to capture the #1 seed in the West on the season’s last day that propelled them to the NBA Finals against the HATED Boston Celtics.  After dropping the first two games of the Finals in  Boston, the Lakers won game 3 at Staples and were ahead by 24 points in game 4 coasting to tie the series.  Then it happened.  The Lakers came from ahead to blow the game, the series, and the psyches of Lakers fans all over the world.  I can’t say that loss didn’t affect me as a fan.  I’ve seen some bad losses in my lifetime — getting swept by the Spurs in 1999, the end of the 3-peat, eliminated by the Suns after leading the series 3-1 — but this one cut particularly deep.  Losing a 24-point lead at home on the biggest stage goes lengths in decimating the innate confidence a fan must have in their team.

And now, seven years later, we’re back on top of the mountain.  The cliches about needing to experience the deepest valleys of the lows to appreciate the splendid heights of the highs ring true.

As the final minutes of the fourth quarter of last night’s monumental win whittled away, the glimmer was back in our eyes.  “It’s been a LONG time,” I kept repeating to my friends while trying to soak in the moment and savor every second knowing that championships are not to be taken for granted.  We counted down the seconds and when it clock zeroed out Mars, Drew, Big Pete, Hayashi, and I formed a huddle in the middle of Drew’s unfurnished living room and started hopping around like the Lakers pre-game ritual.

Seven years ago I got a sunglass tanline as a reminder of that sweltering downtown day.  I’ll be back Wednesday to cheer my team again.  It’s been a sweet rollercoaster ride of a season that culminated in the ultimate goal.

Savor the moment, LA.  It’s been a LONG time.

Baseball… It’s a Funny Game.

The game’s prospects were bleak at best.  Marc’s Rays had come into the Winner’s Bracket Finals hoping for a berth in Saturday’s TABB Bronco Championship game, but one team stood in its way: the resurgent Angels who upset the #1-seeded Pirates in the quarterfinals.  The gray skies  opened up with a slight sprinkle during pre-games warm-ups and began dumping raindrops the size of dimes by the first-pitch.  Wanting to get the game played due to scheduling restraints for the ensuing days, the game started beneath a steady shower.

The Angels were able to get two runners on base with one out before Mother Nature intervened with a 15-minute rain delay.  The boys scrambled to get their gear underneath the protection of the cramped dugout while coaches tried their best to keep the team focused.

When play was resumed, a costly  error turned an inning-ending double play into a bases-loaded situation that would cost the Rays when the next Angels batter launched a bases-clearing double off the left-field fence.   Down 3-0 in the first inning, the Rays seemed to press as they attempted to surmount the modest deficit.  A series of bad at-bats by the top half of the Rays line-up made the Angels’ pitcher appear untouchable.  Through 4 full innings the Rays only managed to get 2 hits while allowing one more run on defense.

The Rays rallied  in the bottom of the 6th inning putting two runners on base with two outs and the Rays’ best player, Blake, on-deck.  The games only go 7 innings in the Bronco division, so this seemed like the last gasp for the Rays to pull off a comeback.  The last time the Rays and Angels played a couple weeks ago, the Rays made a furious comeback down 6 in the last inning that was ignited by a 3-run home run by Blake only to come up 1-run short.  This similar situation weighed on the minds of the Angels coaches as well as the pitcher who also happened to give up that 3-run bomb to Blake two weeks prior.  Should Ryan find a way on base, Blake would represent the tying run, but Ryan could only muster a weak grounder to second base to kill the threat.

The Angels tacked on another insurance run in the top-half of the final inning putting the Rays in a deeper hole.  Down 5-0 with nothing but a meager offense, the Rays coaches looked distraught.  The Rays were preseason favorites to win it all based on the incredible work the manager did in the draft.  The Rays featured the league’s best talent, Blake; 3 travel-ball players who were all-stars last year, Marc, Ryan, and Connor; and another travel-ball player, Nacio; not to mention three coaches with travel-ball/all-stars experience.  Games aren’t won on paper, though, and the Rays weren’t just losing this game, they were getting spanked.

Blake led off the inning with a sharp double to the left-field gap, and scored on a single by Connor.

5-1 Angels

Then it started getting away from the Angels as their pitcher lost command of his pitches and walked the bases loaded.  A fielder’s choice by the third baseman allowed another run to score.

5-2 Angels

The Angels brought in another pitcher for relief, but he walked in another run.

5-3 Angels

Kyle, who had been injured more than half the season after breaking his ankle the first practice, came up to bat with the bases-loaded and the season on the brink.  He swung badly and missed the first pitch, then fouled the next one off before taking two balls to even the count.  Then the unthinkable, the unfathomable… he hit a sharp grounder down the line past the third baseman who was inexplicably playing shallow allowing the tying run to score from 2nd base.

5-5 tie

With one out and the winning run only 70 feet away at third base, the Rays now found themselves in the driver’s seat.  The next batter struck out, which brought Marc up to the plate with a chance to be the hero except the Angels’ manager had other ideas and walked him intentionally to load the bases and set up the force outs.  Ryan came up to bat again with the weight of the team on his shoulders and could only muster a groundball to the shortstop to retire the side.

The Rays pulled off a 5-run inning in their last at-bat to push the game into extra innings.  Neither team was able to score in the 8th inning, and the game was suspended due to darkness…

… and that’s where we are today.  Today at 4:30 the game will continue in the top of the 9th inning with the score tied 5-5.  The winner of the game advances to the Finals tomorrow, and the loser stays and plays for their playoff lives against the Pirates in an elimination game.

It’s really hard not to get caught up in the emotion of youth sports.  I’ve been coaching baseball now for almost 7 years, and times like these where the unadulterated emotions of the game overwhelm remind me about how special this time is for the kids.  Some of these kids maybe  never play the game again within a couple years.  They’ll discover girls, music, or just get sick of their parents making them play baseball.  Some of these kids have never played on a team as good as the one they’re on right now, while others are patiently waiting for all-stars and travel-ball season to start.  They don’t know it yet because they’re living in the moment, but these are moments they’ll remember for the rest of their lives.  In their haste to grow up, they’ll come to cherish these memories.  Hopefully, they can pull out a victory today because happy memories are a lot more fun to recollect.

I’m the a$$hole with the BIG Laker flag flying from the bed of his truck

Game 6 of the Western Conference Finals tips off in less than 3 hours with the Lakers trying to close out another series on the road.  They failed to do it last series in Houston and were pushed to a game 7.

This will be a defining game for this year’s team.  Every year a team will play a game that comes to embody what that team is all about, a game defines that team’s character.  Last year it was game 4 of the NBA Finals.  The Lakers finished the season with flourish securing the #1 seed in the West on the last day of the season, then continued that roll into the playoffs.  The Game 4 debacle where the Lakers came from ahead to lose a game it led by as much as 24 points made a definitive statement that they were not championship material.  They did not have the heart, the will, nor the toughness to grind out a championship.

Game 2 of the 2004 Finals against the Pistons was another defining game in which the Lakers wilted.  The Lakers won the game, but they needed a Hail Mary 3 from Kobe to send it to OT where they pulled it out.  It was a must-win for the Lakers because Detroit came into  Staples a heavy underdog and shocked the Lakers by 12.  The Lakers lost the next three in Detroit by an average of 13.7 points.  Dynasty over.  Team implosion.

And that’s what the Lakers are up against tonight.  This is the most important game in the history of the Denver Nuggets.  For the Lakers?  It’s important, but it’s barely a blip on the historical radar for the purple & gold.

What’s the identity of this team?  Are they the team that ran away from the West in the regular season and swept both the defending champion Celtics and this year’s #1 overall seed Cleveland?  Or are they the team that’s been consistently inconsistent?  We’re going to find out tonight if this team can make its mark in Laker lore.  If they can go into Denver and rip the Nuggets’ hearts out, then they  might have what it takes win the whole damn thing.  If not, then expect more emotional roller coasters, but don’t believe the hype.

Bleed Myself Dry

Don’t sound so empty…

suddenly

averse to change,

oblivious

her ambivalent tone

mouthing casual words,

stakes of ice impaling

the remnants, the survivors

of the latest catastrophe.

Ramblings

“Write a tragedy, articulate all that pain, and maybe you’ll get paid” – Rilo Kiley

A friend told me to see her perspective instead of feeling sorry for myself. That friend didn’t realize the self-pity is born from recognition of that perspective, not ignorance of it. And I thought she knew me.

Romance and tragedy are contributing partners of the emotional spectrum’s diametric extremities. Romance amplifies life’s little joys making them transcendent experiences for which to wax eloquent. Leaves stirred by a brisk springtime breeze become the strings of nature’s orchestra. Tragedy elongates life’s shortcomings..

She Breathed Life into a Tortured Soul

My favorite times of the day were those fleeting minutes I wasn’t enduring a lecture, working on a project, or drudging at work because I spent those moments in constant reverie, daydreaming about her.

Jennifer Marie Thompson’s debut in my life was subtle. Sure, there was an instant attraction, but considering her fate, an angelic choir and a beam of light shining from heaven would have been poignant. I didn’t know from the inconspicuous beginnings that she would become the one that would rekindle my belief in something I had long since given up on: love.

Right from the onset, I put up walls to protect my already damaged psyche. While I had been single for several years, heartache and hurt weren’t strangers. Years upon years of constant internal struggle about who I was, who I was becoming, and my self-worth took a toll on me. With every wall I raised, there was Jen breaking it down, climbing over it, doing everything she could to get to me. She challenged me to let go, to believe in her, to trust her with my heart.

What did I know of love? I had been in love before, a different kind of love under very different circumstances. I was venturing into uncharted territory this time around. I was bringing more experience, more wisdom to the plate than the sixteen year-old know-it-all from a decade before. This moment, this investment had higher stakes, more risk, but also the promise of more reward.

When I finally told her I loved her, she might’ve cried. The details of such a significant moment are something I will never again let slip my mind. She’d been waiting for me to say the words because she’d already fallen in love with me.

I didn’t deserve her. She might’ve been younger, but she had a wealth of experience to fill the pages of books. She was a driven, hard-working girl with the courage to pack up and move 3000 miles from home without much of a plan, other than to make it in California. And she almost moved back to New York.

We had just started dating when her friendship with the girl she moved out west with began to crumble. Her teaching gig at a school in Monterrey Park was about to conclude with the summer, and she didn’t have an idea of where she was going to live. I had already began developing feelings for her, but I wasn’t in any position to ask her to stay. I began dreading the passing of each day because it was one day closer to possibly saying goodbye to her forever. One afternoon I noticed her away message on AIM said: Looking at an APT in Rolling Hills. I was absolutely elated. Not onlywould she be staying in California, but she’d only be living a few miles away from me. It was fate, right?

Our chance convergence of completely different life paths seemed destined by fate. There were a myriad of elements that had to fall into place for that fateful night in July to happen, but there were some particular ones of significance. We met at our first softball game for the Scrubs, which was Scott’s (Jessica’s boyfriend) team. I was only on the team because one night after going to a Dodger game with Jessica, we met up with Scott and his friends at this dirty dive bar, Pats II, in Redondo Beach. It was my first time meeting Scott, and he invited me to play on his co-ed softball team on Thursday nights. Also on the team was Scott’s friend, Scott Rush. Rush was dating a girl from New York that he met through his sister who lived in Silver Lake. That girl, Jen Curci or “C” as we called her, met Rush’s sister through some distant relative who mentioned that C and her friend were looking for a temporary place to crash when they got to California. C’s friend was Jen, my Jen. She didn’t believe in God, but she believed that there had to be a greater cosmic power that brought us together.

The fateful quality of our love enveloped our emotions. We loved each other like characters written into a romantic screenplay. I never wasted a loving thought and quickly turned it to a loving expression no matter how corny and cheesy. She was my Wordsworthian inspiration of overflowing powerful emotion. She embodied the romantic cliches I used to imagine growing up. She was the leading lady in the romantic movies I lived vicariously through, and she was the face I saw when I closed my eyes and mouthed the words to love songs.

The best part was that she loved me more than anything. I had never felt more important, more central, more loved than I did with Jen. She filled me with an appetite for life, a life with her. She would chide my unhealthy diet because she wanted me to grow old with her, and I wanted to grow old with her. I spent days reminiscing about blissful memories, and nights were spent dreaming about better tomorrows. I cherished the feeling that I had someone to share tomorrow with, that I could count on sharing new memories to romanticize with someone special, someone I’d been dreaming of my entire life.

On Jen’s desk there’s a baby picture of her and older sister at Disneyland. Her sister is appropriately smiling at the camera, but Jen’s attention is diverted to the side where she’s pointing. We joked that I was at Disneyland that same day, and she was pointing at me off camera. Our love was meant to be since that random encounter at Disneyland in 1985.

I’m so flawed you could call me human. Sure, everyone has their faults, and I have copious amount of the blaring kind. I’m almost 29 and I’m still working on a bachelor’s degree. I’m living hand-to-mouth doing my best to help raise a tween-aged son. My non-belief in myself severely hampers my potential of which I’ve been told I have lots of, but unfortunately potential is merely an intangible measurement of unattained goals. I’m messy, irresponsible more than I should be, selfish, and indolent when I shouldn’t be. I was playing with house money the entire time Jen was enraptured with my charms with a three-year expiration date.

I have nothing to offer. The tangibles are limited, and all I have are the words to elucidate a promise. Those words grow to become meaningless over time. After less than a year, I wanted to marry her, but what held me back was my pitiful existence. She deserved better than what I brought to the table, I didn’t want her to struggle with me. If I had my life in order, I would’ve been in position to grasp a hold of the angel that breathed life into my tortured soul before she allowed her feelings to wither and wilt.

Jen was the greatest thing to ever happen to me. While I’m torn and shattered now, the past three years have been the best years of my life. She filled my life with love, and for that I will be forever grateful. She resurrected the emotion that once meant so much to me. I’m a better person today for loving and being loved by her, and all the heartache I feel permeating my entire being is insignificant compared to the euphoria I felt while basking in her love.

It felt like a three-year honeymoon period, and I can’t help but wonder if the dissipation of such an intensely burning love might have confused her into thinking that she falling out of it instead. I guess it’s been building for a while, and she’s a very good at pretending everything is okay.

The last time I saw her, she was naked in my bed. We had a fight the night before that spilled into the morning. We woke up early and had a conversation, and I thought we worked it out. We made love twice, and when I had to get up to get ready for the baseball tournament, she didn’t want me to leave her side. Had I known it would’ve been the last time I’d feel her soft skin against mine, I would have never left. I would’ve stayed all day holding her body close with her head tucked into my chest underneath my chin squeezing her closer until we breathed in unison. I would’ve kissed her cheeks thousands of times like I always did. I would’ve looked into her big enchanting hazel eyes into the depths of her soul and told her I loved her, and I would do anything for our love. But I didn’t. I got dressed and packed up the gear. On my way out the door I looked over to her and said bye. She motioned with her hand which caused me pause, so I walked back and sat next to her while she lay in bed.

“Is that it?” she asked unsatisfied with how informally I was about to leave.

“No. I loove you,” I whispered into her ear before kissing her lips and her cheek for good measure. “Will you be here when I get back?”

“No.”

I didn’t know she’d mean that in more ways than one. The last time I saw the love of my life, she was in her full glory wishing me to stay at her side. I might her bring a bag of belongings she left at my house, but then we’d have to say goodbye. I’d have to turn around and walk out of her life. My last memory of the love of my life will be of a cold face unresponsive to the yearning of my broken heart.

“Welcome to Catharsis”; Population: 1

Dear David,

You’re going to pour your heart out because it’ll make you feel better eventually.  Your words will be here to remind you how you feel right now, but also to remind you of the strength of your emotions.  You’ll read this today and probably cry.  In the near future, you’ll read it and probably cringe.  Hopefully one day, you’ll be able to laugh when you read it.

If you feel it, write it.  This is the catalyst to unlock those emotions that don’t get through the filter.  It’ll help you cope.  Trust me.

Sincerely,

You

Un-See

The inadvertent click

and path of curiosity

wreaks devastation

on a decrepit heart…

___

Arms raised high,

hands clasped tightly around his neck

drawing his face nearer, burrowing

into the softness of her bare neck.

___

Her provocative perfume enchants,

intoxicates…

entices concupiscent passion

erupting in a moment of inebriation.

___

Gripping firmly, pulling her close.

Face buried in his chest,

embedding her stress

in the embrace of another.

Eyes pressed, thinking

not of me.

___

…fade to black.

Escaping anguish:

the impossible dream.

Pray to un-see.

WORLD Baseball Classic Thoughts

Ichiro lines a single to centerfield for the game-winning RBIs in the 10th inning.

Finally, it’s over.  Now, I can go back to scouting Spring Training for my upcoming Fantasy Baseball drafts, but before I go through that, I feel compelled to share some thoughts on the World Baseball Classic that wrapped up last night at Dodger Stadium.   What a perfect setting for an all-Asian classic final that was classic in every sense of the word.  Los Angeles was the perfect setting for one of the most heated baseball rivalries on a national level in the history of the game, a rivalry that extends beyond the baseball diamond to cultural hatred for one another.  I’m sure there’s lingering resentment for Japan going imperial and raping Asia in the 20th century, and Korean electronics have become a mainstay in what was once a Japanese specialty, so the national fan base really gets into these kinds of games.  And I mean REALLY gets into it.  The Korean fans definitely made their presence felt, and it reverberated from Chavez Ravine to Koreatown through my TV screen and all the way around the world to Seoul.  Color me impressed by the sheer ferocity of the Korean fans.  These weren’t drunken belligerents ready to throw down like Euro soccer fans or East Coast idiots.  These were fans who were drunk with passion for their team, and I really respect that.  I loved the drums, the united cheers, and even those goddamn thundersticks.  I kind of wish MLB games were like that, but then I remember that Major League Baseball is just a commercial whore.

That said, I couldn’t be more annoyed by the game I was watching.  I’m just not a fan of the product of Asian baseball.  It isn’t the unconventional pitching mechanics (really?  a 2-second pause at the top of the wind-up) or the funky swings (really?  inside-outing a pitch in your wheelhouse?) or even the crazy hairstyles that remind me of Asian boy bands.  It’s the pitching strategy that kills me: breaking ball after breaking ball, slider after slider.  In baseball terms that’s called “pitching backwards”… throwing your secondary pitches in fastball counts and throwing your fastball in secondary pitch counts.  Every pitching coach will preach that the most important pitch of any at-bat is “strike one”, and typically that means throwing your best pitch for a strike.  Usually, a pitcher’s best pitch is his fastball, or at least it should be.  The reason why curveballs, sliders, splitters, and change-ups are called “secondary pitches” is because they’re supposed to work off the fastball.   The reason why the fastball is supposed to be a pitcher’s best pitch is because the mechanics of throwing it lends itself to being the pitch that can be most commanded.  Breaking balls are thrown in a general vicinity of a zone, in hopes to draw a swing-and-miss due to disrupted timing, or an easily fielded ball due to poor contact.  The old baseball axiom says, “hitting is all timing, and pitching is disrupting that timing.”  Another axiom says, “it’s incredibly hard to hit a round ball with a round bat squarely.”  I had never seen so many 3-0 and 3-1 sliders in my life.  It would be one thing if a pitcher doesn’t a have a fastball, but these pitchers were able to consistently hit 90+ on the gun.  One pitcher, in particular, had me flummoxed.

Yu Darvish is generally considered the top Asian pitching prospect, and last night was my first chance to see him throw.  He is quite impressive on paper.  From the two innings I saw him pitch, he displayed a plus-fastball that was consistently hitting 95-96 on the gun with late life (meaning there was late movement as it reached the plate),  a slider that was in the mid-80s that broke right to left almost 14 inches, and a change-up to keep the hitters off-balance.  The scouting report says he also has a splitter and a knuckle-curve in his repertoire, but I couldn’t discern if he used it last night.  I was too preoccupied yelling at the TV for him to throw a fastball.  Case in point, in the bottom of the 9th, he was brought in to close the game.  He struck out the first batter, then proceeded to walk the next two to put the tying run in scoring position.  Here’s another old baseball axiom,”walks will come back to haunt you” and sure enough it did.  Darvish has a dominant fastball but is gun-shy to use it?  I’m sure the manager was the one calling the pitches, if not then it was the veteran Kenji Johjima behind the plate, but in either case, he should’ve been challenging the hitters with his fastball.  It was hard to watch such a filthy pitcher throw with one arm tied behind his back.

The turning point of the game didn’t occur when Ichiro singled in the go-ahead runs in the top of the 10th inning, it came when the Korean manager decided to pitch to him.  He had already collected 3 hits in the game almost went yard in his previous at-bat.  He was the best player left in the tournament, and the manager took his chances pitching to him with the go-ahead run 90 feet away.  Korea only exacerbated the precarious situation by allowing the runner on first to steal second, thus putting two runners in scoring position with one of the best hitters in the entire world at the plate.  The Korean manager could’ve rectified his first mistake at that point by electing to intentionally walk Ichiro with first base now open, but he didn’t, and the rest is what they call history.  I’ve watched a lot of baseball in my life, and I have to say Ichiro’s at-bat was one of the best clutch at-bats I had ever seen.  The 8 pitch at-bat included a foul ball off a pitch that bounced in front of the plate as well as several “spoils” (fouling off a pitcher’s pitch).  Ichiro wore the pitcher out and won that battle when the pitcher made a mistake over the plate.  Good hitters make pitchers pay for their mistakes, and Ichiro won another WBC title for Japan at the expense of their most bitter rival.

I had the misfortune of catching Rachel Maddow while I was channel-surfing.  She was being her typical snooty self disparaging America’s pretense of the World Series when the teams that play are only from the United States.  This really bothers me because it doesn’t take a Rhodes Scholar to know that even though Japan has won 2 WBCs, Korea won the Olympic Gold last year, and Cuba has long been a national power, the best baseball players in the world play in the Major Leagues.  The best baseball players in the world come to the US to see if they are Major Leaguers.  The best baseball players in the US don’t go to Japan or Korea or the Dominican Republic to measure themselves.  Which leads me to another point about this contrived tournament.

The USA will NEVER win the WBC because we send our players in the off-season while the rest of the world sends their top players in mid-season form.  Baseball is a skill game that requires lots of time to get into the proper form.  Unlike football or basketball’s preseason, which is used primarily to get the athletes in physical shape for the grueling season, baseball’s spring training is used to get players re-accustomed to the fundamental mechanics of playing the game.  I mentioned earlier how Asian teams have a propensity to throw breaking balls.  When hitters come to Spring Training, the first thing they do is find their timing on fastballs.  After that’s done, they move on to the secondary pitches.  Although Major League Baseball is the primary sponsor of the WBC, it will not put its own season at risk by having the WBC coincide.  MLB knows that hundreds of millions of dollars are at stake whenever Major Leaguers take the field in a game that means nothing to those teams who are signing the checks.  The USA will keep sending players to the WBC with an inherent disadvantage, and they will continue to lose to teams who are in better form.

I had no rooting interest in last night’s game.  Most of my friends were cheering for Korea since a lot of them are Korean, while some of the kids I coach were rooting for Japan since they’re Japanese.  I was just hoping to see some good baseball, and aside from the perplexing pitching strategy, it was a great game by all accounts.  Baseball is the greatest in the world, and I’m happy that it’s getting a big stage like this with the best players in the world participating.  I wish MLB would step-up and allow the tournament to take place at a time when the USA could send its players when they’re ready to play, but unfortunately at this level, it’s all about money, not the game.  Congratulations to Japan and Korea for a great tournament and a classic final game.

And now, a little inspiration

Tonight, when you’re tired, sleepy, and have hit that mental wall, which deludes you into believing that you have nothing left to give:  SUCK IT UP, MOTHERFUCKER!!!  Stop fucking whining about the work.  You chose to do this, now fucking do it!  Don’t give me this bullshit about getting old and not being able to do what you used to do.  You’re a fucking writer.  This is what you fucking do.  It’s what you’ve always done, now just fucking do it.  NO MORE MOTHERFUCKING EXCUSES.  This isn’t the first time, nor will it probably be the last, and every single time you’ve gotten through it, so just do it.  He, who says he can, and he, who says he cannot, are both right.

Deconstruction of a Broken Heart: Part I

The Initial Hope

Compared to the standards established in years prior, the summer of 2006 was setting up to be a nondescript period of time, which was fitting since I was beginning the descent of my roaring 20’s. The long nights of gallivanting the nights away went from consecutive to occasional to sporadic. Clubs and raves became the dive bar after adult-league softball games, and midnight began to feel late.

I was going on my seventh year of being single, and while it seemed like a long time, I was in a good place, finally. I had been battling the demons of depression that were deeply rooted in my many insecurities. I had no reason and every reason to be alone at the time, yet it tortured me to be so. Finally though, I had come to a resolution in my heart to just live and not languish in worry.

One Thursday night in June, I arrived at the softball field early to warm-up for our first game of the season. Jessica’s boyfriend, Scott, invited to play on his team, and I was excited to be doing something active to keep me busy.

As the team warmed up on the side of the field, two girls approached us wondering if we were their team. Luckily for me, we were. One stood behind the other who was doing all the talking. She was wearing black spandex pants, a maroon tank-top, and running shoes. Her dirty-blonde hair was up behind a headband, and I couldn’t help but sneak glances at her. They were both named Jen, so we nicknamed the talkative one “C” since she was Jen Curci, and quiet one was nicknamed “T” for Jen Thompson. I was enchanted by “T” the moment I saw her. While they were being introduced to the team, my eyes locked in on her big hazel-browns, and usually I would turn away after a moment of awkwardness, but I couldn’t take my eyes off her. I smiled a wry smile, and she turned away because I caught her looking at me.

After games the team would go to the dive bar down the street called The Hangar for drinks, and I would use this time to make whatever conversation with Jen that I could. One night while lost in the words of our conversation, I reached over and poked the dimple in her cheek. I loved it when she smiled because that dimple made my heart swoon. It was the first time we made physical contact aside from the congratulatory high-fives on the field. I had breached the point of physical flirtation.

I noticed a poster in the elevator at work about a string quartet giving a performance of Haydn at the library. I invited Jen to the come along to show her I was a cultured gentleman. She wavered on committing to the plans, so I grabbed her cell phone and programmed my phone number into it. I told her to call me and let me know what she wanted to do.

The Friday before the Haydn sting quartet performance I got a phone call from a funny area code I had never seen before. I was hanging out with my sister at her ex-boyfriend’s house at the time, and quickly ran outside to take the call. Jen was calling to let me know that she wasn’t going to be able to make it because she was going on a camping trip with the other Jen. I opened up the mental bag of conversational tricks and kept her on the phone. What was supposed to be a quick call to tell me that she couldn’t hang out the following day turned into a two-hour conversation about anything and everything. It was the first time in a very long time that I had become so engrossed in a conversation that I lost all concept of time. There was just something different about Jen. Something special. Something that made this beautiful girl in a city rife with beautiful girls stand out.

I had always considered myself a “hopeless romantic in search of hope”, and for the first time in a long time I had an idea what that elusive hope was. It came in the elegant form of a girl who came from thousands of miles away to capture my thoughts, my heart, and my soul.

Tales from Fatherhood

Monday morning as I was riding my bike up a hill at school, the chain snapped sending me hurtling over my handlebars.  It felt like a pretty spectacular crash with me nearly face-planting into the pavement then having my bike fall onto my back.

Apparently, I snapped a link on the chain which caused it to stretch and fall off the sprocket.  I let the chain hang off the side of the bike because I didn’t want to get my hands filthy.  Yesterday after work, I was walking my bike out to my truck to take to the bike shop when I noticed that the chain had been placed back onto the sprocket.  There was a post-it note on the bike frame from Marc that said:

“Hey dad.  I fixed [the] chain so you don’t have to worry.”

He even added the smiley face at the end.  I’m not going to tell him that the chain was broken and I had to get it replaced so he can think he really helped me out.

When he was little I wanted him to hurry up and get older so we could play sports.  Now that he’s older, I want him to slow down so I could savor the fleeting moments of his childhood.  Then, he takes the time to “fix” my bike while I’m at work.  Young or old,  big or small I’m just blessed to have such a great kid.

Manuscript #2

The Talk

By David Guerreva

 

            The sun was beginning its daily descent along the ridge of the Santa Monica Mountains over the Palisades before extinguishing itself into the edge of the Pacific Ocean.  Some days the sun would paint the clouds a radiant blend of amber, purple, and pink, but not today.  A fog bank had crept into town around noon blanketing the entire Westside in a haze, which was out of character for the middle of May.  Enjoying sunsets from his Miracle Mile high-rise corner office was a way for Jason to keep his sanity after putting in long hours at the office.  Graham & Lubbock, LLP recently promoted Jason to junior partner, but ever since the promotion he had kicked his work into overdrive feeling the need to validate his ascent.  Jason ducked into his office hoping to catch a calming glimpse of the sunset before disappearing into the cave of the boardroom to discuss the important Stabbone Case.  Seeing nothing but the murky haze, Jason sighed and groused, “ugh, it’s going to be a long night,” before heading off to meet with the other partners in the executive conference room.

*

            Ring-ring.

            “Jason Seaver’s office, how may I help you?”

            “Hi, Carol.  It’s Maggie.  I tried reaching Jason on his cell phone, but I got his voicemail.  Is he in a meeting with a client”

            “Hi, Dr. Seaver.  No, but he’s in the boardroom with the other partners.  Did you want me to pass him a message?”

            “Yes, please.  Tell him that I have a meeting with an important school donor after tonight’s Open House, so I won’t be able take Michael home from baseball practice.  He gets out at 7:30, so if he can pick him up from the varsity baseball field behind the high school that would be great.  If not, then call him on his cell phone and tell him to find a ride.”

            “Okay, Mrs. Seaver.  I’ll go slip the note to him right now.”

            “Thanks Carol, bye-bye.”

*

            Ping!  “Way to barrel it!” Michael’s batting coach yelled.

            Ping!  “Too much top hand there!  You’re rolling over.”

            Ping!  “Come on!  Dig deep now, kid.  Just a few more hacks and you’re done.”

            Michael was laboring to get through the last of his “rapid-fire” sets with his batting coach.  His arms felt like jello and his shoulders burned and felt like they were going to fall off.  It wasn’t just his body that was tired; his mind was fatigued as well.  It had been a long week of baseball practice since his call-up to the varsity team for the playoffs.  Combined with his piano recital two days earlier on Wednesday and stressing out over his Chaucer presentation in English Honors earlier that afternoon, Michael was beginning to have difficulty bringing the necessary intensity to thrive in all his pursuits.

            Michael couldn’t ask for it, but he wanted a break, a reprieve not just from the drill, but from honors classes, piano lessons, and year-round baseball.  He saw how hard his parents worked to provide him the best possible life, but he was beginning to feel burned out from his activities and his life – what glimpses he had of it anyway.  His life was programmed; a routine process that you could set your watch to: Mondays through Fridays he awoke at 6:00, ate breakfast and was ready for school by 6:45.  School didn’t start until 8:30, but getting to school early was an unwanted perk of being the dean’s kid.  After school Michael would have study hall until baseball practice at 4:30, and he was on the field until 7:00 or later if the coach wanted to bloviate about baseball, life, and the confluence of both.  After practice he was either picked up by whichever parent was least busy to do it, or if he was lucky, he got to walk home from the field.  It wasn’t a long walk by any stretch, but Michael enjoyed the alone time he had with his thoughts to ruminate about life, girls, sex, the future, and the teenage issue du jour.  Sometimes, his teammate Luke, who lived a block behind Michael’s row of cookie-cutter tract mini-mansions, would walk home with him if he was stranded by his parents too.

            “Good job, Michael.  Way to finish strong!”

            “Thanks, coach.”

            “Boys, gather around and take a knee.  We had a great week of practice.  We start the playoffs next Friday, so have a great weekend and I’ll see you on Monday ready to work even hard and win the whole God damned thing!  ” the coach yelled trying to imbue some enthusiasm on the exhausted heap of teenagers. 

            “Can you believe this guy?” Luke muttered to Michael.  “This isn’t football.  He’s going to wear us out before the playoffs.”

            “Yeah, no kidding.  I’d be excited for baseball season to end, but I know I have club season right afterwards.  I need a break from baseball… from school… from life.”

            “Oh yeah?  I’ve got a little something.  Are you getting picked up or are you walking home after practice?” Luke asked. 

            Michael thought about it for a second, “You know what?  I don’t know.  I should call my mom.”  Before he could take the phone out of his backpack, it started ringing.

            “Oh.  It’s my dad.  What does he want?” Michael wondered aloud.

            “Hello, Dad?”

            “Michael, sorry I didn’t call sooner, I was stuck in a meeting.”

            “Don’t worry about it.  What’s up?”

            “Mom has a meeting after Open House and won’t be home until later on tonight.  I’m going to be at the office late as well working on the Stabbone Case.  Can you get a ride, or are you okay to walk home?

            “Don’t worry about me.  I’ll just walk home.”

            “All right.  Just be safe okay, and don’t get into any cars with any strangers.”

            “I know, Dad!  I’m not freaking eight years old anymore.  I’m FOUR-TEEN,” Michael exclaimed emphasizing each syllable of his age to make a point.

            “I know, son.  Just making sure, you know?  There are leftovers in the fridge, and if you’re not feeling that, then order a pizza and use the money in the cookie jar, okay?  Love you.”

            “Okay.  I’ll see you later.  Love you too.”

            Michael began thinking of the walk home and smirked.  Although he knew that a couple hours worth of English honors homework awaited him when he got home, he began musing upon the sign that hung above Mr. Dewey’s desk that read: “What matters is the journey, not the destination.”  He thought it was cliché that Mr. Dewey championed such philosophical tripe because he needed it for motivation.  After all, he spent all those years in school just to end up teaching English to freshmen who thought Moby Dick was either a porno or a techno deejay.  It didn’t help the situation that Mr. Dewey expected to be appointed to the Dean of Students vacancy last year.  Michael felt that Mr. Dewey held it against him that his mother leapfrogged over him for the appointment. 

            “So I take it you’re walking home?” Luke asked.

            “Yeah, I am.  My dad’s going to be late at the office, and my mom has a meeting after Open House tonight.  Why what’s up?”

            “Perfect.  Hurry home and I’ll meet you at your place around quarter to eight, all right?”

            “Okay, I guess.  You better be bringing girls though.”

            “Ha!  I guess I am… kind of.”

            “Nice!  You better be bringing two.”

            “Don’t worry; there’ll be enough for the both of us.” 

*

            Open House at the high school was winding down, and Maggie was being as courteous as possible answering each and every question the inquisitive parents threw her way.  Being the new Dean of Students of the prestigious Getty Prep meant she had a significant role in the discipline of the student body, so she expected a barrage of questions from the over-involved parents.  Unflappable and poised, Maggie handled the zealous throng with the composure of a veteran.  It was hard to believe that it was only her third year as a member of the faculty. 

            She arrived at Getty Prep three years ago to teach History after being a stay-at-home mother for most of Michael’s childhood.  After earning her PhD. in History from UCLA, she was poised to embark on a career in academia.  She was handpicked by the chair of the History Department of Whittier College for a teaching position, but a year later she moved to Santa Monica College after getting pregnant.  It was only supposed to be a temporary move so she could be in closer proximity to her doctor and their Westside home, but that first year back in the classroom was incredibly trying on her emotions.  She persevered through the separation anxiety for a year, but realized for the time being, her career was being superseded by a more important duty: motherhood.  With Jason scaling the ranks of his law firm, Maggie decided put her career on hold so that Michael could have a strong parental presence during his formative years. 

            When Michael graduated elementary school, Maggie thought it was time to resume her career.  She had various professorship offers from several area universities and junior colleges, but one position, in particular, piqued her interest: Getty Academy.  Getty Prep, as it was colloquially referred by the haute-monde of the Westside, was considered the Philips-Exeter of the West Coast.  Accepting a position at an elite preparatory school meant a more significant workload with a ten-hour, five-day workweek not to mention parent and student conferences.  Originally, she planned on teaching three classes a couple days a week at a university, but Getty coveted her enough to offer Michael a scholarship when he was of admission age.  Jason and Maggie could not pass up an opportunity to send their son to one of the premier and incredibly expensive prep schools in the nation for free, so she accepted the position.  Maggie brought vigor to the faculty and immediately rose to prominence with raving reviews from students and parents alike for her method, energy, and dedication.  She was voted “Teacher of the Year” after her first year by her peers, and was on the fast track to an administration role down the road.  After receiving her second “Teacher of the Year” award the following year amid several academic successes, she was appointed Dean of Students after her predecessor retired after fifteen years.  The Dean of Students at Getty Academy did more than just discipline the students.   The Dean was also the Chairperson of Academic Affairs, who acted as the liaison between the faculty and the school’s Board of Trustees. 

            With both Jason and Maggie entrenched in their respective careers, they devised a regimented schedule of activities for Michael to keep him on track and out of trouble.  Maggie never felt completely comfortable with her diminished time with her son.  She was disappointed that most of the time they spent together consisted of car rides to and from school, the occasional passing in the halls, and brief meetings in her office before study hall.  Maggie was hoping the situation would improve once he enrolled at Getty, but she was always swamped with work.  That afternoon she had to rush Michael out of her office because she was late for a meeting.  Even those daily afternoon chitchats had become more and more infrequent.

            After wrapping up the Open House in the school auditorium, Maggie made her way to her office for her 8:00 P.M. meeting with Mrs. Malone, a local philanthropist who wanted to donate new computers for the school technology lab.  She sat back in her chair and stared at a picture of Michael above her computer monitor.  The picture of a five year-old Michael making sandcastles at Hermosa Beach was still in the macaroni frame Michael made as a kindergarten project. 

            Ring-ring.

            “Hello, This is Dr. Seaver.  How can I help you?”

            “Hi, Maggie.  It’s Christine Malone.  I’m sorry I couldn’t get a hold of you sooner, but there’s been a family emergency, and I’m going to have to reschedule.  I’m really very sorry.”

            “Don’t worry about it, Mrs. Malone.  I’ll call your secretary next week and reschedule with her.  Bye-bye.”  Maggie glanced at Michael’s picture and smiled to herself because if she hurried she might be able to have dinner with him.  She packed her briefcase with some files to read through over the weekend, grabbed her purse, and took off for the parking lot.

*

            Ding-dong

            The baritone drone of the doorbell reverberated off the marble floors and through the nearly empty house startling an unsuspecting Michael, who was surfing porn sites on his computer.  Michael had forgotten about Luke, but quickly remembered when he glanced at the clock on his computer.  It was 8:00 sharp, and Luke’s punctuality caught Michael by surprise.  He remembered Luke saying he was going to bring a girl, so he anxiously hustled to the front door.  He peeked through the peephole but could only make out a solitary figure, Luke’s.  Downtrodden and dejected, Michael opened the door.

            “Luke, you disappoint me.  Where’s the girl?”

            “Smile, bucko!  I’ve got something else for you.  You said you needed a ‘break’, and I’ve got something that’ll make you chill out.  It’s not really a girl, it’s Mary Jane.”

            “Mary Jane?”

            “Marijuana!  Weed.  Pot.  Herb.  Dank.  Chronic.  Cannabis.  Indo.  Hydro.  Ganja.  Kush.  Come on, Mikey boy!  Don’t act like you don’t know.”

            “How did you get it?  You don’t just walk into a CVS pharmacy and ask for weed.”

            “I stole it from my sister’s stash in her nightstand.  I think she gets it from her boyfriend who gets it from some guy in his dorm at USC.”

            “Shit, man that’s crazy.  I don’t know, dude.  If my parents catch me, they’ll KILL me. 

            “How would they know that you’re high?  My parents never suspect my sister even though she comes home late high as a kite and raids the fridge with her bloodshot eyes.” 

            “You think my parents are straight-edge because my dad’s an attorney and my mom is the dean?  They may not look it, but my parents were pretty wild back in the day.  My aunt tells me stories about my mom and dad back when they were in college,” Michael relayed to Luke reeling him in like a fish.  “One night, I was having issues with my computer so I asked my dad to use his laptop to do homework.  I had writer’s block so I started digging through his files to find inspiration,” Michael said with his voice trailing off for effect.  “Remember that poem I read in class about those drugged-up ravers who fell in love?”

            “Yeah, that was a pretty interesting poem,” Luke answered.

            “You think?  It’s a true story!  It’s my parents!”

            “SHUT THE FUCK UP!”

            “I swear to God.”

            “Dude, that’s crazy,” Luke gasped as he shook his head in disbelief.  “Mrs. Seaver was a raver?”

            “See what I mean?  I think they’d know if I was high.  Besides, my mom believes she has a special supernatural intuitive connection with me.”

            “Of course she does!  She was a fucking raver!  She probably tried all the good stuff: ecstasy… acid… mushrooms… maybe all at once!  I wouldn’t worry about it though.  You said they aren’t coming home for a while so you’ll be fine.  We’ll just toke inside the garage so the neighbors won’t see, and we’ll leave the side door open so it airs out.  When your parents come home, just pretend to be asleep to avoid them.  It’s all covered, all right?”

            “I still don’t know.”

            “Stop being a bitch.  Why don’t you break from your program and live a little?”

*

            Halfway between Getty Prep and the Seaver house on the Coast Highway was Ben’s Diner.  It was a family-owned establishment that the Seavers frequented because Michael could never eat enough of the country-fried steak and potatoes.  Maggie decided to stop by on the way home to pick up an order to surprise Michael.  

            As Maggie arrived home and pulled into the garage she noticed the light had been left on and the side door was left wide open.  She found it strange and began to worry.  She parked her car, took out her can of pepper spray, and cautiously opened her car door.  She stepped out and took a whiff of a familiar aroma.  It was pungent like skunk but not as offensive.  To the untrained nose it might have been mistaken for skunk, but Maggie knew exactly what it was, and she knew the smell was still fresh.  Maggie paced around in her garage for a few minutes trying to compose her thoughts.  She deliberated whether to storm into the house with accusations and threats while grasping for his neck, or to take a calm, civil, and understanding approach, after all, she was a wild child herself in days gone by.  She decided to call Jason to discuss a course of action.

            Ring-ring.

            “Hi Hon, what’s up?”

            “Jason, how much longer are you going to be at the office?”

            “I don’t know?  Another hour, maybe two, why?  Is everything all right?”

            “No.  Michael is experimenting with drugs.”

            “What!?  What kind of drugs?  It isn’t cocaine or meth, is it?”

            “No, nothing like that.  It had a strong odor with a bite like an indica or sativa strand.  I don’t know where he could’ve gotten it though.  None of the kids at school could score quality pot like this.”

            “Thank God it’s just pot.  Don’t do anything drastic until I get there.  Let me finish up here and I’ll be on the road in fifteen minutes.  Love you, bye.”

            Maggie took a deep breath and walked into the house.  The click-clack of her heels on wooden floors alerted Luke to Mrs. Seaver’s premature arrival.  Maggie began walking toward Michael’s room but stopped in the kitchen to gather her thoughts again and reassess how she wanted to start the conversation. 

            Inside the room Luke was panic-stricken.  He fumbled around trying to find any semblance of normality, but he was so stoned that he had forgotten what normal was.  Luke, who had been lying on the floor trying to make imaginary cloud figures in the texture coating of the ceiling, sprang up and was vainly forcing his shoes onto the wrong feet.  Michael was so far gone off his rocker that he was in his own world laughing hysterically at classic DVDs of The Chappelle Show.  He was completely oblivious to what was going on outside his room.

            “Michael!  Dude, your mom’s here!   I have to get out of here.  I’m going through your window.  You better not rat me out to your mom if you get caught!”

            Whatever it was that Luke was babbling about, it wasn’t registering with Michael who was transfixed on the TV.  “What?  You’re talking too fast.  I can’t understand you,” Michael slurred ever so slowly.  “My mouth is so fucking dry.  Do you want something to drink?” Michael asked.

            Luke grabbed Michael by the shoulders and shook him violently.  “Listen!  Don’t go out there.  Your mom is home, and I’m bailing through your window.  Don’t rat me out!”  Luke said as he stumbled over the windowsill and disappeared into the backyard. 

            Michael had a jolt of reality shock his system as he realize the kind of predicament he had gotten himself into.  His heart raced and his breaths shortened.  His hands began shaking uncontrollably as he lost control of his body and his mind as paranoia set in.  He ran to his bathroom to compose himself.  He stared at himself in the mirror trying to rehearse giving the “sober” look.  He noticed the stench of smoke on his breath and started brushing his teeth to try to mask the smell. 

            Knock-knock.

            “Michael, honey?”

            “Mom, hold on.  I’m brushing my teeth.”

            “Oh did you eat already?  I brought home country-fried steak and potatoes from Ben’s.”

            “Oh yeah?  I can eat again!” Michael exclaimed as he enthusiastically threw his bedroom door open.  Avoiding eye contact, Michael grabbed the bag from Maggie’s hand and took it to the kitchen.  Wary of being cornered in the one spot, he danced like a boxer retrieving the silverware, then a plate, then a napkin, and finally a giant glass of water. 

            Maggie chuckled to herself when Michael spilled water as he struggled pouring it into the glass.  Even though Michael was noticeably avoiding eye contact, she saw his bloodshot eyes.  Michael may have loved Ben’s country-fried steak, but he was attacking his food with the ferocity of a hungry wolf, and he was chugging water like it was going out of style.  “Hey, save some water for the fish,” she chided him.  “Are your allergies with your eyes acting up again?”  She inquired.  “Why are your eyes so red.” 

            “Yeah.  My allergies have been killing me,” Michael replied.

            Maggie gave Michael a half smirk before going on.  “Uh huh.  I thought you said you ate already?  Didn’t you get full or do you just have the munchies?  She asked.

            Michael gulped and answered, “I’m hungry again.”

            Maggie tried keeping her suspicion discreet, but his obviousness made it difficult.  “Your eyelids are droopy.  You must be tired.  And that dry-mouth really sucks doesn’t it?  After your dad gets home tonight, I think we should have a little chat.” 

            Silence.  Michael didn’t know what to say.  He knew that she knew what was going on.  “Yeah, sure.  Oh crap, I left my computer on in my room.  Let me shut it down.  Don’t want to waste energy, you know?”  Michael ran back to his bedroom knowing that he was in it deep.  He couldn’t believe his terrible luck getting caught the first time he ventured off the straight and narrow.  Now, it was only a matter of time before his father would get home and he’d receive the full parental onslaught.  Punishments didn’t really bother Michael so much as the talks as getting lectured by a lawyer and a principal did a number on the teenage psyche.  Desperate and backed into a corner, Michael reached for his last resort trump card.

*

            Jason was back at the office rushing to finish his work before leaving to take care of the situation at home.  He was overcome with guilt for all the time missed working when he should have been spending more time with Michael.  He just grew up in a blink of an eye.  In the back of Jason’s mind Michael was still the eight-year old kid in the framed Little League picture on his desk.  He couldn’t believe he didn’t see the signs that Michael was at that age when experimentation was on a kid’s mind.  Jason was actually younger than Michael was when he first experimented with marijuana, but to him it was a different time back then.  He never had the drug talk with his parents, but then again, he was never stupid enough to get caught doing it at home.  He couldn’t help but ponder which situation was more ideal: catching Michael and bringing the issue out in the open, or being blissfully ignorant like his parents were with him.  “Oh well, we’ve already reached the bridge, now it’s time to cross it,” he thought.  As he was closing out the briefs he was working on, he received an email alert.

            You’ve got mail.

            “Who’s emailing me now?” Jason thought to himsef.  “Michael?  What’s going on here?”  Jason saw that the subject line of Michael’s email read, “WAIT: Before you kill me” and knew something devious was afoot.  He opened the email and began reading:

            Dear Dad,

         You’ve probably already talked to mom.  I have one thing to say: let          he, who is without sin, cast the first stone.

-       Michael

            Jason couldn’t believe his son’s audacity, “Who the hell does he think he is quoting Jesus Christ?  He better have found religion because I’m about to send him back to his maker.”  Then Jason noticed an attachment at the bottom of the email.  He clicked on the attachment which opened up a picture slideshow of photos that Jason thought he had hidden deep into the recesses of his hard drive.  They were pictures of Jason and Maggie at a rave when they were in college.  They looked like clowns wearing bright fuzzy pants big enough to fit two people, neon yellow and orange t-shirts, colorful beaded bracelets half way up to their elbow, and they were both sucking on pacifiers.  They had haggard looks on their sweaty faces when they weren’t making funny faces at the camera or sucking each other’s face for the picture.  The last picture featured Jason, Maggie, and two other people sitting in a circle passing around a joint with Maggie tossing her head back in laughter as it appeared that she was about lie down on the dirty floor.  Jason was mortified.  He quickly grabbed his cell phone and frantically called Maggie.

            “Maggie!!!!!  Did you confront Michael already?”

            “No, I told you I’d wait for you.”

            “Well, Michael must sense his pending doom.  He knows you’re suspicious.  I just got an email from him, and he figures something’s up because he suspected you’ve already talked to me.”

            “That paranoid little stoner!” Maggie exclaimed.

            “Well honey, there’s more.  He found some old pictures of us.”

            “WHAT?!?!?!  What pictures?  Not the…”

            “No, Hon.  Not those ones.”

            “Oh, thank God,” she sighed with temporary relief.

            “He found some old raving pictures of us.  He sent an email saying ‘let he, who is without sin, cast the first stone’ and even created a slideshow with the pictures.  I’m beginning to regret getting him that MacBook for his birthday.”

            “I regret sending him to Catholic school if he’s just going to turn scripture against us.  What are we going to do?  This throws a huge monkey wrench into my plans now.”

            “Really?  What were you going to say?  I was stumped.  My parents never had the drug talk with me, and honestly, I was hoping we’d have a couple more years before having to talk about it.  Come to think of it, we haven’t even had the sex talk with him yet.”

            “I didn’t have the drug or sex talk with my parents either, and we turned out pretty well for ourselves, didn’t we?”

            “I’d have to say so.  We never thought we’d be where we are now back when those pictures were taken.  All I cared about was partying, having a good time, and getting into your pants.”

            “Shut up, Jason!  This is a serious.  How are we supposed to have a discussion about drugs with our teenage son when our position of moral authority has been completely compromised?”

            “Honey, I’m a lawyer, remember?  Moral authority is a relative term.  If I can talk circles around the district attorney, then I think I can handle our 14 year-old son.  Besides, I was fourteen once too, and I bet Michael hasn’t done half of the things I had done at that age.” Jason thought about what it was like to be fourteen again and had an epiphany about how to talk to Michael.

            “That’s what scares me, Jason.  I don’t want him doing half the things you did!”

            “Well excuse me, Dr. Seaver.  Do I have to remind you that you are speaking to a junior partner of the Graham & Lubbock law firm?” 

            “Yeah, yeah, yeah whatever.  I hope you’re on the road because he might pass out soon.  He was smoking some potent stuff because it absolutely reeked in the garage, and you should’ve seen how he was devouring his food.”

            “I’ll be home in ten minutes.  I think I know how to approach this to put him in his place.  To drive the lesson home, we have to make this experience as unforgettably bad as possible so he’ll never try it again.  When I get home, just follow my lead, okay?”

*

            Maggie heard the whir of the garage door and went to meet Jason in the kitchen.  She had been pacing in the home office and had grown exceeding anxious about the pending confrontation.  Jason entered the kitchen from the garage with a distinctive smirk on his face that disarmed Maggie’s anxiety. 

            “What’s going on Jason?  What’s with the silly grin?”

            “You’ll see.  I’m going to call Michael out here for a talk, and I just want you to follow my lead.  Remember to think ‘uncomfortable’ and ‘awkward’ because tonight has to be the most unforgettable night of his young life.”

            Jason and Maggie walked out of the office and down the long hall to the living room.  Instead of knocking on Michael’s door to tell him to come out, they took a seat on the sectional leather sofa and called him on his cell phone.

            Michael was in his room playing video games thinking his last ditch effort to save his skin had worked.  He was still stoned out of his wits, but he was proud of how he outsmarted his parents. He felt like he had them on their heels regarding this “after-school special” he had gotten himself into.  “This stuff doesn’t fry your brain,” he thought to himself.

            Ring-ring.

            “Dad?”

            “Michael, we need you to come out to the living room.”

            “Okay.  I’ll be right out.”  Michael slowly opened his door and began his death march down the long hall to the living room.  He tried to infer his fate by deciphering the tone of Jason’s voice, but there wasn’t a lead to go on.  As he approached his parents who were seated at the opposite end of the sofa, he tried to discern their mood by the expression on their faces.  Maggie had the stern face of a dean.  Her eyes shot spears straight into Michael’s heart reviving childhood memories of getting caught playing in the game room when he was supposed to be napping.  He knew that look all too well, and it never failed to reach into the depths of his heart causing an excruciating shame for disappointing her.  Jason, on the other hand, had a smirk on his face like a hot shot lawyer with a surprise witness.  This was most unnerving for Michael, who believed he had played the ultimate wild card with the preemptive email.  Michael’s mind was racing as to what trick his father had up his sleeve, and then his father stood up and began to speak.

            “Michael, we noticed that you managed to unearth some compromising pictures of me and your mother when we were in college.  Since you’re older now, and obviously not oblivious to the world around you, we think it’s time we had a talk about what’s going on in the pictures.”

            Michael began to brace himself for the cliché spiel about the dangers of drugs and how they could derail a young person’s life.  He expected his parents to give the “do as I say, not as I do” excuse because the “times are different now” or whatever other unsubstantiated reason that precluded him from trying pot, but not them from enjoying it when they were young.   But all the batting practice over the years couldn’t have prepared him for the curveball Jason had in store.

            “Those pictures that you found bring back a lot of old memories.  I had just finished my junior year in college, and some of my fraternity brothers decided to go to a rave.  I hadn’t been to one before, and everyone went through this ritual of getting ready and dressing as outrageously ridiculous as possible.  I was having a fun time when I noticed this girl across the dance floor that I took Freshman Composition with.  She was dancing up a storm wearing these white pants that looked like they were painted onto her long legs and round, perfect ass,” Jason described extending his hands out with his palms up and motioning like he was grabbing something firm and supple.  “Those pants were see-through in the black light and revealed the outline of a hot pink thong.  Her top flowed like a reed in the breeze as her breasts bounced with each step,” he recalled sticking his hands out in front of his chest with his palms out making the same grabbing motion.  “I was craning my neck hoping to catch a glimpse of an errant nipple when those effervescent blue eyes caught my stare.  This beautiful creature hypnotizing me with her swaying hips entranced me and motioned with her finger to approach her.  You know who that girl was?”

            Michael leaned in closer with burning curiosity.  “No, who was it?” Michael asked.

            “Your mother.” 

            “WHAT?!” Michael yelped while choking on his breath.

            “And I spent the rest of the night trying to get into her pants.”

            Maggie’s eyes opened to the size of saucers.  She was shocked speechless at first.  Jason’s brilliant plan was to give their son carnal knowledge of their first sexual encounter?  He mentioned that he wanted to make Michael feel uncomfortable and awkward, but his thinking was completely out of the box with this.  The more she thought about it though, the more she began to see Jason’s train of thought.  It wasn’t just that Michael was experimenting with pot, but he was snooping through private material, and he had the gall to try to extort them.  Jason was taking off the gloves in the realm of psychological warfare, and she wanted a piece of the action.

            “You should’ve seen your father back then, Michael.  He was ripped like a bodybuilder.  While we were dancing I had my hands all over his body feeling those rock-hard muscles with my hands.  Your father’s hands had a way of wandering too.  It got so hot and heavy on the dance floor that the people dancing around us stopped to watch.  We didn’t want to give a free show so I grabbed a firm grip of his throbbing fantasy-maker and pulled him to a dark corner of the club where we went at it like wild animals kissing, rubbing, moaning, screaming… ”

            Michael’s jaw hit the floor along with his stomach and the color in his face.  He couldn’t believe what he was hearing.  This wasn’t what he was expecting.  He emailed those pictures to demonstrate his awareness of his parents’ past dalliances with drugs; he didn’t want to hear of their coital conquests of each other.  He knew they had a sex life, but what the hell kind of games were they playing with his head?  “Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Michael stammered.

            “Michael, Michael, please.  Your email screams that you need attention, and you needed to have ‘the talk’ because you’re already fourteen.   My, how time flies.  We’re sorry we didn’t bring this up with you sooner, but we figured that you learned about sex in school.  We realize you’re more curious than that or else you wouldn’t have made that slideshow.”

            “You know Michael.  You can talk to us anytime about anything, especially sex,” Maggie interjected.

            Just the word “sex” coming out of his parents’ mouths made Michael’s skin crawl.  He knew they had a sex life because they were still in their 40s, and they were attractive for old folks, but they were good about keeping it to themselves.  He had never walked in on them or even heard them through the walls.  What made him exceedingly uncomfortable was that even though Michael was still a virgin, he had become something of an internet porn addict and was constantly thinking unsavory thoughts about any girl who looked half-way decent.  Now, he couldn’t stop envisioning his parents interlocked into all those positions of the Kama Sutra.  He tried with all his might to imagine the porn he was watching earlier of Kayden Kross and Lela Star, but his mind always came back to Mom getting railed by Dad.  It got worse as Jason and Maggie kept laying it on sparing no intimate detail about that first encounter at the party and the following four-week long sex-a-thon that ensued.  Michael reached a point of apoplexy as Jason and Maggie kept hammering him with sordid detail after salacious tid-bit.  Some parts made him want to throw up.  Other parts made him want to rip his ears off his head to spare his imagination.  His high had become an all-time low, and he felt an immense weight in the pit of his stomach, an absence where his heart used to be, and a pulsating sensation in his skull.  By the time they were done with him, Michael had retreated into the fetal position on the sofa. 

            “… It’s a good thing you didn’t delve further into my hard drive looking for pictures because you might have found some pictures you could never un-see,” Jason quipped.

            “Dad, I didn’t have to see much to know that I’ve seen enough, heard enough, and imagined enough for my lifetime.  Are we done?”

            “One more thing, Michael, just so we’re clear.   Don’t experiment with drugs and think you can get over on us.  Mom and I aren’t square poindexters who were born yesterday.  We have both been through too much in our lives for you to think you can get away with anything.  If we ever catch you with drugs, we will fuck with your head in such a way that you’ll think tonight was a birthday party.”

            “Now go to your room and let this simmer for a while.  We’ll discuss your punishment tomorrow after we have the drug talk,” Maggie said.

            Michael began trudging back down the hall to his room in a daze.  He got to the kitchen, stopped, and turned around, “I am so sorry, Mom and Dad.  It was so stupid of me.  Everything I did was so stupid.

            “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” Jason replied.

            “Any talk will be better than tonight,” Michael muttered to himself as he walked into his room.

            “Good job, counselor,” Maggie said while patting Jason on the back.

            “You did quite well yourself, Dr. Seaver,” Jason said patting Maggie’s butt. 

            “Jason, I have to ask.  How did you think of this as a way to handle the situation?  I would’ve never in a million years thought of the ‘shock and awe’ approach.”

            “It’s the 21^st century now.  I’ve resigned myself to the fact that we can’t be at Michael’s side 24/7.  We’ll have the drug talk tomorrow, so tonight we’re going to have to think of a way to seriously discuss it.  As for tonight, I just wanted to remind Mr. Seaver over there that my curveball is devastating, and I can sit on his and hit it out of the park.” 

            “Jason, just to let you know, he may have found the pictures, but he didn’t find our stash.”

            “Perfect!  How about you put on your raver outfit, and we meet on the balcony in an hour for a smoke and some fun?  The night isn’t over so let’s be really loud and give him nightmares.”

If You Want To Destroy My Sweater

I used to have a nice sky blue WESC hoodie that I loved to wear on chilly days and evenings much like the ones we’ve been experiencing lately. The sweatshirt gremlins have claimed yet another victim as I haven’t the slightest clue where it is. I’m hoping I lent it to someone to wear and that person has forgotten to return it to me. I’ll keep my fingers crossed.

In lieu of my favorite sweatshirt, I’ve been reduced to resurrecting my black “UCLA” hoodie that I bought for $50 (what a rip-off!!!!) at the campus store earlier this year when I attended my first ever UCLA basketball game. The sweatshirt represents more than the financial raping of my wallet though, it represents the closest sniff I ever got to going to UCLA. It was January 31, 2008, and the Bruins were playing Arizona State. Jen won tickets to the game by calling Indie 103.1 the day before, and I was elated to finally make my first pilgrimage to the college basketball Mecca, Pauley Pavilion. Growing a UCLA fan wasn’t a choice as I was indoctrinated at an early age by a father who worshipped at the altar of John Wooden, only the greatest coach of all time. Needless to say it was a little dream of mine to one day roam the famed campus in Westwood as a UCLA student, although you probably wouldn’t have guessed it with my half-ass study habits.

My application to transfer was still being reviewed when I went to the game in January. I have a thing about wearing college sweaters if and only if you graduated from the school or are a current student. I’ve bought t-shirts for certain event like March Madness before, but I drew the line with the college sweatshirts with the block letters emblazoned on the front.   I broke my rule this time. It wasn’t that I was confident about getting admitted because I’m a realist, but I’d been wanting that sweatshirt ever since I was a kid.

As fate would have it, I didn’t get in. I begrudgingly relegated the sweatshirt to the bottom of my closet to be remembered only as a momentary lapse of reality.

Poor Schleps Like Me

I can tell by the glow around my blinds what kind of day it’s going to be. This morning my window radiated like God was trying to make an impression on me, or more likely a cruel joke because the early wake-up call was for work.

So much for the storm of the century, right? All I heard this week was that it was going to be the coldest, wettest Christmas EVAR. StormWatch 2008 was in full effect with “Asian News Reporter” on the corner of pick-your-intersection reporting that yes, in fact, there is water falling from the sky. “Washed-up-former-anchor-who’s-relegated-to-field-work” was reporting from the base of a burned out hill from last month’s fires waiting for the inevitable mudslide to consume him. I don’t want to downplay the potential danger that comes with storms, mudslides, floods, and the like, but come on! LA, you need to man up! It’s just fucking WATER!

It sucks to be working the day after Christmas. Seeing that I’m temping here, I thought I’d impart some yuletide spirit and volunteer. There’s only two of us here at the office, me and the boss, who I play softball with. Luckily, I brought my MacBook and my brand new How I Met Your Mother seasons 1 & 2 DVDs.

I braved the mall crowd Christmas Eve to do some last minute shopping. I wandered into a going-out-of-business sale at Suncoast Pictures and found myself deliberating which DVDs to splurge on: How I Met Your Mother or The Laguna Beach Gift Set. What a dilemma. How I Met Your Mother is my new favorite show. If the The Wonder Years is my idealistic childhood lived vicariously through the eyes of a prepubescent Caucasian boy living in the suburbs of Anywhere, USA, and 90210 is the idealistic teenage years lived vicariously through the eyes of privileged teenagers run amok, then How I Met Your Mother is what my twenties would be like if… if I hadn’t had my head in the clouds wishing my life were more like TV.

The First of a Long Ten Days

The first alarm went off confusing me in my semi-conscious state not  knowing if I had actually fallen asleep.   The last thought I remembered before drifting off into this period consciousness limbo was,  “hold her while you can.”

By the time the alarm went off a third or fourth time, she crawled over me to get ready for her flight.  I wasn’t in a rush to send her off because she was leaving me for ten long days.

I swear I wasn’t like this before.  Her love consumes me, and I’m only all too willing.  I  had started missing her days before she was supposed to leave, and this last morning was tough.

She got caught trying to sneak an extra carry-on bag into the terminal so we had to get back in line at the counter to check a second bag.  I didn’t mind because I got to spend another 10 fleeting minutes with her before TSA rules separated us.

I stood in line with her as long as I could before reaching the first security checkpoint.  I kissed her lips and said goodbye before walking off to an area outside the checkpoint.  I watched her as she matriculated through the checkpoint to the escalator seeing if she’d look back to see if I was still there.  I was.  And every time she looked back I would blow a kiss to her.  I stayed until I couldn’t see her anymore.

By the time I got home I had to call and tell her how much I loved and missed her.  I swear I didn’t used to be like this, not that it’s a bad thing.  I’m lucky because she doesn’t just appreciate it, she revels in it.

I’ve always considered myself a “romantic” of sorts daydreaming about love and its exploits before really understanding what it all entailed.  I evolved (devolved?) into a “hopeless romantic,” which was probably  my darkest hour.  Unfortunately, that hour turned into weeks, months, and years to the point where it started defining me.  I would spend countless thoughts throughout the day wondering what was wrong with me lamenting everything I had become.

She saved me from me.  She is the love I daydreamed about as a boy when I didn’t know what it was, but had an idea what it should feel like.  She is the  love I believed in when I was an optimistic teenager.  She is the love I held out hope for in the despair of my young adulthood.  She is love.  All the heartbreaks,  tears, love-sick poems, musing on chick flicks, sunsets, starry nights, dewy dawns, and all the failed attempts before was only preparation for this moment, this special girl whose existence I began losing faith in.

Hurry home.  I miss you terribly.