They’re The Reason For This Place Called Home

We live in a fortunate place, not by accident.

There is an intrinsic value to living in a country where you’re allowed to shout your dreams. Where you can join and object and reason, where you can fight City Hall- the winning and losing of which is not as important as the ability to let them know you’re in the room, that you count. It’s that unseen but almighty imperative, that once shouted, holds.

We can possess a strength in the numbers, one that is not punished for its threat, but which may be recognized for its value.

We can march for the rights of strangers and we can speak for the experiences of those we love. We can argue and debate with those whose views are foreign to ours, and we can create great things with those whose commonalities inspire us to come together.

We live in a country where dreams are currency. Where abilities have merit. Where today has possibility. Where the road that stretches out before us is a sweeping arc of places we’ve come from and places we’ve not yet gone. And those roads have need simply for the settling that we can bring to them, again and again. And again.

It happens this way because of the men and women who have given their lives to a greater cause. And it’s only right that we have a day that stands for them, even if the truth of the matter is, their meaning is felt inside the other three hundred and sixty four days of the years just as strongly.

They’re the reason for this fortunate place we call Home.

 

 

Don’t play with my food . . .

I have to admit that I’m usually a tad skeptical when it comes to my food delivery systems being tinkered with. And this LiquiGlide is no exception. For one thing, I’m uncomfortable with the name. It sounds like something you’d experiment with on a Saturday night . . . after the kids were asleep . . . you know.

Besides,I have bad mojo with stuff that is supposed to make my life easier.  A few examples . . .

Juice Boxes: If I’m not mistaken, juice boxes made the scene in the early ’80s. A fact to which I was blissfully unaware until my kids made the scene in the mid ’90s. Every parent has a juice box story, and it’s only the convenience of the damned things that allows for these stories to be told without having to use the word Fuck several dozen times. Except for me, that is.

From the first time I tried poking that tiny straw through a foil pinprick the size of an anorexic atom , I’ve hated these things. How convenient is it if Daddy is sitting there for hours on end, stabbing at a five ounce box whilst introducing the kiddies to Sesame Street Uncensored? Answer: Not convenient at all once Mommy finds out.

And when you finally strike oil, it’s a whopping six ounce gusher of sugar with a pinch of juice added in. Half of which gets squeezed onto the rug, couch, car seat, computer keyboard, cat, dog, tax papers, etc.

Squeeze Bottles: These things are the whore Princess Bride to the King of Lazy Land- the remote control. Taking her rightful place alongside the King . . is the Squeeze Bottle.

I wouldn’t mind the squeeze bottle but for the fatal design flaw I discovered a few years ago when a dollop of mayo turned tsunami on me, resulting in a trip to the dry cleaners. After which I did some quick math . . .

On average, I was probably saving ten seconds by using the squeeze. So . . . adding in my trip to the dry cleaners, I would’ve had to outlive Noah in order to get back to even.

Once I received the dry cleaning bill, squeeze bottles were outlawed in my kitchen. Forever.

So MIT Kids, God bless you for trying to make my life easier. Not that you believe in God, since you can’t patent Him, but you get the idea. Thanks.

But no thanks.

I’m dealing just fine with all the condiments I’ve lost on account of they were too damned lazy to follow the light. So feel free to use those super-sized brains of yours on the gaping deficits of a world in need. Roam the grounds outside those boxes that will not cage your fiery genius, and I’m sure you’ll come up with something a little more useful than how to score the bottom of a bottle.

Either that, or it’s time for MIT to give Charlie Sheen his Honorary Doctorate.

Dear Maxim, Your “Hot” List is Ice Cold

Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, and it must be time for Maxim’s annual Hot 100.

And for Maxim, I use fool liberally since they make it so damned easy to do so. Last year’s Hot? Not so much, considering their omission of the lovely and talented Vera Farmiga from the list.  A low ranking would have been grievous enough, but Farmiga-cide? I couldn’t wrap my head around the idea that Katy Perry, Mila Kunis and Megan Fox could crack the top 20 and yet, Farmiga didn’t even rate for their top 100? Well guess what happened this year? Bad . . met worse.

Perry, Kunis and Fox all cracked the top 10 while Vera was given the milk carton treatment. Again.

Here’s the deal . . if Nickelodeon magazine came up with this list, I could understand. Cause that’s where Perry, Kunis, Fox and most of the girls found in the top 100 belong. Tucked in between Skittle cupcake recipes and Angry Bird cheat codes. And do you know why they belong there? Because they ARE girls. When it comes to the predominance of pups on this list, there’s no need to take my word for it. Simply consider that Amanda Bynes, Selena Gomez, Emma Watson and Miley Cyrus made the cut. After which they went to the mall to celebrate.

Maxim’s story is that they democratized the voting process this year. And I’m guessing all the kids who just finished watching the High School Musical marathon on Disney crashed the virtual polling boxes at the same time. Yeah, uh huh. Sure. Get Chris Hansen from Dateline’s To Catch a Predator over to Maxim headquarters, stat!

This isn’t some middle aged rant. This is a pissed off, bitterly disappointed and completely disillusioned middle-aged rant by someone who happens to be a huge fan of Vera Farmiga. She’s a classic beauty whose got more grace and style in her back pocket than most of these “Hot”ties could buy through the most expensive PR firm.

In fairness, the list did score some hot mamas- Kate Beckinsale, Zoe Saldana, J-Lo, Charlize Theron and Christina Hendricks. But it’s not nearly good enough, not without Vera it ain’t.

As if all this wasn’t stupid enough, Maxim went and added insult to injury by lampooning its Hot 100 – - allowing Stephen Colbert, Lois from Family Guy and Amanda Knox’s (mug shot?) to crash the party. As if we really needed to be reminded that this list was a joke in the first place.

Forever has a place

I have to imagine there is a heavenly lounge up there with a three of a kind musical act showing off their one of a kind talents. They don’t take money in this place, cause it runs on wishes and prayers.

Its where I can see Donna and Whitney debating as to whether or not Last Dance would serve as an acceptable opening number for the standing room only crowd. And of course, the conversation would be worth its weight in all that solid gold of theirs.

Etta is brushing over the piano keys, playing the silent witness to this exchange until the need for music gets too much and she just has to take it somewhere for a time. So she turns to them and says. “Girls, Last Dance will do just fine.”

The music starts, and the disco ball goes big as the moon.

“We’ve got forever and a day.”

 

NBA Playoff Predictions- In Cool-Vision

The Association is all about cool. Starting with the name . . . I mean, come on.  Quentin T could not have made that name up to cooler sounding.

Hence, my predictions on the NBA semifinals have nothing to do with starting lineups, bench depth or coaching. Nope, I’m basing it solely on cool. Never mind we’re a couple games in, my picks are ALL about turntables, hard looking shades and sharp suits.

In other words? Righteousness.

Heat vs Pacers- Miami has arguably the best player in the game in LeBron, who just won his third MVP. That’s cool. They have D. Wade, who can take over the fourth quarter, which is cool. They have Riley as Team Prez, and he is Mr. Cool. Okay, so LeBron’s collection of monikers- LBJ, The Chosen One, King James- is far more extensive than his title rings . . not so cool.

The Pacers once had Reggie Miller. He wasn’t as cool as his big sister, Cheryl. But Reggie was cool shit, with that three point arc gone moon landing on the nine times outta pressure packed ten.

Bottom Line . . . The Heat win cause they play on South Beach and the Pacers, do not.

76ers vs Celtics- Dr. J used to hold airshows at the old Spectrum. Coolness. Squared and back. After which Moses Malone came within one “Fo” of correctly predicting a sweep of the postseason, which was Nostradamus cool. Allen Iverson put the ’01 squad on his back and got them all the way to the finals, which was way cool. And with Larry Brown preaching practice the entire way? Old school cool.

Historically, the Celts have been so uncool that it’s actually made them cool. Russell was cool money, and Havilcek was cool touch. Bird and those ’80s Celts were cool killers who always seemed to be in the finals with guys named Cornbread and Chief. That was cool.

Bottom Line . . . The Sixers win since my girlfriend is from Philly. Cool?

Clippers vs Spurs- This is future cool- Blake Griffin and Chris Paul- vs past cool- The “Ice Man”, the Alamo, 4 titles.

Bottom Line . . . Donald Sterling owns the Clippers. Not cool. Spurs win.

Lakers vs Thunder- Have the Lakers ever NOT been cool? Even when they hailed from Minny, they had Mikan- who was so uncool that he was actually quite cool. The Lakers are Wilt and West, the Showtime of Magic and Riles. Shaq and Kobe booking with the Zen Master. It’s really not fair.

The Thunder was borne of the Seattle Supersonics, which is Disco Lemonade Cool. They have Kevin Durant, who is the coolest guy in the room simply because he doesn’t try to be. They have James Harden, whose constantly changing appearance has a witness protection vibe, which is very cool.

Bottom Line . . . How can a team from OKC beat the “Showtime 2.0″ Lakers in terms of cool? Easy, Ron Artest plays for the Lakers. Thunder roll.

Romance. . those momentary slices of forever, how I love them

I had my night all planned out.

Pizza delivery, a few ice cold Sams and a Netflix marathon. I’m pretty sure there may have been a time when this kind of Saturday night itinerary would have been considered lame-o . But hell if I can remember it.

My cell phone starts shimmying as I’m tossing between onion rings or calamari. This better be good, cause my deliberation is . . yanno, important stuff.

It’s my girlfriend. Okay.

“Hey, Kevin can’t make it. Would you be up for some Xanadu?” She asks. So sweetly, in fact, that I forget all about my hot date with a veggie supreme.

“What happened to Kevin?” I ask.

Kevin is an old friend of hers. He’s funny, compassionate, good looking. None of which fazes me in the least since . . .

“He’s head over heels for the new guy. Sooo, Kev completely forgot about tonight . . He’s still in Maryland!” My girlfriend tells me.

“Didn’t you call to remind him?” I ask.

“He had his phone off until a few minutes ago. Didn’t want to be disturbed.” She laughs.

Oh yeah, I forgot to mention that this Kevin is a pretty smart guy.

“So? Can you make it?” She asks.

“Well, seeing as how the only thing keeping me here are pizza delivery plans, sure. But I need to eat.”

“We’ll stop at Zia’s on the way, they’ve got the best calzones.” She says.

“Vegetable,” I insist.

“Of course.” She giggles, so sweetly in fact, that I completely forget I was once in love with the idea of pizza for dinner.

Love is a lot like pizza nights.  Your ability to navigate the changing currents is tantamount to success. Us modern romantics, we must abide.

There’s a sanguine vibe happening in local theater- borne out of accessibility- that Broadway cannot touch.  These thespians are dreamers and lovers in the most amazing sense of such definitions. I dig that, lots. So we’re at the playhouse, six chicas and this guy. My presence elicits a few shushed up jokes about feelings and potpourri from the perfumed up circle. Predictable stuff. “You know, most of this crowd is going to be gals and gay guys.”

“Yeah, you might get hit on.” Comes another voice.

“Well, be it the former or the latter, a compliment is a compliment.” I reply.

A couple hours later, and my review was short and sweet. The production was sappy. But I happen to think the world’s supply of sap has been seriously depleted, so I liked it. Stories about never giving up on your dreams and love conquering all . . well, keep ‘em coming is what I say.

Love is all about getting lost inside the pair of eyes sitting across the table from you. It’s a blind jump into the craziest of chances, odds be damned. Gay, straight, black or white or chartreuse? Matters not.

Love is love.

As far as Xanadu goes, now I want to see the movie. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Singapore Slings, Chariot Races and a Pat Sajak rumor even TMZ would scoff at

My friend George has a theory as to why the world has gone to shit with all this political correctness.

“I used to be able to get a Singapore Sling to go.” He says.

Of course, the fact that motorists are no longer allowed to impersonate a flying Wallenda behind the wheel has nothing to do with being politically correct. A drink with gin and brandy should never have a side of steering wheel. But George ain’t a sociologist, and I ain’t changing his mind.

The writer in me loves to provoke and observe the soapbox of a man who has led more lives than a stray cat. George has been a family friend since I was old enough to curse in context.  His heart of gold can be hard to find sometimes, since it happens to be sheathed in titanium. But he’s good people.

This generational harpoon, linking the death of “One for the Road” with a societal downgrade, it’s comical. My attempts to elucidate on the matter of the chasms which occur whenever one generation hands the keys to the next are met with brickwalled harrumphs and guffaws.

“Those were the days . . . Singapore Slings,”

There’s no well of contrition with George, but I’ve obviously scored because I can feel a changing of the subject coming. His segues are comedic gold.

“It reminds me of when I used to drag race down Crossbay Boulevard for money. You want to get laid? Drag racing.”

Told you.

“You ever drag race?”

“No, but I got laid plenty so I figured what was the point?” I respond.

“You fucking kids,” He laughs. “These drag racing movies today . . . and this YouTube . . . it’s all bullshit. It used to be like chariot races, every weekend.”

“It was all about love of the game with you guys.” I say.

“And to get laid, don’t forget.” He responds.

Wheel of Fortune is providing background noise, until he starts paying attention to the broken puzzle on the screen. “That Pat Sajak  . . .”

Here we go.

“He’s gay.” George says.

“Where did you hear that?” I ask.

“He worked with that knish (Vanna White) all this time and he never schtupped her!”

Nicholas Sparks? Your day job is safe.

“There are only a million explanations . .” I say.

“No, just one. He’s gay.”

“Maybe the timing was never right, or maybe they knew each other too well. Maybe they didn’t want to ruin the franchise, or their friendship . . both.”

Hey, I tried.

“What does fucking someone have to do with friendship?” He asks.

Spoken like a man thrice divorced.

“It’s kind of important.” I say.

He solves the puzzle before adding “Fucking kids.”

“I know, we really screwed things up mightily when we allowed emotions in the same door with sex.” I say.

He’s growing tired of bitching, I can tell. He asks me if I want to grab a bite with him and I’m down with that. His banter with the waitresses is something to behold.

“Singapore Slings . . .” He says, his voice trailing off.

He”ll never change. Not that I’m complaining.

 

Shadow Falls- Home to Stay

The bright yellow house with red clay tiled roof sits atop Caidas de la Sombra in the northwest pocket of town.

Two ex-pats, Gabriela and David Alvarez reside there.

Gabby teaches English at the Mobile Library in San Juan del Sur and David runs a deep sea fishing boat six days a week for the tourists; his five year old son Damon tags along occasionally.

Every now and again, the handsome couple gives someone pause enough to ask if they might not have been famous in another life.

Theater, they say. Long ago.

They say they’ll never go back.

Shadow Falls- Paragon Order Pt. 6

Dominoes abundant.

Homeland boss Rutland was indicted for involvement in a prostitution ring  . . . Browning died of a heroin overdose . . Baby Damon and his mother were killed in a  head on collision.

These orchestrated events provided justice, and closure.

President Willingham cashed Damon’s chip- the journal- in the form of posthumous recognition for Khalil and Salimah’s attempts to thwart the attacks. They celebrated their deaths in Paris.

War was averted, impeachment proceedings against Willingham stalled.

Jeanette called Damon with news of the mother and child reunion. They’d rendezvous, dressed in new identities.

Tomorrow was selling a chance.

That worked.

(Epilogue manana . . .)

Shadow Falls- Paragon Order Pt. 5

Paragon Order would be shuttered in ”Area 51″ lore; the clearinghouse for all juicy conspiracies.

The public would never learn the truth behind the attacks and top secret program which yielded cataclysmic results. Three cities had served as testing grounds for biological weaponry- mother to a devastating mutation of the victims cells.

Damon held Carrie’s journal. Through her courageous death, he would forge a life.

“She’d want you to find better places than a bottle.” Jeanette whispered.

“And we will.”

Damon had an audience with the most powerful man in the free world, and miles to go before he slept.