December 8, 2011

Know what I want? An evening out of fine dining. A cold lemon sparkling water to dilute the first of many crisp, refreshing Long Islands, a warm, buttery onion loaf, and flavorful, colorful antipasto salad. Cayenne pepper-seasoned, bacon wrapped jumbo shrimp on skewers with pineapple. A piping, inviting vegetable soup with beef broth. A brief glass of lambrusco or some sweet wine to cleanse the palette. Then a main of ribeye, medium, with buttered, paprika roasted red potatoes and snappy asparagus, a cabernet sauvignon or two to compliment, a glass of cold iced water to cleanse. Finally, a slice of cheesecake, plain with a decorative caramel, or perhaps a single scoop of mint ice cream, a cup of mild coffee, a short shot of brandy. Add enriching conversation, hefty laughter, and nostalgic reminiscences with good company, and, yeah, that's what I want.

August 11, 2021

This stupid son of a bitch in the room next to me came in not wearing a mask yesterday, like many who still aren't. All day long today he's been coughing his fucking guts out.

Yeah, I'm generalizing in my opinion of what's going on with him. Kind of like that self-appointed badge-wearing hero of freedom Rand Paul is generalizing what right-thinking people should do, like defying CDC standards.

You're right, you fucking moron, whether you're a senator from Fantasyland, anyone who believes as he does, or the shithead in Room 7213 at the Travelodge in Belen, New Mexico - they can't arrest you all for not following social health guidelines.

But they can burn your bodies once you're dead to prevent the spread of what you could've helped prevent while you were alive. 

This isn't political. This isn't sociological. This isn't philosophical. This is biological.

Get your goddamn shot and cover your fucking mouth.

August 2, 2012

How difficult it is, in spite of maturity, growth, result, and passage of time, for me not to feel bad about so significant a possibility not experienced, about a decision so momentarily made yet lastingly recalled, indeed a wrong way taken at the veritable fork in the road. How I despise my memory, that it lasts so long, recalls so easily, reliable and detailed, pulsing within an impassioned and wantonly rhapsodic, if intrinsically melodramatic, soul.

Sigh. Alright, I'm done.

July 13, 2011

Thirty-two years of musical education so I can play "Name That Tune" with a family at the next table in an Italian restaurant.

July 12, 2020

Goodbye, brother from yesterday. Goodbye, you from every day we shared before. Goodbye, everything about us that you hastily, unfairly, and relentlessly declared no longer had any purpose.

May 4, 2014

I just learned my neighbor died a month ago. I'd had a feeling something was wrong, for though my work schedule is erratic at best, and our occasional good morning's and other greetings notably intermittent, it had been a few weeks since I'd seen any activity at his house at all. A couple of weeks ago, I waved to a couple of previously-seen relatives, well-dressed and somber, driving away from his home as I pulled up to mine, and as there's been no answer at his door this last week when I attempted to deliver a couple of bills reliably and incorrectly delivered to my mailbox, my suspicions increased. Tonight, on a whim, I searched the local newspaper's obituary column and there it was, an entry describing the fine gentleman whose acquaintance I made the same autumn I moved into my house and he into his, both of us recent divorcees, both of us devoted fathers, both of us gladly possessing the kind of congenial demeanor you want from a neighbor, regardless of your differences in age or occasional meetings.

And so, another good man I've had the honor of knowing - if only briefly to share news headlines, updates on our sons, complaints of our postal carriers and garbage men, and the ever-present but never-fulfilled invitation to someday come over to one or the other's home for a beer - has died. And it doesn't matter the measure of the depth of our relationship, or the drinks we didn't share, or the great gladness I have in remembering his company - I feel the loss of this good man and I'm sorry. Sorry that I didn't know him better, sorry that he fought so hard and painfully these last couple of years, sorry that other men I know who don't deserve to be spit on were they on fire continue to live, sorry that I wasn't a better neighbor, a better man.

Good on you, Mr. Acosta. Thank you for your friendship, your neighborhood, your interest in my sons, your time shared with me, however brief, however passing. I'll remember you always with warm fondness and some regret. Thank you for being.

February 9, 2014

Yesterday, en route to work, I stopped at my usual sandwich shop. Before I placed my order, the sandwich maker complimented me as one of his best customers, thanked me for my continued patronage, and further insisted my meal was on him. My polite decline was defeated by his sharing of a couple of past instances in which my gratuity helped him, after finishing his long, late-night shift, encountering gasoline issues and the like. I graciously accepted his generosity, honored by his kind and considerate gesture, and after receiving my lunch, continued to work, feeling positive, thankful.

This isn't self-approbation, I assure, nor is it simply a free sandwich. I relate this in recognition of a person's kindness, offered freely and without expectation or pretense, leaving me at once impressed and humbled. I hope we would all do as much for each other.