In Pursuit of... Something Else

One year ago when I started PoS, it served a great purpose. It was a place to share some thoughts with those who might be interested – friends, family, and strangers alike. More importantly, it gave me an outlet to channel some energy and emotions in a creative way rather than keeping them internalized. It also allowed me to share things that moved me, made me think or laugh.

Writing for those reasons is something I still need and want to do, but writing them as Mr. WriteNow is not.

In Pursuit of Strange is a great title for a blog about dating, or about the exasperating quest for something better, something different than what we have. But there is perhaps much more to be said or written about what is right in front of us. I believe I did that in this forum at times, but too often felt constricted by the imaginary, self-imposed confines of the title, the theme, and even the audience.

I'll continue to write and continue to share in other places, other ways, and other forums. I enjoy it. I need it. But my pursuit now is for something greater than strange. And my desire is to be something better than Mr. WriteNow.

Thank you for reading, for commenting, and for taking the time now and then to visit and share in this pursuit.

Perhaps we’ll meet again in the next one.

MMmmmmmm....Business Time

Sibling Rivalry

When I was a teenager, my younger sister and I had a bitter ongoing battle.

She was delusional in her devotion to Duran Duran. I was immovable in my dedication to Genesis. Not so much Phil Collins and his solo work, but the older Peter Gabriel-led Genesis and even the early Collins-fronted stuff in the late 70’s and early 80’s (long before the cringe-inducing I Can’t Dance-era).

She and I argued endlessly about which band was better. She had number one hits to point to, like Hungry Like a Wolf, Rio, and Is There Something I Should Know?

My case relied heavily on the staying power of a band that first recorded in 1968 (before she was born) and produced two bona fide solo superstars in Gabriel and Collins while selling over 100 million albums worldwide. No Reply at All, Abacab, and Misunderstanding were all over the radio in those days, but Genesis albums (I insist, to this day) are best appreciated in their entirety, from beginning to end. The superior musicianship of its members (including Collins behind the drums) lends itself ideally to epic, long-form storytelling and repeated listens far more than it does to three-minute pop songs.

But Duran Duran was a fixture on top of the U.S. charts then, while Genesis had a strong, fanatical following but never quite achieved U2-level supergroup status.

The war of words raged between us into early adulthood until one day we made a grudge-inspired bet about which band would last longer. That was 15 years ago.

I’m thrilled and quite satisfied to say that I have floor-level tickets to see Genesis here in Chicago on Wednesday night.

Sure they’re in their sixties now, but they’ll pack the 23,000-seat United Center three nights in a row in the midst of what is most certainly their final North American tour.

A quick Google search reveals that Duran Duran too is releasing a new album this fall.

I don’t even remember anymore what was riding on that silly wager, but almost three decades later, the battle rages.

Turn it on again, old men.

Progress Report

My son was getting ready for school one morning earlier this week.

“OH NO! Dad! I can’t believe this! I totally forgot about my math homework!”

I gave him one of those looks.

“I know! I was so focused on my language arts project last night that I forgot about math!”

“Well, you’ve got twenty minutes before the bus comes. Better get busy.”

He scurried into his room.

“OH NO! Dad! I forgot my book!”

He collapsed in a pathetic heap on his bed.

“I can’t believe this! How could I forget! This will be my second incomplete this year. This is terrible!”

“I'm sorry pal. Looks like you’re going to have to face the music. Come on. Finish getting dressed.”

Five minutes later...

“Hey Dad! Come here! Look!”

He was sitting in the kitchen in front of the computer.

“I went to my math teacher’s web site and I can go to the online version of the textbook! I forgot about that!”

Wow. Things have changed since I had to ride my bike over to Billy Shaver’s house in 1979 and copy down the math assignment I missed.

“Uh oh.”

“What’s wrong?”

“I need the password.”

“Do you have it?”

“Yes."

“Where is it?”

“In my math book.”

The more things change...the more they truly stay the same.

So you go to Paris, France, and....

Tonight I arrived in Paris for the first time in nine years.

The last time I was here, I came with only a backpack, a couple changes of clothes, a few pairs of tighty whities, hiking shoes, a 35mm camera, and a guidebook.

This time, I have a rolling carry-on, two suits, four dress shirts, a sport jacket, four ties, two pairs of shoes, 5 boxers, a digital camera, a cellphone, a Blackberry, and a laptop.

Last time, I stayed at the Young and Happy Hostel with 5 roommates I’d never met (4 of whom didn’t speak English) and a community bathroom down one very narrow flight of winding stairs.

This time, I have a king-size Heavenly bed in a junior suite with French doors overlooking a garden, and a marble bathroom with a bidet.

Last time, I exchanged dollars for French francs. Now they have the Euro.

Last time, I read a few chapters of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road each night before I went to sleep. Tonight I watched some French television show where naked girls were licking each other. (I swear.)

Last time, the French newspapers were ridiculing Americans for making such a big deal of Clinton being in Monica. This time, they’re ridiculing Bush for being in Iraq.

Last time, I drank tap water and ate ham sandwiches I bought from street vendors. Tonight, I had two glasses of cabernet in the lobby bar, Evian from the mini-bar, grilled lamb chops and mousse au chocolat noir from room service.

Last time I was frustrated when I couldn’t find a pay phone that worked. This time, I’m frustrated because the wireless Internet is a little slow.

A lot can happen in nine years.

Tonight, when the train pulled into Gare du Nord, I walked through the main entrance of the huge station onto the crowded sidewalk. The sun was just setting over the city and the cafes were bustling with wine drinkers and smokers and gossipers and chattery couples and loud guys yelling at a rugby match on TV.

It’s been a while, but Paris hasn’t changed much. I have.

I walked out to the curb and stood looking down the street at the people and the motion and the palpable life of this city. I could almost hear the dramatic orchestral music swelling in the background as the camera sweeps up and back to a long shot of me amidst the chaotic setting. We see the American, smiling, looking one way and then the other, brimming with confidence, optimism, and pride in how it feels to come back here at such a different point in his life.

Then I wondered if this was the closing scene of the movie...or maybe just the beginning.

Memory of 2001

On this day, just six years ago, the world changed forever.

It’s a dramatic and seemingly exaggerated statement too easily written. But few who remember 9/11, or 9/12, or 9/13 or the dark days that followed could disagree. If your mind was distracted even for just a moment by anything else at all in those days, you were lucky...until that terrible thought jolted you again...my god, the buildings came down. It was true.

One week prior to 9/11, my plans to propose to my girlfriend were still a secret when she abruptly and without explanation left me. The life we'd talked about evaporated. She wouldn't speak about it. She wouldn't see me. She was gone. It was a relationship in which I'd sought refuge immediately following a painful separation and divorce. Without it, without her, I found myself alone for the first time in my life. I was stunned, confused, and devastated. Then, the twin towers came down and an entire nation was unwittingly plunged into a state of shock, solemn mourning and inexplicable loss. I was already there.

My private pain was nothing compared to those who lost someone that day.

And yet, it felt just as real. In the weeks that followed, my life spiraled downward. I struggled to come to grips with my own situation amidst a backdrop of the horror in New York. My job seemed silly and trivial. People faded from my thoughts. Nothing mattered anymore. Nothing was worth spending any time on. I stopped going to work, stopped eating, stopped reaching out to friends and family, and pulled deep inside my self. All I had to do was turn on the television to intensify my feelings of loss and abandonment. Even my twice-weekly visits with my son were difficult to get through. All I wanted was to be alone, to sleep, to go away, to stop feeling what I was feeling, to stop feeling anything at all.

In October, alarmed at the drastic and worsening change in my personality and my inability to “snap out of it,” my parents insisted I get help, so I did.

Through the fall, my own recovery oddly paralleled that of the surviving families. I began to go through the motions of my life not because I wanted to, but because I had to. I went to work. I allowed friends back in. I tried to focus on what I had and not what I had lost.

One morning, just before Christmas, I was driving my son to school. He was five then and in kindergarten. We were listening to the music from the 9/11 Tribute to Heroes telethon in the car when Bruce Springsteen’s My City of Ruin came over the speakers.

Now there's tears on the pillow
darling where we slept
and you took my heart when you left
without your sweet kiss
my soul is lost, my friend
Now tell me how do I begin again?

My city's in ruins
My city's in ruins

The little boy in the backseat looked out the window, oblivious to the emotions running through his father’s body and mind.

I pray Lord
with these hands
I pray for the strength Lord
with these hands

Come on rise up
Come on rise up
Rise up

Springsteen wailed the chorus (as only he can). I glanced at the rearview mirror and saw my son begin to sing with him.

Rise up
Rise up
Come on, rise up
Rise up

It is one of my most vivid memories of that year and of that time. A child, my child, innocently and with conviction, singing "Rise up."

Over and over he repeated in unison with Bruce. Rise up. It was as if he was singing it to me. I won't say it changed my life right there and then or made everything better. It didn't, but at that moment, the poignancy of those words took on a new light, not only for a country in mourning, but for one man unable to let go and move forward. Here was a five-year old, belting out those words not because of what they meant and not as a message to his father or anyone else, but simply because he felt like singing on his way to school.

My son is eleven now, in sixth grade and well on his way to being a precocious teenager. Whenever things get difficult or I have a bad day; whenever work sucks or my relationship sucks, and the world seems like a dark place to live... and this week in particular when I see the images from six years ago, I think of that little face and that little mouth innocently, sweetly, earnestly singing in the backseat, rise up. Rise up.

Looking for a Sign

Horoscopes are bullshit. No question about it. But I’m not so sure about the personality and compatibility theories that are part of astrology.

I’ve seen the astrology web sites and flipped through those huge coffee table books at Borders but never bought one. But they do seem to be consistent in their descriptions of the personality traits of the signs, particularly mine, Aries.

Yes, I’m creative, adventurous, passionate, difficult, quick-tempered. So what. Is everyone born in late March and early April the same?

Someone once gave me a very detailed explanation of why astrology may be valid. Something about the gravity on Earth and the moon and its pulling affect on water and since our bodies are made up of about 70% water it stands to reason that the position of the moon and the sun could affect the growth and development of the formative cells in a human brain. Therefore, babies born around a similar timeframe could develop similar personality traits. Hmm.

I sucked just enough in high school biology that to me, it actually made some sense.

And when you look at the compatibility of the signs, the books and the sites seem uncanny in their accuracy.

Many of them claim that my best match is with Leo, Gemini, and Sagittarius. Strangely, when I look back at my best relationships, it holds true. Probably the easiest one, the most well-matched and compatible partner I ever had was a Leo.

About the Aries man and Leo woman, the “experts” say things like:

Aries is the most creative sign, while Leo rules the 5th house of creativity. It's a match made in creative Heaven. The fire in this bedroom is shear ecstasy.

This is a most exhilarating combination. You both share the same likes and dislikes. You are both always on the go, craving excitement, love and fun. This is truly a link made in heaven.

This is a sensational meeting of kindred souls, a sunny relationship filled with light, power, energy and strength. Leo was made to satisfy an Aries.

Yeah. Okay. All true. Why didn’t we make it, you ask? She was much younger and ultimately not willing to be someone’s second wife. But it was good for a while.

But what do they say about my compatibility with the woman I’m dating now? A Gemini.

You both need lots of excitement. This is a match of two great communicators...Gemini can counter Aries’ need to dominate. Both are intelligent and ingenious. Great pairing.

Your arguments, when you have them, will be fiery and heated but so will every other part of your relationship. A good bet for a love match.

Spot on. But reading these gives you the impression that the “experts” can make any pairing sound ideal, doesn't it? Let’s see what they say about the combination of me and my ex-wife (Aries and Cancer):

You can have a good home life with a Cancer, if you set aside your differences.

When your Cancer withdraws, chances are you may not have the patience to pry his or her shell back open. To an Aries, a Cancer can seem to sulk and whine, but you may come off as heartless and preoccupied if you complain.

The Cancer woman is instinctual and operates from an energy based on security needs whereas the Aries man is fearless and lives in the moment. When these two date there could be some bumps in the road.

It’s enough to make me think there might just be something to all of this. It’s not so far-fetched that the chemical development of the brain in a human fetus may be affected by the movement or the presence of H20 at critical stages of growth, which may then form the cells in such a way that it stimulates or causes certain biological conditions that may predispose one to the emergence of certain personality traits.

So, I looked up my parents just for fun.

Cancer may enjoy the Sagittarius lover, but ultimately won’t feel nourished and cared for. This match is not the best idea. In all, it is a hard relationship to make work because of the differences in temperaments.

Tomorrow, Mom and Dad celebrate their 43rd wedding anniversary.

Oops.

Mood Swings

With apologies to those of you in warmer climes, I have to say nothing beats summer in Chicago. Nothing.

Living in Chicago means making a painful sacrifice for seven months every year in exchange for the June-to-September reward of summer. It’s an investment with a guaranteed payoff. We button, snap, cinch, and zip up, heads down, braving the biting Lake Michigan wind, all for a few months of heat, sunshine, blue skies, street festivals, ballgames, tanktops, short shorts, and hideous but fashionable sunglasses.

I’ve lived in the Midwest most of my life and there are no longer four seasons here. Growing up in the 70’s and 80’s, we had fresh, life-affirming Spring days in May, unbearable humidity in the dog days of July accompanied by the rat-a-tat-tat of a sprinkler, then those crisp, chilly football Saturdays in the fall, and snow at Christmas and sometimes Thanksgiving too.

No more.

Now, it seems we have eight months of crappy winter gray (with rarely a snowflake until February), and then four months of full-on, balls out summer. The subtleties of weather are gone. Mother Nature has lost her tender touch. She has become bipolar, swinging from frigid to feverish, from January’s bitter isolation to June’s delirious promiscuity. She is a hermit and a whore, our enemy and our lover.

As August wiles away, she will soon turn on us once again. I haven’t written much in this space over the past months. I’ve been busy. She and I have been dancing and carousing and milking the Chicago sun for every drop of fun.

When I lived on the West Coast, summer was just a word. June days were not much different than October days or March days. In Chicago, summer is a furlough from the freeze. It is a frantic sprint to maximize its precious handful of weekends with concerts and Cubs games, road trips and Ravinia, fireworks and water parks, North Avenue Beach, JazzFest, BluesFest, Summerfest, RibFest, biking, hiking, boating, swimming and sunning and...and then...it’s over.

Labor Day. Just like that.

Shortly, the sun will go away, the beach will be bare, the sweaters and hoodies will be brought down from the top shelf, and the bike will be locked in the storage room. Weekends will be devoted to touchdowns instead of homers, pinot noir and not grigio, The flip-flops will be tossed to the back of the closet. The window screens will be replaced, the grill rolled into the garage, and blog entries will return to their previous rate of frequency.

The countdown to next summer begins.

All the Answers

I have friends who tell me I need to get married.

I also have friends who tell me I need to learn to be alone.

The first group is of course, married. The second group is all alone.

The one thing they seem to have in common is the need for validation of their own choices.

Or maybe they also share a little envy that I still have a choice…

So Close, Yet So Far...

All my life, with few exceptions, I’ve flown economy class. Coach. The cattle car.

The gulf that separates the first class cabin from economy always seemed so silly to me. When I boarded a plane and had to walk the gauntlet of the first class cabin to my seat in the back, the first class passengers were always already settled into their wide leather seats reading the Times, drinking scotch, avoiding eye contact with the rabble that trampled down the aisles. The flight attendants fawned over their every need while we low-fare losers struggled to shove our over-stuffed carry-ons into the overhead bin and wedge our asses into seats designed for barely half an ass.

Separated by just a few feet and a flimsy curtain, the first class passengers seemed a world away from us real people. They were SO smug. The flight attendants so full of disdain. It all seemed so ridiculous.

Then I flew to London on Virgin Atlantic and sat in what they call "Upper Class."

Let me put it this way... the most disappointing part of the experience was missing my on-board back massage because I was fast asleep in my lie-flat sleeper seat, while wearing my soft, navy blue Virgin-issued sleeper suit, after having a couple glasses of pinot noir served to me from the onboard bar.

Because I slept so well and so long while cruising high above the Atlantic Ocean, I also missed out on choosing from no less than 75 current release movies and TV shows, hundreds of CDs, and a dozen video games on the private mega media center at my seat. Oh well, maybe on the trip home. When I finally awoke, my gourmet meal was served to me at my leisure, even though my cabinmates had already eaten.

Aside from the complimentary limos, the escort to the front of the security queue, and the onboard afternoon tea, maybe the best part was the airport lounge at Heathrow. Like something out of The Jetsons, the Virgin Clubhouse is an ultra-modern, bi-level luxury haven with a full menu, fine china, a hair salon, day spa, office suites, private rooms, comfy lounging areas and waitstaff eager to bring you a fresh drink the moment you sit down -- all included in the price of your ticket. Have your shoes shined, get a haircut, a manicure, order some smoked salmon and sip a Tanqueray and tonic until they call your name to board your flight. Of course, then you’re forced to exit the comfy confines of the privileged and return to the chaos of the main terminal with the...dun-duun-duuuuuun...regular people. Eww.

The noise. The smell. The humanity.

But not for long, as your Virgin staff whisk you on the plane, past all the poor saps queuing to board (god forbid Upper Class passengers should have to wait) and into the welcoming loveliness of the soft duvet and blankets of your sleeper seat for the ride home.

Thankfully, the door to the aircraft is located between the Upper Class section and the rest of the plane. I can’t imagine having to suffer the unsavory economy class people trampling through OUR aisles, messing the place up.

Excuse me, miss?...this pillow is a little firm. Do you have any feather ones? And can you close that curtain please?

Three Crushes I'm (Almost) Embarrassed to Admit

Sure, there's Scarlett Johansson, Halle Berry, and Jessica Alba. Those are the obvious ones, but we all have those famous faces we secretly dig on but would have to be drunk (or a blogger) to tell anyone about. C'mon, admit it. You know you have them too.

Barbara Bush. (G Dub’s daughter, not his mother.) Even though she’s a twin, she more closely resembles a young Kate Beckinsale than her sister Jenna.


Katie Couric. Tough to avoid the word ‘perky’ when describing her, and she’s taken some punches this year with her move to the male-dominated evening news, but there’s something about that smile.


Hermione. I’m not a Harry Potter fan necessarily (though the books are incredibly well-written), and Harry’s sidechick isn't even legal, but she’s fictional, so it’s okay, right?

Happy Thank You

The American wakes up early in Hong Kong. In the elevator, Popeye cartoons play silently on the small video screen. The door opens at the ground floor and the American is greeted by a very young Chinese woman dressed in matching pink skirt, jacket and pillbox hat with black gloves. Her sole purpose is to greet guests as they come off the elevator. “Good morning sir, may I get you a taxi?”

No, thank you. He feels like walking today.

“Have good day sir. See you later!”

Thank you.

The sidewalks are wet and quiet, the air heavy and hot already. He stops at the famous tailor shop for a fitting, like virtually every visiting American businessman before him. He cannot resist the lure of a bespoke suit carefully measured, carefully sewn. The tailor isn't in yet, so the white-haired shopowner measures the American personally. He works the tape quickly, politely ignoring the sweat-soaked shirt of his new customer.

You like cashmere? You like pinstripe? You like cuff?

Thank you. Yes. Thank you.

The wall is papered with dog-eared black-and-white glossies and clippings of celebrities and royals and politicians. Most prominent is a photo of Bill Clinton posing with the white-haired shopowner.

“You made Clinton a suit?” asks the businessman.

Kneeling, the shopowner stretches his tape from the man’s heel up his leg to measure his inseam. The businessman looks down as the shopowner presses the tape high up the man’s thigh and squints to see the numbers on the tape in the dark shadows of the man’s crotch.

“I measure Bill Clinton personally, just like I measure you. Same way.”

Uh...thank you.

“You lucky. Very lucky.”

Yup. The businessman feels lucky. And a little uneasy knowing where that hand has been.

After a full day of meetings and talk and business, the businessman wanders through the Hong Kong night market on Temple Street. It is loud and crowded and colorful. A Jim Croce tune wafts through the thick air.

You like Rolex? Happy watch? Happy handbag?

No, thank you.

He glances at the open air restaurant and the live seafood wiggling and writhing on makeshift displays.

You like? Shrimp? Crab? Chicken? You like?

No. Thank you.

Gucci bags, Nike shoes, rainbows of pashminas and treasures of jade and brass and leather and carved, hand-painted wood are lined up on table after table.

“This symbol here...what does it mean?,” he asks, pointing to a Chinese letter on a silver charm.

“That means lucky.”

“This one here. How about this one?”

“Lucky.”

He picks up a coin from a box labeled ‘Ancient Chinese coins.’

“Are these worth anything?”

“Lucky. You want? 200 Hong Kong dollar. I sell for 100.”

Thank you. No. Thank you.

The American returns to his hotel.

“Have good night,” says the taxi driver.

Thank you. You too. Thank you.

Another young pink lady greets him at the lift.

“Good evening sir. Floor 31. I push for you.”

Thank you.

“You have good day, sir? Happy time in Hong Kong?”

Yes, thank you. Happy time. Lucky day.

Solo Flight

I used to hate traveling alone. The first major trip I ever took by myself as an adult was toward the end of my marriage when my wife and I couldn’t stand to look at each other any more. I fled to Europe for six weeks.

I never did the post-graduation backpacking adventure many of my peers did, so I was making up for that in a way. But in reality, I was running and I knew it. I sat on the plane that afternoon waiting to take off on a trip for which I had no itinerary, no reservations, and no companion. I carried only a backpack with a couple changes of clothes, a camera, and a guidebook.

I looked out through the rain-streaked window of the plane that day with no idea what the next six weeks would bring, and even less of an idea of what might happen after that. I was sad, exhilarated, and afraid. I leaned my head against the airplane window, closed my eyes and sobbed.

That was almost ten years ago. Looking back, that flight was only the beginning of a much longer journey. Save for the yearly holiday vacation to see the family or spring break trips with my son, most of my traveling since has been done alone.

I don’t mind it so much these days. I am no longer sad, no longer afraid, and still exhilarated.

Sometimes the most important trips we take are the ones with no itinerary, no reservations and no companion.

Ten Tips for Better Blogging (and a little alliteration)

1. Don’t tell anyone! As tempting as it is to announce to the world that your words are now available for public consumption- resist. As you get more comfortable as a blogger, how will you EVER be able to write about that chick you met at the 7-11 and ended up taking home for a slurpie when Mom and Dad and Auntie Bobo are reading?

2. No names. Talk about the people in your life all you want...but NEVER use their real names. Newsflash: I don’t really have an Auntie Bobo. (And here’s hoping you don’t either.)

3. Tell me something. For the love of god and all that Blogger makes possible, please entertain us. Give us a reason to come back and read again, or even bookmark you, subscribe to you, or annoint you as blogrollable.(I think I just invented a word.) Yes. Blabber on about your day or your cat or your new zit. Regurgitate it all into a Word document, then EDIT, EDIT, EDIT! Leave in the good stuff. The delete key can be the blogger’s BFF.

4. Show me something. Some of us are dumb. We like pictures and diagrams and pretty colors with our text.

5. Keep it short. Please. 500 words is more than enough to make us smile, scoff, laugh, learn, cringe, or cry. Besides, any woman can tell you length is not an indication of excellence.

6. Don’t steal anyone else’s stuff. This happens to some of my favorite blogs and it’s just wrong. (See number 3). If you use someone else's stuff, credit the author. Or die.

7. Chill out on the memes. They scream laziness and self-indulgence.

8. Don’t beg for readers to comment. Compel them to.

9. Two words – Spel chek.

10. Lastly, respect your readers. Inevitably someone out there will be interested in what you have to say. They might even take time out of their day to come back and come back again. If you disappear on them and weeks go by without a post, they may never show up again and you probably deserve that. What if your newspaper didn’t show up on your doorstep one Sunday morning? What if GoFugYourself crashed and couldn’t be accessed for a week? Uh huh. You’d be pissed. (I know, I know, I’ve come dangerously close to violating this one myself. A thousand apologies to The Exception and anyone else who gave a rip.) As my Uncle Fritz used to say, "If you gotta go, you gotta go." But give us a heads up. We'll wait.

There. Only 441 words. Whew.

(And no, I don't have an Uncle Fritz either.)

Fair Play

I’ve been traveling a lot lately and spent some time at a youth basketball camp at a big-time university. This particular school has a major college basketball program and the players are very active in the camp.

It was inspiring to see these athletes giving something back, working so attentively and patiently with the kids and teaching them the game. But every once in a while they revealed a glimpse into what they’re really like outside the gym.

One afternoon I was sitting on the bleachers watching the action on the court. A very shapely and attractive young woman sat just a few feet away from me. Suddenly, one of the more well-known players came off the court into the stands and flopped down between us. He reached over to the woman to shake her hand, “Whassup, I’m Michael, what’s your name?”

They spoke for a couple minutes. He teased. She giggled. Before long, he unclipped his Palm Treo from the waistband of his shorts and punched in some digits. Then he got up, “All right then, I’ll talk to ya later” and returned to the court.

WTF? Is it that easy? Just because he’s a stud college basketball player? Can they just pick out the hottest girl they see and get a phone number? Just like that?

I looked over and smiled at her. “He’s smooth, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, he is,” she said.

A few minutes later, “Michael” was standing alone on the court doing some fancy dribbling–-between the legs, behind his back. He looked up and winked at her.

“Looks like he’s showing off for you.”

She smiled.

I had to ask her. “Did he ask for your phone number?”

“Uh huh.”

“And you gave it to him?

She laughed. “Not the real one.”

Made my day.

Questions from the Backseat

"Hey Dad?"

"Yeah?"

"Why do people smoke?"

“Well, a lot of reasons, I suppose. Maybe they like the way it tastes, or the way it makes them feel, or the way it makes them look. I’m not sure.”

“Have you ever smoked?”

“No, I was never a smoker.”

“But you’ve smoked before. I saw pictures. When I was born. You smoked one of those...”

“A cigar.”

“Yeah, that. How come?”

“It’s kind of a tradition for a father to pass out cigars when his baby is born. I smoked one with your uncles and grandfathers to celebrate your birth.”

“What did it taste like?"

“It’s hard to explain. It’s kind of like a mixture of spices and wood and leather and...”

“Is it good?”

“Actually, not really. It’s kind of an acquired taste. But it's very bad for you. Very bad for your body.”

“Yeah. I think it’s dumb. I mean...it’s smoke. It’s not like it tastes like pizza or something.”

Time Out

Sorry about the temporary pause.

I'm traveling at the moment and will return to PoS basecamp later this weekend.

Suggesting Congress...and Other Unusual Practices

While we're on the subject, you might enjoy this as much as I did:

Once you have both retired to the bedroom, prepare yourself for bed as promptly as possible. Whilst feminine hygiene is of the utmost importance, your tired husband does not want to queue for the bathroom as he would have to do for his train.

When it comes to the possibility of intimate relations with your husband, it is important to remember your marriage vows and in particular your commitment to obey him. If he feels that he needs to sleep immediately, then so be it. In all things be lead by your husband's wishes, do not pressure him in any way to stimulate intimacy.

Should your husband suggest congress, then accede humbly, all the while being mindful that a man's satisfaction is more important than a woman's. When he reaches his moment of fulfillment, a small moan from yourself is encouraging to him and quite sufficient to indicate any enjoyment that you may have had.

Should your husband suggest any of the more unusual practices, be obedient and uncomplaining but register any reluctance by remaining silent. It is likely that your husband will then fall promptly asleep so adjust your clothing, freshen up and apply your night time face and hair care products. You may then set the alarm so that you can arise shortly before him in the morning. This will enable you to have his morning cup of tea ready when he awakes.

Apparently this is from a Home Economics textbook published in the UK in the Sixties. I stole it from Rebecca James who found it here.

Now...where the hell is my morning tea, dammit?

King... for just a moment

I once heard someone say that if sex in a relationship is healthy and positive, it ranks somewhere around 3rd or 4th in what’s important in that relationship. If sex isn’t good and it’s a negative in the relationship, it ranks 1st. When sex is a problem between two people, it seems to cloud everything else and becomes the major focus of the relationship.

Another wise person once told me that the women’s movement of the 70s dramatically altered the sexual dynamics between men and women in the generation that followed. (I know. Lots of big words. Let me explain.)

When women began to question why they were viewed as the inferior sex, they demanded equal rights, equal pay, equal opportunity, and rightfully so. Housewives got jobs and careers. Mothers became executives. Children went to daycare. Doors were opened for women by handing latchkeys to their kids. And the “master” of the house, the king, stepped down from his lofty place on the throne.

Thirty years later, I think we all agree the shift in society's collective thinking was for the better. Women deserve every opportunity and every choice that a man has. No arguments there.

But that same wise person went on to theorize that many successful marriages or relationships, not all, but many, still happily choose to retain aspects of the very dynamic that was slammed and angrily condemned three decades ago.

In the privacy of our homes and behind closed doors, successful relationships are ones in which the woman still makes her man feel like the king... somehow, some way, and in ways she might never admit in public. She may make more money, she may have a better career, but instinctively she finds ways to make him feel he has the power. She makes him feel, even for fleeting moments, that she is there to serve him. Maybe she makes dinner regularly. Maybe she cleans up after him. Maybe she is turned on by his dominance of her in bed. Maybe she gets off on her dual roles of hard-ass titan in the workplace and submissive girl in the bedroom. But somehow she allows him at least a sense of superiority, even if it's an illusion.

Sex has to work between two people or the relationship is dead. The women’s movement made things much more complicated. When women spread their liberated wings and left the home for the workplace, divorce rates soared with them. But lots of marriages survived. Lots of marriages even thrived. Couples now are different than they used to be. There is a different level of respect and partnership and equality that prevails and that’s a good thing.

But I am willing to bet that in the bedroom of those same couples there remains the primal hierarchy of dominant and dominated -- and a subtle, secret, and unspeakable pleasure a woman takes in pleasing her man.

And that moment, that illusion, that feeling, however brief, may be all a man needs.

Eat Me

I’m not a fan of tagging, I admit, but it was Steph that did it, and I dig on the Stephlove so I feel obligated. It’s tough though because I’ve got about seven post ideas in various stages of construct and I’m burning to wrestle them to the screen, including thoughts on oral sex, Match.com, dating neighbors, my newly (and provocatively) blogging cousin, a rant against city planners and the idiots who set the timing on traffic lights, my list of people who should be banished to a faraway planet, and a fairly new idea pitting French maids vs. cheerleaders (this one's for you Teri).

Instead you get my 5 favorite places to eat in Chicago. I know. Cliché. But Steph’s onto something here. Her post includes a list of previous players and if you travel at all, it's always handy to have some personal recommendations when you're in a new city. Otherwise you may be forced to open your hotel room's complimentary copy of Where magazine, close your eyes, and point.

I’m happy to add my forkful of suggestions for my own fair city. I’m also supposed to tag 5 other people, which I’ll do below. Excuse me for a moment...

Waiter, can I get a Ketel One martini? Up please. Couple blue cheese olives, and a small plate of the stinkiest cheese you have with some crackers. That’d be great. Oh. And menus for all of us.

Now. Where was I?

North Pond
Quite possibly the most romantic restaurant in Chicago. Nestled on a pond in the middle of Lincoln Park, this converted boathouse is a great place for that special occasion (the kind where you're hoping for some action after). Just try not to have too much to drink and ask your date who she’d marry if she doesn’t end up marrying you. It kinda ruins the evening.

Kiki’s Bistro
Kiki’s rarely gets mentioned anymore on lists of Chicago’s best, but the food, the room, and the service remind me of my last trip to Paris and always make me want to go again. If you like a great bistro, hit Kiki’s (and then walk half a block to mk for the best desserts in the city. Seriously.)

McCormick and Schmick’s
It’s a chain, so sue me. If you’re like me, you like seafood, and if you like seafood, this menu will make you horny. Besides, whenever I take Nic here, she smiles all evening and if your date's like her, you'll thank me.

Café Ba-Ba-Reeba
Classic tapas with a list of small plate selections that’s hard to narrow down to a few favorites without a pitcher of sangria nearby. You must not leave without trying the beef tenderloin with blue cheese and the citrus-cured salmon on cucumber bread. And after a pitcher of sangria sends you into the street singing Spanish folk songs, I live so close, I’ll probably hear you, so shut the hell up.

NoMI
A beautiful view of Michigan Avenue, a killer menu, world class service, food, and ambience. Bring your Visa card and the hottest chick/dude you can find. You’ll want both with you.

Your turn...
Heather
Carrie
Brookem
London Girl
Megs

Unzipped

Recently I spent a few days at a very important business conference. Ballrooms, buffet breakfasts, networking, cocktail receptions, business attire, guest speakers, chardonnay, linen napkins, handshakes, pipes and drapes, fake smiles, small talk, feigned interest, elevators, chatting with the boss, room service, nametags, early mornings, key cards, breakout sessions, lobby bar, powerpoint decks, bad coffee, recycled air, white towels, team-building, beef, chicken, or fish, more chardonnay, escalators, wake-up calls, and chatting with the boss's boss.

Not once, but twice...TWICE, I discovered I'd left my room in the morning and spent a fair portion of the day with my fly down.

What's up with THAT?

A Chip Off the Old Block

The other day, my son was in the bathroom a little bit longer than usual. When he came out, he was holding a small pad of paper, a pen, and my most recent issue of Smart Money magazine.

“What’s going on in there?”

“Oh, nothing. I was learning what to invest in.”

“Yeah? What did you decide?”

“Here. Look.”

He’d made some notes. Here they are, unedited, just as he wrote them:

What to Invest In

Drug companies – cancer drugs, new ones. Roche, ONXX

Industrial gases – People buy in good times or bad. HOLD when economy is bad! - air products and chemicals. Praxair, APD

Household and personal products – People allways need these! Year in year out. Avon, Unilever

Yeah. He’s ten. He has $13 in his wallet.

Like father, like son. (Not the investing part...the reading a magazine in the bathroom part.)

Anyone know a good broker?

You know it's true.

A recent post by a “friend” causes me to set the record straight right here and right now and effectively free those who may be carrying around guilt or regret for far too long and for no good reason.

Sex on the first date is not only okay, it’s a good thing.

There. I said it. Free yourself.

In fact, I’ll go further than that...if there’s no sex on the first date, maybe there’s not much worth going back for on a second date. If you don’t want her or him tonight, what makes you think you will next time? Or the time after that?

I know you’re thinking things like “I don’t want to seem like a whore” and “what about building the anticipation?” or “I want to take the time to get to know each other.”

Bullshit, bullshit, and ah...bullshit.

We're adults now. Those are timeworn remnants from our teenage or college years. (If you're under...hmmmm...let's say age 22 or 23, none of this applies to you. Cover your eyes.)

Physical chemistry is an odd and all-too-rare commodity. The kind of first date I want is where right away, I feel it. Maybe you know each other or just met recently or maybe it’s a blind online date situation...however you got there, I want that rush of excited attraction that can only come in the very early stages of dating. I want to feel in those first hours over a bottle of wine or appetizers that it might be mutual. Is it? Is she sending me signals? Is she into this too? The body language is there — she’s turning toward me on her barstool or leaning toward me at the table. There’s laughter and flirting and exchanges of looks. That unspoken air of “Holy shit, this is going well!” is palpable and flowing both ways.

The momentum of the evening gets pushed along by subtle (or not-so-subtle) hints that it’s a great date:

“This martini was really good. Maybe I’ll have another one.”

“I’m not ready for tonight to end, are you?”

“Tell me about your place.”

“I feel like playing a game of pool.”

“I’m so glad I don’t have to get up early tomorrow!”

“So, how long have you lived alone?”

It often ends in the wee hours of the morning in a twisted pile of sheets, a couple empty wine glasses on the nightstand, flickering candlelight, and John Mayer Chris Isaak playing softly in the background.

We both wanted each other. Now. Tonight.

Does it always translate into a second date? Of course not. But when it does and the mutual passion is there, even before the wine or the John Mayer Chris Isaak, there’s no greater feeling.

I admit, most first dates aren’t like this. In fact, you might be lucky if you ever have one. But when it does, go with it. In fact, I think this is what we hope for on first dates. This is why we endure the bad ones, isn’t it?

I might venture to say that the very possibility that this might happen is why we date. You might not want to admit it because more often than not, first dates are awkward and vague and stupid and it’s hard to tell. Did he? Was she? Is he? Will she? We need to believe that those could grow into something too. And maybe they can.

But when it’s there, you know it. And that’s the certainty we’re all hoping for.

So go ahead. Admit it. You want it.

We All Need Giggle Moments

Friday, I took the morning off to see if I might learn a little something about sex.

My son’s fifth grade class was going to get “the talk.” Representatives from a local health education center were visiting the school and parents were invited to attend. His mother and I gave him a choice of which one of us he preferred.

“Neither,” he said.

“Well, we would like one of us to go, so it’s up to you which one.”

“Ok, then. Dad.”

Another father/son bonding opportunity. You can’t have too many of those. And his mother completely understood. In fact, she was relieved.

When I arrived at school, I faced a dilemma. Just a few minutes before the boys were separated from the girls for their talk, I asked his teacher if I could speak to my son in the hallway for a moment.

“Hi Dad!”

“Hey. So, it looks like I’m the only parent here.”

“WHAT!?”

“Yeah. I’ll just stand way in the back.”

“No, you HAVE to leave! I can’t be the only kid with a parent here!”

Yeah, I had to agree, and frankly, I didn’t want to be the dorky dad either.

Just then, four more parents came around the corner, including another father.

Whew.

My son rolled his eyes. “OK. You can stay.”

As it turned out, they didn’t even talk about sex. The focus was on the reproductive systems of both males and females, puberty, and the changes their bodies will go through in the next couple years. It was well done without being cheesy. Even the video and the diagrams they showed were well-produced and interesting. The woman who presented had obviously done this hundreds of times before with kids this age and when she sensed the room was straining to hold back snickers at the mention of the word “penis,” she granted them “a giggle moment.” The room burst into laughter.

She talked about emotional changes and mood swings the kids will go through as their bodies change. She started by asking if any of them had ever gotten up in the morning in a great mood, were really angry and frustrated by lunchtime, and then happy and pleasant again an hour later? Every one of the parents raised their hands.

At one point, she asked eight boys to stand in front of the class in a straight line. She gave each of them a sign to put around their neck. From left to right, they were labeled Pituitary Gland, Ovary, Fallopian Tube, Fallopian Tube, Fallopian Tube, Fallopian Tube, Fallopian Tube, Uterus. When Pituitary Gland said the word, Ovary passed a small illuminated lantern (Egg) to Fallopian Tube and down the line it went until it stopped at Uterus. I wondered how she was going to handle the collision with a thousand desperate, frantic, clawing, drooling sperm, but she skipped that part.

When it was over, the parents were noticeably relieved. Our fears of words like intercourse and condoms and oral sex and STDs were unfounded. They’re still a little young for that and the lessons of puberty and adolescence were entirely appropriate.

Still, of the 30 boys who were there learning about their bodies and the new stage of life they’re about to begin, only 8 parents took the opportunity to share in the moment. I found that disappointing and a little sad.

Of course, I went hoping I might get a glimpse of where the G-spot is exactly. Maybe everyone else already knows.

Nowhere to Go But Down

You know me, right? I’m not a fan of the memes or tagging—concepts in the blogosphere that are relatively new to me. A "meme" is an idea that's passed from blog to blog, like a questionnaire posted on one blog and answered in others. The subject is almost always me! me! If someone sends you one, consider yourself "tagged."

You’ve never seen them here. It’s not that I don’t enjoy making lists or answering questions about myself, in fact I think I was ahead of my time when I started a list of my favorite things in 9th grade (it included Phil Collins, Cocoa Krispies, and road trips). I kept adding to it through high school and college and occasionally even in my mid-20s, until it was over 22 spiral-notebook pages long and I had pretty much covered everything—except things not yet discovered, born, or invented, like the iPod, or Uncrustables, or Jessica Alba. (Sex wasn't even mentioned until page 12, but dominated the remainder of the list.)

I keep the list in my proverbial back pocket in case I run out of opinions, parenti