Wow. Apparently, I got a little chatty yesterday. From now on, two is my limit. I'm still a little fuzzy in the head (and wearing yesterday's clothes) so I'm not sure what all I told you. I'm sipping some Irish coffee to clear the cobwebs. Ian let me crash at Saints, last night. I've had a key to the place going on three years, now. Its a symbiotic relationship. Once, every couple of weeks he has to open the day after he closes, so he leaves some work for me to do - tapping kegs, sorting bottles and whatnot. I fill the ice and cut fruit for him so he can sleep in a bit. I like that part, cutting fruit; It helps me focus. Sometimes I'll be working a case (not sure I mentioned that I'm half-a-P.I. unlicensed, whatever, more on that later) and a break will be right there in front of me and I can't connect the dots because of some bias or blindspot or not enough sleep or (spoiler alert) I may, on occasion, drink too much. But then I'll be slicing into a lemon and as the juice seeps into one of the little cuts on my hand (all bartenders have these cuts and they do not heal) things come into focus. The spell is broken and the fog of Absinthe and curiosity and Opium burns off like the marine layer at Venice Beach in June. And right now, although I admit that I know next to nothing about this puzzle, I know one thing for a fact about Detective Kelli Karson of the New York City Police Department and that is this: I don't believe her.
Rome pours himself a shot of Jameson.
Like I said last night, I try to avoid cops. But they seem to be attracted to me, admittedly with good reason as often as not. So I have had many dealings with police. And, unlike in the movies, spotting a cop out of uniform, particularly when they are skilled undercover operatives, is often difficult. They can look like anyone they want. They wear the clothes and drive the cars they seize in drug busts. I've seen narcos with full beards and hair down to the middle of their back, driving a Tesla. So, when someone tells you they can always spot a cop, they are full of shit and will eventually get pinched by some big, fat vato with full sleeves and a teardrop tattoo or some ninety pound meth whore who, when the shit goes down, is the one putting the cuffs on. I've seen it happen. Nobody can say with certainty that they can always spot a cop. I usually can. But not always.
He knocks back the shot of whisky.
What is far easier for me to spot is who is NOT a cop. And I don't know what kind of game "Detective" Kelli Karson is running, but if she has a gold shield, I'll eat it.
Thursday, August 13, 2015
Saturday, August 8, 2015
The End of Love
Five years ago, when my son Blake was four, I'd take him bowling at Mar Vista lanes on Venice (now Bowlero! ). He had a pretty short attention span and I was in pretty poor shape so we played only one string. We'd eat some food, I'd give him a couple of quarters to get toys, homies or jawbreakers out of gum ball machines. We played some air hockey. He was little and had to stand on a chair. He used to think it was hilarious when I "wasn't paying attention" (usually when I was celebrating scoring on him) and he would score on me. I'd turn back to the table and wonder where the puck was and be incensed to see that he had scored while my back was turned. He laughed and laughed. Anyway, it was one of those times and we were eating some chicken fingers and watching random people bowl when Blake noticed a girl that was maybe nine. He was smitten. I smiled inside and out. I knew that look. He was completely transfixed. She had long, golden hair and a shirt with a big, pink, sparkly heart on it. Blake walked right up to her and smiled and stared up at her but said nothing. The girl, annoyed, turned and walked away. Blake followed. She tried to lose him, but he stuck to her like glue. She climbed on things that were easy for her to climb but hard for a little guy and he followed. She complained to her mom, "Mommy! This little boy keeps following me. He won't leave me alone!" At one point, she told him off. "Leave. Me. Alone." Blake's smile never dimmed. It was as if she had professed her love to him. He was so happy just to hear her voice. I remember being his age and how that felt.
Blake, still smiling and exhausted, came up to me. "Daddy, I love that girl but she doesn't love me." He was not devastated. He was just in a new situation that he did not comprehend and was looking to his father for guidance. I said, "Yeah. It's kind of a numbers game like that."
My first encounter with "The Girl" was in kindergarden. Andrea Reback. I wanted to marry her. I used to write "Andrea Kublin" and "Ronnie Reback" everywhere. I knew it was customary in those days for the woman to take the man's name, but I thought you got to pick whichever one sounded better and Ronnie Reback sounded pretty good to me. In third grade it was Stacy Hall. I used to sit behind her and braid her long, blonde hair. I wasn't into marriage anymore, but seeing stacy was the highlight of my school day in third grade. Years later, when I was ten, I fell hard for Kim Bissonnette. I loved spelling her name out loud, "B-i-s-s-o-n-n-e-t-t-e." I memorized her phone number and called it many times, but hung up, terrified, before she could answer. "I love you." I'd say to no one on the phone. I knew Kim would be my first kiss. I had it all planned. The scary funhouse ride at Shaheen's Funpark at Salisbury Beach. Alas, I never got the opportunity. Kim broke up with me before I knew we were dating. The following year, I kissed my older brother, Steve's, girlfriend, Kelly, while sitting in a neighbor's Saab. I literally walked miles for more of those kisses that Summer - The Summer of Kisses. There was no better feeling in the world. In ninth grade I had my first legit girlfriend, Lisa Goldstein. She was all that mattered to me. I was fifteen. My parents didn't get me. My teachers didn't get me. Lisa got me. I got her. We loved each other. Call it what you will, infatuation, co-dependence...my dad called it "Puppy-love." But to me. It was Love. For the next few years while I still lived with my parents, the girls changed, but my obsession did not and the argument with my mom was always the same. "You can't make another person the center of your world." She just didn't understand (and she was right). I was fucked. I was unhappy. I was lonely even when I was with other people. But when I was with a girl who enjoyed being with me as much as I enjoyed being with her, none of that other shit mattered. So, for the next twenty five years or so, I fixated on "The Girl" and had little time to fix me.
I play poker. Texas Hold-Em. I'm a decent player. When I play tournaments, I play "tight" which means I don't take big risks which means I don't win big pots. I try to manage my chips so I am close to average. It is a successful strategy to get deep into a tournament, but as the blinds and antes increase, the pressure mounts and one is forced to take risks. I often find myself with only one bet: All In. I'm not a courageous man, in general, but the idea of risking everything in one move feels natural to me as long as I believe in the cards I am holding and if I am in love with you and believe that with all I am, I have only one move. All In. It is liberating to feel so safe with someone and to feel for them so deeply that jumping without even looking does not feel nearly as foolish as it must indeed be. I did this again and again and again. And I did it without regret.
I lived with some and married a few. Breakups were as painful as falling in love was joyful. Complete and utter annihilation. An ocean of tears. The ones ended by them were followed by weeks of bargaining and pleading for another chance. I could not believe it was over. The ones ended by me were fewer and less painful because I knew they were ending for a while. But I always bounced back. I never lost my edge. My love light, while temporarily dimmed, would always return as brightly as it did when I first kissed Kelly. If anything, my love grew stronger each time, adding nuance and greater understanding as a result of love's lessons learned. I'd dust myself off, pick up my guitar and serenade my next great love. These were not conquests. These were entire lives lived in moments. Sometimes a few days. Sometimes weeks. Sometimes years. My friend Chrystal says there is NO WAY it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. The pain is not worth it in her estimation. I disagree. If that were true, no one would ever have a dog or a cat for a pet. Everyone would have a tortoise. Each time, I knew going in that it was likely to end badly and I still gave all my heart. I was adept at going from ecstasy to crisis and back again as this cycle continued, but I was always focused on The Girl and not focussing on becoming me. So, I never figured out how to overcome all the difficulties in life that seem routine to others. I figured I'd figure that out later.
My last great love affair was with a different Kelli. You can measure the intensity of my relationships by the number of songs I wrote. Kelli wins with five. There is no close second. And I believed there was a time when she loved me as much as I loved her, although that time was brief. I was fortunate enough in those days to have a job where I travelled the world and I took Kelli with me a couple of times - once to Vienna and once to Paris. In Paris, I rented an apartment and hired a chef to prepare us dinner. There are times in your life when you are keenly aware that you are living moments which will be your best memories in the future and Kelli and I did that a lot. I once rented a Porshe for the weekend and we ate lobsah' rolls from Kelly's Roast Beef on Revere Beach. When we ended, I was crushed. It took me years to recover and I still think of her kiss sometimes. Soft like...I got nuthin.
I fell in love one more time. She is the mother of my son and one of my greatest friends and supporters and I would not know what to do without her in my life. When it was over, it was different for me this time. I don't know if it was age or time or fatherhood (i think it was fatherhood), but it was different than any other breakup. I always moved on, eventually. But this time I felt like I had nowhere to move to. I could get over her, but I could not fathom where to go. We have a son. I had no "Plan-B". I still don't. I don't know if I would want one if I did. But I am pretty sure where my heart is at these days. It has been nine years and the way I feel (and don't feel) remains unchanged. No. I haven't been celibate for nine years (thank you, you know who you are). But my lovelight has indeed dimmed. Which is sad, but not, at the same time. I (usually) don't feel like something is missing in my life and it is wanting that causes heartache. Another advantage is that I am forced to look within instead of to someone else for solutions to my problems and I have had some modest success in that regard. Occasionally, romance falls out of the sky. Right place. Right time. And it is great. Really great...but it also reminds me of who I used to be and how I used to love. Truly. And deeply. With reckless abandon. And I get sad. And I have to tell myself how lucky I am to have been so close to more than a few amazing, funny, witty, attractive, talented, inspiring and intelligent women who found me amazing, funny, witty, attractive, talented, inspiring and intelligent, and that there are people who never experience that kind of relationship. Please do not tell me that I just need to meet "The Right Girl," because I assure you I am "The Wrong Guy." It is not that I do not want to love and be loved. It is that I cannot. Not in the way I once did. And I can't imagine loving any other way. It is who I was and I have no clue who I am now.
Blake, still smiling and exhausted, came up to me. "Daddy, I love that girl but she doesn't love me." He was not devastated. He was just in a new situation that he did not comprehend and was looking to his father for guidance. I said, "Yeah. It's kind of a numbers game like that."
My first encounter with "The Girl" was in kindergarden. Andrea Reback. I wanted to marry her. I used to write "Andrea Kublin" and "Ronnie Reback" everywhere. I knew it was customary in those days for the woman to take the man's name, but I thought you got to pick whichever one sounded better and Ronnie Reback sounded pretty good to me. In third grade it was Stacy Hall. I used to sit behind her and braid her long, blonde hair. I wasn't into marriage anymore, but seeing stacy was the highlight of my school day in third grade. Years later, when I was ten, I fell hard for Kim Bissonnette. I loved spelling her name out loud, "B-i-s-s-o-n-n-e-t-t-e." I memorized her phone number and called it many times, but hung up, terrified, before she could answer. "I love you." I'd say to no one on the phone. I knew Kim would be my first kiss. I had it all planned. The scary funhouse ride at Shaheen's Funpark at Salisbury Beach. Alas, I never got the opportunity. Kim broke up with me before I knew we were dating. The following year, I kissed my older brother, Steve's, girlfriend, Kelly, while sitting in a neighbor's Saab. I literally walked miles for more of those kisses that Summer - The Summer of Kisses. There was no better feeling in the world. In ninth grade I had my first legit girlfriend, Lisa Goldstein. She was all that mattered to me. I was fifteen. My parents didn't get me. My teachers didn't get me. Lisa got me. I got her. We loved each other. Call it what you will, infatuation, co-dependence...my dad called it "Puppy-love." But to me. It was Love. For the next few years while I still lived with my parents, the girls changed, but my obsession did not and the argument with my mom was always the same. "You can't make another person the center of your world." She just didn't understand (and she was right). I was fucked. I was unhappy. I was lonely even when I was with other people. But when I was with a girl who enjoyed being with me as much as I enjoyed being with her, none of that other shit mattered. So, for the next twenty five years or so, I fixated on "The Girl" and had little time to fix me.
I play poker. Texas Hold-Em. I'm a decent player. When I play tournaments, I play "tight" which means I don't take big risks which means I don't win big pots. I try to manage my chips so I am close to average. It is a successful strategy to get deep into a tournament, but as the blinds and antes increase, the pressure mounts and one is forced to take risks. I often find myself with only one bet: All In. I'm not a courageous man, in general, but the idea of risking everything in one move feels natural to me as long as I believe in the cards I am holding and if I am in love with you and believe that with all I am, I have only one move. All In. It is liberating to feel so safe with someone and to feel for them so deeply that jumping without even looking does not feel nearly as foolish as it must indeed be. I did this again and again and again. And I did it without regret.
I lived with some and married a few. Breakups were as painful as falling in love was joyful. Complete and utter annihilation. An ocean of tears. The ones ended by them were followed by weeks of bargaining and pleading for another chance. I could not believe it was over. The ones ended by me were fewer and less painful because I knew they were ending for a while. But I always bounced back. I never lost my edge. My love light, while temporarily dimmed, would always return as brightly as it did when I first kissed Kelly. If anything, my love grew stronger each time, adding nuance and greater understanding as a result of love's lessons learned. I'd dust myself off, pick up my guitar and serenade my next great love. These were not conquests. These were entire lives lived in moments. Sometimes a few days. Sometimes weeks. Sometimes years. My friend Chrystal says there is NO WAY it is better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. The pain is not worth it in her estimation. I disagree. If that were true, no one would ever have a dog or a cat for a pet. Everyone would have a tortoise. Each time, I knew going in that it was likely to end badly and I still gave all my heart. I was adept at going from ecstasy to crisis and back again as this cycle continued, but I was always focused on The Girl and not focussing on becoming me. So, I never figured out how to overcome all the difficulties in life that seem routine to others. I figured I'd figure that out later.
My last great love affair was with a different Kelli. You can measure the intensity of my relationships by the number of songs I wrote. Kelli wins with five. There is no close second. And I believed there was a time when she loved me as much as I loved her, although that time was brief. I was fortunate enough in those days to have a job where I travelled the world and I took Kelli with me a couple of times - once to Vienna and once to Paris. In Paris, I rented an apartment and hired a chef to prepare us dinner. There are times in your life when you are keenly aware that you are living moments which will be your best memories in the future and Kelli and I did that a lot. I once rented a Porshe for the weekend and we ate lobsah' rolls from Kelly's Roast Beef on Revere Beach. When we ended, I was crushed. It took me years to recover and I still think of her kiss sometimes. Soft like...I got nuthin.
I fell in love one more time. She is the mother of my son and one of my greatest friends and supporters and I would not know what to do without her in my life. When it was over, it was different for me this time. I don't know if it was age or time or fatherhood (i think it was fatherhood), but it was different than any other breakup. I always moved on, eventually. But this time I felt like I had nowhere to move to. I could get over her, but I could not fathom where to go. We have a son. I had no "Plan-B". I still don't. I don't know if I would want one if I did. But I am pretty sure where my heart is at these days. It has been nine years and the way I feel (and don't feel) remains unchanged. No. I haven't been celibate for nine years (thank you, you know who you are). But my lovelight has indeed dimmed. Which is sad, but not, at the same time. I (usually) don't feel like something is missing in my life and it is wanting that causes heartache. Another advantage is that I am forced to look within instead of to someone else for solutions to my problems and I have had some modest success in that regard. Occasionally, romance falls out of the sky. Right place. Right time. And it is great. Really great...but it also reminds me of who I used to be and how I used to love. Truly. And deeply. With reckless abandon. And I get sad. And I have to tell myself how lucky I am to have been so close to more than a few amazing, funny, witty, attractive, talented, inspiring and intelligent women who found me amazing, funny, witty, attractive, talented, inspiring and intelligent, and that there are people who never experience that kind of relationship. Please do not tell me that I just need to meet "The Right Girl," because I assure you I am "The Wrong Guy." It is not that I do not want to love and be loved. It is that I cannot. Not in the way I once did. And I can't imagine loving any other way. It is who I was and I have no clue who I am now.
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