Endings and Continuations

I'm not one for end of the year ruminations, recriminations or reclamations. Libations, yes. Those other 'ations', not so much. Generally a navel-gazing waste of time, in my view.

That being said, it's 11 pm on New Year's Eve, and I'm all alone. Not in a sad, woe is me way, but L has gone out to a fancy Beverly Hills party with a friend, and I'm here as the little one sleeps. Earlier in the evening we had my best friend and his family over for sumptuous steaks, and stage-diving by two four-year old boys into a mound of pillows. A nice, low-key way to end the year for the parenting set. Granted, L isn't officially part of that set, but she was game nonetheless. That's exactly why I wanted her to go out though; so she could get some enjoyment of the social set, while I wile away at home, thinking of her.

And thinking of her just leads to my end of the year thoughts. Which, as I said, tend not to be verbose or self-involved. Needless to say, it's been an amazing year in so many respects, and the experiences and milestones are indelibly imprinted in my mind, and elsewhere. But simply...

I'm grateful and hopeful, and believe that life is good.

Happy New Year.

Wine in the Mexican Countryside

There's a rooster crowing in the Mexican countryside. Centered atop a hill within a nearly barren valley, twenty miles from the coast, rests La Villa Del Valle, a romantic retreat opened 5 years ago by two charming British ex-pats. The husband, Phil, is a conassuieur of social behavior and wine, so it would only have made sense that he discover a way to disappear from the regular world and start a winery, which serves as the backbone for this exquisite bed & breakfast.

L had heard of Del Valle from a Daily Candy email, probably 4 years ago, and kept it tucked away in her email box, a hovering dream waiting to come to life. It's not an inexpensive place to go, so it remained a semi-distant wish, until some money dropped into our laps in the form of a movie-gambling game run by my best friend and I, which I happened to win for the first time in 14 years. When I won in September, it was the easiest decision in the world to use the ill-gotten spoils to come here.

With my son on a vacation of his own, the perfect opportunity presented itself in the days before Christmas. Family is coming for the holiday, which meant no hectic airport travel, and the right time for such an escape. As for the escape itself, La Villa del Valle is just north of Escanada, which is itself about 70 minutes south of Tijuana. American fears of murder and death south of the border are greatly exaggerated, as long as you don't come down here as a cocaine trafficking mule. And, tempting though it was to make some pick-ups for some dudes on Hollywood and Vine, we're just a normal young couple. Who got our car searched by the Mexican military anyway. The 19 year old soldiers were friendly and unthreatening, however.

Turning off the 1 just before Escanada, you drive up Hwy 3, turning off onto a jagged dirt road amidst a long stretch of highway construction (good to see that Mexico has the funds for major roadwork). The car bounces along past a few modest homes, farms and dried wineries (December is not prime wine season), and you start to wonder where this place is. The beautiful scripted signs keep you pointed in the right direction, however, at each and every fork. An elegant invitation beckoning you further into the countryside.

Then it appears: a yellow stone home of significant size perched atop a small peak in the valley, ringed by semi-distant, verdant mountains. Turning past the gate, you drive up to the house, which looks like something out of Italy, with its huge stone archways and a giant wooden front door that is never locked. Friendly family dogs welcome you, quietly eager to show you the way. They quickly become your friends and guides to the exteriors of the property.

Inside, Alejandro, the home's manager, warmly welcomes you and gives you a tour of this sumptuous yet eternally tasteful country paradise. What most strikes you is how every detail was so carefully considered, from the tiles on the stairway to the fact that there are no locks on the bedroom doors. It is just that type of place - you are welcomed into the Gregory's home, and you treat it as such. L comments frequently that, were she to have this kind of money and opportunity, this is exactly how she would style something. She points out the amazing use of depth and space, as the Gregorys fill every room with art and objects at different levels, from the hanging metal lamps, which have a Morrocan/Spanish feel, to the frequent mirrors and stunning artwork. The first night we ballparked the decorating of this home at a massive amount of money, though perhaps with the endless Mexican artisans in Baja California, that number was much lower.

Settling into our beautiful, warm room, we look out over the valley from our balcony, and the question of the weekend sets in: what do you do with yourself when there is nothing to do? This is a wonderful question to ask, which I never allow myself to ponder, so this is a vaguely discomforting notion to me. But it's a wonderful habit to get into, and we threw ourselves into that amusing challenge with gusto. There's a cocktail hour at 5:30, where Alejandro brings wine made here to the guests, along with an organic botana (snack). It turned out to be a remarkable carmelized onion mixture within a chard leaf. A short while later, we had the recommended first night dinner at the house. This is a one-night affair, because it's a pretty pricey meal, charming though it was. It's a four course meal, where the first two courses were probably the best, especially the creativity of the ostrich spring roll. The entree and dessert were a little underwhelming, though one understands why the house chef is described as "visionary" - everything we ate was unexpected and original. Just not sure that all of it "worked".

After dinner, we retire to our room to drink more wine, talk about futures, people's attitudes towards marriage, and how our own opinion of those rituals have changed over the years. The Gregorys wines - especially their cab - are phenomenal, but at $25 a bottle, wasn't what we were going to spend the whole weekend drinking. We popped open our own, and had a wonderful evening.

After a wonderfully authentic and spicy breakfast, Saturday was spent lounging around, going to the gorgeously crafted pool to relax, read magazines and books, and do absolutely nothing. We wandered the estate, finding a stone labyrinth. When you first hear there's a labyrinth, you think hedges and getting lost. Instead, it's a deceptively simple circle of 6 inch high stones that you follow around to the center. There are no wrong turns, and you kind of wonder why you're walking around like a semi-homeless person following the path. But the longer you do it (it takes around 5 minutes), the more you realize this is a manifestation of creative energy that comes from living away from it all - the less time you spend on your self-imposed "to-do" list, the more time you have for free thinking. Reaching the center of the labyrinth, only 15 feet from the exterior edge, it doesn't seem pointless, but rather, serene.

We drive for an early dinner, hoping to make it back for cocktail hour, but the directions we're given to some restaurant with the word oranges in the name is deceptively complicated because of the heavy road construction. We eventually grow a bit worried and turn off onto a winery road to check out La Casa de Dona Lupe, thinking it's a restautant. It is, to the extent they make pizza to go (take THAT Domino's!), but more specifically, it is a shop of organic jams, jellies and aromatherapy products. And old Dona Lupe, a 75 year old woman, sits behind the counter, bagging your purchases, while her beautiful daughter, mid-forties, shows off how smooth her skin is from the products we're buying. They give us more exact directions, and we find the restaurant, where few speak English, but the food is good. More wine back at the del Valle, but watching "Coraline" on my computer is waylaid by other interests...

Sunday we head to Ensenada after L and I have a game of bocce ball. The shopping district is quiet, and we can't find much that really interests us, sadly. It's a somewhat underwhelming town, but when we get munchy, we stop for margaritas and nachos, and to watch the first quarter of the Packer game. Heading back to Del Valle, we pick up an early dinner of Mediterranean lamb, and then make cocktail hour, where we sit with the Gregorys and some friends of theirs, talking for a couple of hours over multiple glasses of wine. That Phil keeps pouring demonstrates that they enjoy our company, and we're not unwanted in their gorgeous living room after the close of the traditional cocktail hour. We eat our dinner and cheese-filled apple pie in bed, before retiring early from a evening of heavy wine consumption and rapturously sensual delights.

We don't want to go home, though we must. We'll head back via Tecate, and prepare for the rest of the holiday week, along with the arrival home of my little guy, who I can't wait to have a visit from Santa. Provided no one else dies this week (the weekend was cast under a shadow by the news of two deaths leading into the weekend, one quite impactful and important to our lives), it should hopefully be a wonderful holiday.

Levels Rising

2009 has featured a tremendous capacity for dealing with stress. It's amazing how being happy, being in love, and feeling hopeful and optimistic can leave you with strong reserves to deal with stress. It's been a great year in that regard.

That being said, the last couple of weeks have left me a little more frazzled than I would prefer. It's all work related, not lifestyle focused. We just tacked on a major element to our new work endeavor, which comes directly from my old department, while demanding that we set up entire new operations on our end. It's a big, crucial initiative that I'm currently carrying on my shoulders, and I spend my nights dreaming of spreadsheets, and my mornings waking up with my first thoughts about what work-related things I should be doing that very moment. Brushing my teeth I'm game-planning my agenda, and by the time I have my coffee, I'm already three steps ahead of what I should be doing.

All of this is theoretically great in terms of experience and career, but the plan is to be hiring someone to take on many of these duties I'm pitch-hitting for. That plan was set in motion, aspiring to make the process smooth and easy in terms of a resource, but due to something as mundane and insidious as company politics, it got blown to smithereens. Lots of people ended up doing things in a far less than optimal way, and my agenda gets compromised badly as a result of it, and who knows if there will be later political fall-out. A really unfortunate circumstance that's ultimately going to cost my company a fantastic employee, and me the ability to keep the ship moving forward smoothly and quickly. While I've felt like a superstar at times this year, this was something that I felt I could deliver, and I failed. That's a bummer.

So I've felt more than my share of work-stress for the past few weeks, and I feel badly that I've burdened L. with it. She doesn't deserve it, and though I don't feel that I've been a bad guy at all, she knows that I'm preoccupied, and not as focused on us as I'd like to be. So that's a shame, and I don't want it to be that way. It makes me realize that I'm not perfect when it comes to coping with stress, but then again, what does that mean: to be perfect when it comes to stress? Isn't the very nature of that to upset the psychological apple cart and not be able to be perfect? I still think that I'm generally better than most in that regard, but I'm not sure what all the coping strategies and mechanisms are, from person to person.

And, on top of that, my wonderful L. is in some far away place called Fresno tonight. Fresno. The word itself sounds like abandoned drive-ins and Chinese restaurants called Oriental Palace. But I hope that she's having relaxing family time with her father, and that moments like these help build a stronger bridge between them, which may not have been consistently stable and strong through much of her life. It's good that she's doing it, and me being away from her for a night isn't much of a price to pay for that.

Where The Wild Things Are Waking Up

It's been a surprisingly good year for movies, despite the general debasement of the American movie-going culture. Between "Up", "The Hurt Locker", "District 9" and Zach Galifanakis' penis, it's been a pretty solid year overall. I mean, who doesn't want a fair dose of Galifanakis' member?(Actually, it wasn't, but whatever).

From the first moment that I heard the Arcade Fire-backed teaser for "Where the Wild Things Are", I was hooked. Desperate to see that movie, knowing that a children's film directed by Spike Jonze couldn't possibly resemble a children's film. Year-long rumors of production troubles and threats of taking the movie out of the director's hands did little to dissuade this notion.

Turns out that it definitely wasn't a children's film. As Jonze insisted, he wasn't interested in making a kids' movie, but rather, "a movie about childhood". He succeeded unlike anything I could've possibly imagined. I have read Sendak's classic dozens of times with Z, and we know it word for word, but I'll admit that I don't hold any undue reverence for the book. It's great, no question, but I never had a "oh god, they can't possibly make a movie of that" reaction. After all, it has the general guts for a movie - the book simply doesn't have a middle. But it has motivation, a beginning and an end. The rest was up to the filmmakers.

Jonze is a filmmaker I generally admire, though haven't loved. "Malcovich" was immensely clever and fun, but "Adaptation" made me frustrated and angry with its navel-gazing obsessions to self-obsessed artists. So I didn't walk in with reverence towards these uber-hipster filmmakers, and spent much of the last few weeks wondering whether or not I could take Z to see it. But that Arcade Fire song... god, it works wondrously in a trailer.

"Wake Up" is nowhere to be found in the movie, but the underlying message of the trade-offs that we make between childhood and adulthood infuses the soul of the film. The confusion that children feel, living in a world of adults and not feeling understood - and not understanding themselves - is something that carries into adulthood, and the characters of the "Wild Things". They are, on the surface, meant to mirror Max's lack of emotional control and understanding, but their very adult voices and relationships gives the subtle sensation that, no matter the age, we don't conquer these feelings and find answers to these questions.

In this way, "Where the Wild Things Are" is really the "Synecdoche, New York" of 2009. The feelings of alienation and confusion, the inability to put a finger on where you fit in, and who loves you, and whether or not those insecurities can and should be trusted... they're endemic to being 9 years old, but it doesn't leave when you're 20, or 30 or probably 60.

Not only is the song amazing, but the lyrics show there's no question they chose it for a clear, definable reason:

Somethin’ filled up
my heart with nothin’,
someone told me not to cry.

But now that I’m older,
my heart’s colder,
and I can see that it’s a lie.

Children wake up,
hold your mistake up,
before they turn the summer into dust.

If the children don’t grow up,
our bodies get bigger but our hearts get torn up.
We’re just a million little god’s causin rain storms turnin’ every good thing to rust.

The song is an admission that children understand there are complexities to life that they don't necessarily understand, but they know they're there. Just keeping those emotions buried deep does nothing but allows them to cope in a conventionally pre-defined way, but not to really live; eventually you fear that holding them down is what leads to emotionless drones later in life. While Max may not handle this emotions in the way that he necessarily should (he's definitely "wild" in a way that's too dangerous by half), at least he's acknowledging them. And the depiction of how those emotions bubble and surface in "Where the Wild Things Are" is brilliant, haunting and meaningful. Seeing them in Max is one thing, but then seeing them reflected in Max's face as other characters (namely Carol) grapple with them, is truly beautiful and heartbreaking.

And I still don't know if I should let Z see it. But I know that I'll want to have conversations with him about it for years to come. Especially about how the fact that, even as you get older, the confusion, the insecurity and all those other painful feelings don't necessarily go away. No one has it fully figured out.

Fall is here... for the moment

A brisk wind blows through Los Angeles on a Sunday afternoon. The first weekend of October. The first one in LA that actually feels like fall. It's my favorite season, and one that Southern California doesn't feel with the full bloom and force as in other parts of the country. So it's a momentary pleasure, as next weekend may be 85 degrees, or the following one may forget autumn entirely and settle into the blandness of 65 degrees. Not that one should really complain, because three months later it will still be... 65 degrees, while it's 20 degrees where I come from.

Speaking of where I come from, I was able to breathe in the coming fall back in Wisconsin with L. Empty country roads and Door County farmhouses while on a gorgeous, picturesque tour of my home state. We ate pure Wisconsin cheese, savored the joys of Leinie's Red, and sat beside beautiful Lake Mendota, appreciating life back in Madison, the most perfect place in the world when the weather matches its charms.

All of it makes me so appreciative of this time of year, which creeps up so slowly and disappears so fast. Even back in Wisconsin, they're probably now having the most stunning weekends of the year, replete with the smell of fallen leaves on the lawn, but in a month the Midwest will be concerned with weather-stripping and ballooning heating bills. Here in Los Angeles, Halloween will pass, and we'll ponder the holidays, which will erupt without the benefit of the further changing of seasons. Yeah, we'll put on our thin, Fall coats, but it's really not the same.

I guess that neither way is ideal, but the connecting thread between the two is unavoidable change. These are brief, momentary periods that need to be savored and cherished, because tomorrow they will be gone. At least as far as the weather goes.

But for me, I'm going to appreciate every minute of it, from the pumpkins on the kitchen table, to the football season unfolding in 16 weeks, to what promises to be a comically fun time at Knotts Scary Farm tonight, to that stiff wind that somehow both chills and warms, to the lovely, wonderful woman that I get to spend my time with, who only gets more beautiful with each passing day. Yes, Fall is a time to be cherished.

Too Busy Having a Wonderful Time

There's been nothing going on in the blog for awhile. I actually have to spend some of my blogging time jotting down witticisms for work, which isn't really the favorite part about my job, because it's writing about things I don't give much of a shit about - fashion, style and the latest trends of shoes. Which isn't to say I don't love my job - I do. But I would never be confused with someone who spends their free time reading Vogue.

All that aside, there really just hasn't been a lot of time to blog, because life has just been too wonderful. I'm too busy having a fantastic time to be sitting around writing about it (which, I think can be considered a perfect microcosm for blogging in general: if you're spending all your time in front of a computer jotting commentary or navel-gazing - and you're not getting paid for it, there's some serious re-examination needed in your life).

That said, last night I attended another amazing concert with L. Our fourth in the last two months, from Death Cab for Cutie to Tears for Fears to a side-splitting show by Patton Oswalt and Louis C.K. that left my stomach hurting for the next day from laughter. We have U2 coming up in October.

This one was a longtime favorite: Hall & Oates. Playing at the gorgeous, though acoustically-challenged Nokia Live in downtown LA. This is probably my sixth or seventh show of theirs over the years, a fact that I long ago stopped apologizing for, but Daryl was in amazing vocal/performance form, while John still looks a little too swarthy and gruff without the 'ol stash.

L couldn't give two craps about H&O, but she's an astounding sport about pretty much everything, and she's a huge music lover, so she was delighted to go. But not only did she find it entertaining and fun from the nostalgia/semi-kitsch factor, she genuinely loved the show, and discovered perhaps for the first time what a captivating, amazing performer Daryl Hall is (which, for people who have stuck with H&O all these years, is a primary motivator). She also has an "out" to have sex with him, given the opportunity. He is a sexy, sexy man. John Oates... not so much.

And she pointed out that "No Can Do (I Can't Go For That)" was probably written about anal sex. A very interesting observation. Judge for yourself.

We'll see if there's more time for scribbling in the coming month. But if I keep having such a remarkable time every day... well, don't blame me.

New Kinds of Scary

Life has been good to me this year. New professional challenges, and the wonders of L. Zach has done an amazing job of developing this year - intellectually, emotionally, behaviorally, developing a pretty solid baseball swing. I'm beyond proud of him.

That being said, sometimes life is still incredibly scary. My ex still doesn't have her shit together, with life throwing curveballs at her faster than she can swing the bat. Maybe she never learned how to hit a sinking curveball. Then again, I don't think I know how to hit one either... sometimes I feel like I just fake it.

And my own life sometimes scares me. Things with L are so incredibly wonderful that it feels like the stakes have been raised to a certain degree. I don't want to lose her, ever, and I want to do everything right. I want to be the perfect man. And that's impossible. No one is perfect. This past weekend, I demonstrated how I'm not the perfect man, and it ruined a potentially lovely day. We fixed things, and in fact got back on track better than ever, but it's intimidating. How do I continue to measure up? To be better than normal and everyday, when ultimately, life is normal and everyday?

I suppose that it's inevitable that my insecurities would always be just under the surface, even though L is amazing... or perhaps exactly because of that fact.

Playing to the Back Row

I'm a creative person, but I don't flex those muscles on a daily basis. I do enough to keep me satiated, and frankly, my life is too complicated and busy to frequently feel the driving desire to be some sort of artiste.

For the past six months, I've been relatively creative in the workplace, as we've been building a new website for the past five months. It's been professionally satisfying, and this week led up to the public debut of our new URL. The CEO asked that we plan an event at our quarterly all-company meeting in its honor, and we ended up deciding on a "behind the scenes" farce video of the making of the new site.

Somehow, I found myself offering to write the script, knowing that too many cooks in the kitchen would lead to paralysis, and we had less than a week. A 7 page script was churned out that day, followed by rallying the entire team for two-days of shooting between meetings. Everyone felt silly and there was some initial skepticism, but people started to loosen up, and once the footage hit iMovie, I hit my stride.

If I would've considered other avenues in Hollywood beyond writing, I would've been an editor. I have a nice sense of rhythm, and screenwriting is its own form of editing. I used to cut on film, and though I spent a number of seasons in reality TV show editing rooms giving instructions and feedback, I was always in the producer's chair behind the editor and not behind the controls, clicking the buttons. My actual digital editing was limited to a few clip packages I threw together for awards shows over the years. But I certainly don't know the (better) technology like Avid to any real degree, and when it came to the user-friendly, for the masses iMovie, I didn't even know how to trim a shot four days ago.

Needless to say, iMovie is very user friendly, even with its somewhat limited toolbox, and it perfectly suited my needs. What was intended to be short, single shot scenes became multi-angle, cutaway-rich, audio-varied little vignettes. Not all of the scenes are good, but they generally click and shimmy, delivering the laugh lines I intended, and numerous ones that I didn't. Part of the fun became editing around the amateur actors. Not that I'm any kind of a pro, but storytelling was at one time my job, whereas none of these people wanted to be behind a camera.

By the end of the week, showing rough cuts to the team was garnering big laughs, excitement, and buy in for the final scenes. So I worked even harder on it. I put in a minimum of 2o-25 hours of editing for a seven minute piece, and the big debut was at an all-company meeting of 250+ people. And... it played. There was consistent energy in the room, chuckles and titters, and a number of scenes that got all-out belly laughs. The CEO loved it, and wanted it on YouTube, even though it playfully tweaks the execs rather than glamorizes them.

A creative itch was scratched, and I had an actual audience. An audience that liked and appreciated it. It was a good moment. One of those Mozart Moments.

This isn't to say that I'm spending my time dying to be endlessly creative, writing scripts, all that kind of stuff... but it was nice for a few days.

And, most importantly, the new site is pretty damn cool.

What kind of parent do you want to be?

I was sitting at the pool, having a rare moment of quiet and solitude. Reading a book about marketing on a Sunday afternoon after a short, relaxing swim.

Two thirty-something guys in wife-beaters with jellyroll bellies stroll up to the pool with a pudgy 6 year old. The boy stares into the deep end of the pool when Mr. Pork-Pie Hat and picks him up from behind and just tosses him into the 8-foot-deep end of the pool. The boy is clearly in the early stages of learning to swim, and struggles to keep his head above water, gulping down glassfuls. Porker #2 casually jumps into the pool, grabs the flailing boy and drags him to the side, where the boy grabs onto the ladder for dear life. Sobs and water spitting out of his mouth.

Mr. Pork-Pie says, "You wanna hang out with the big boys, you gotta swim in the deep end!"

"I don't want to be in the deep part. I'm not ready!" The boy stands there, sobbing, as Pork-Pie takes a picture to "send to your momma", talking about how he's going to turn the kid into a real man. The boy slinks over to the hot tub, as Pork-Pie emails the picture. "That's where the little girls hang out. You a little sissy girl?". The boy doesn't respond, as Pork-Pie takes a swig of his Coors Light.

And so I sit there, considering the divide between developing confidence in our children and getting them ready for the world. Looking at this little boy, fear in his eyes, and not meeting the eyes of these two men, what is he being prepared for in life? He's being taught that uncertainty and trepidation is akin to femininity and worthlessness, and that he shouldn't trust his instincts. This strikes me as the kind of behavior that turns boys aggressive, seeking to compensate for their own fears that they aren't meant to acknowledge.

I think about Zach's fear of swimming, and the little baby steps he makes in this regard, and how he'll climb to the top of a mountain if you let him. He'll run up to a total stranger running an outdoor theater to ask what the name of the next play is. He is aware of his limitations, and deeply cognizant of what he can do. Maybe I wish he could do it all - or would do it all - tapping into that seemingly limitless power the boy has. But I also have to remind myself that he's figuring it all out, and shoving him into the deep end isn't going to make him ready for the world any faster.

I feel that I generally respect this, and am aware of these subtleties, and it's distressing to watching parenting that seems wholly unconcerned with such "sissy" matters.

The Rock Wall

It's not often that a parent feels like they've really got it nailed. That they said the right thing, did the right thing... all those things that are important to create a next generation that's more evolved, more competent than we feel. 

Not that I feel like a fuck up as a parent. On the contrary, I think I'm doing a decent enough job, but it's so easy to hold the mistakes you make against yourself. The times you lose your temper, that you don't put enough effort into storytime, that you express just a little more dissatisfaction than is necessary. These moments add up, and part of parenting is grappling with the question: is it adding up more for your child... or for you?

I'd like to think it's the latter, but you don't know. Because, if it is the latter, maybe moments like today won't make the impact on Z that they had on me.

We had an evening at the park. Me, Z and L. It gives me no end of pleasure just how much Z wants to spend time with L, although there's no question, that brings up certain concerns as well. How much attraction is too much? How much intimacy? What should that relationship be like? As it plays out, it's absolutely wonderful, but I just want to be cognizant that both of them - all of us - are treading in previously uncharted waters (for us, at least). 

Z was climbing a rock wall. Not the typical park rock wall for kids, with its plastic hand and foot-holds, blazing like neon signs for where to step. Rather, this newly designed park (ironically, it's always been known to Z as "New Park") installed a faux-rock climbing wall. With gritty hand-holds and grooves, which really force children to figure things out on their own. 

Z failed to figure it out the first time, getting halfway up before calling plaintively to be helped down. A while later, he climbed to the top, but then realized that was quite a predicament - the pride of accomplishment was replaced by the fear of the unknown. Dad needed to scale his way to the top and one-arm Z down to another father. Crisis averted.

But, Z being Z, the first thing he did was climb right back up. This time, when he got to the top, I warned him not to crab-walk to the same place he got stuck last time. So he didn't. He made it halfway down the other side of the wall, my pride surging, until I needed to lift him off the remaining section. 

But, Z being Z, he wasn't done. Another trip to the top, and this time the allure of the crab-walk was too much for him to resist, even though I specifically told him this would end badly, and that I wasn't going to rescue him. I muttered to L that I knew where this was going, and I wasn't sure what the parenting response should be.

He did it anyway. And, predictably, he got caught exactly where I said he would. His eyes welled with tears, and he asked me to get him down. I told Z that this is exactly what I warned him of, and I couldn't help him. He looked right at me and said, "But you're a hero". If that isn't a moment that both swells and crushes your parenting instincts, I don't know what is. 

So I told him that I couldn't help him. He got himself into this mess, and he had to figure out how to get himself out of it. I helped point out areas that would be easier for him to cope with. He carefully - and oh-so-dangerously - shifted his body weight around, and skittered down an edge that he could easily fall off, but which led him to a slightly lower outpost... only 8 feet high, rather than 10. It was one of those scary parent moments, but one that I knew I couldn't rescue him from (unless things got legitimately dangerous for him), because all I'd be doing is proving that he can call on me for anything... even when he is the one who screwed up. Instead, I was trying to teach him that when you screw up (even in such a self-consciously belligerent way as he had just proven), it's often all on you to figure out how to solve the problem. 

And he did. He made it to the 8 foot outcropping, and... Z being Z, jumped off into the sand.  A perfect landing, incidentally. When he landed, he was clearly proud of himself, but I quickly got down on one knee and said, "Z, tell me... who was the real hero?. He beamed, and said, "I was", and ran off, excited just to be a kid.

The moment probably passed for him, unremarkable and forgotten. For me, it might be a moment that I'll treasure for the rest of my life. 

No June Gloom Here

Residents of Los Angeles have spent much of the past month bemoaning the "June gloom", which basically means, any weather less than 80 degrees in the second quarter of the year. Personally, as a guy who tends to break a sweat easily and likes any break from the sunny monotony, this is a welcome weather pattern, so no complaints here.

Yet, there's been a pleasant monotony to my own life, which has certainly impacted the frequency of my writing. Or, I should say, caused the infrequency of jotting down my thoughts. The word monotony generally has a negative connotation to it, but I don't use the term here in that way at all. Rather, the sameness of my life has been a sameness of satisfaction, where each day has been just as enlivening, enthusiastic, and energetic as the last.

This is due, of course, to L. Our relationship continues to grow deeper and richer, and we simply can't get enough of each other. Never have I been so endlessly ecstatic to see someone - and to be seen. We continue to find that we can do absolutely anything together, whether it's taking Z to the swimming pool, seeing childhood favorite movies in a cemetery, or celebrating her birthday in spectacular fashion at a 1920s inspired nightclub, the Edison Downtown.

This past weekend even featured our first trip away, where we made love in an actual bed for the first time (it had posts and everything), which is kind of comically absurd for a 35 year old, but due to a miscommunication with an ex-boss that actually left me without a bed frame (a minor anecdote not worth repeating here). We had an amazing time whitewater rafting on the Kern River with some fantastic coworkers. We jumped off a goddamned cliff together. We even had our first fight, a combination of alcohol and miscommuncation on both of our parts, but found that setbacks like these are minor, quickly forgotten speed bumps rather than full-blown car wrecks.

So, for all of those complaining about the June gloom, I say, try smiling for a change. There's nothing gloomy about this June. It's been a month of Mozart Moments.

Thunderstorms and Sunshine

Summer is officially here, though it kicked off in a singularly ominous fashion. A long-awaited trip to see my family at their yearly timeshare in Hilton Head, SC began with an absurdist comedy of traveling errors, which was followed by Z getting Strep Throat. An ER visit in the humid sunshine of South Carolina fixed my ailing boy, but a poorly timed tickle in my throat promised that I was going to return for an ER visit of my own. I was getting to be on a first name basis with the intake clerk. 

This cast a pall on the start of the vacation, and Z didn't help matters by being cranky and whiny for the majority of the trip. Worse, I had to finish a week of sickness and stress with a three day stay with my soon-to-be-ex-in-laws. The ex is currently estranged from her father, a man who doesn't seem to notice an odd trend that both of his children have gone long stretches without talking to their father. Interestingly, his own brother has barely spoken to his parents for the past 30 years. What's wrong with this picture? 

Fortunately, we avoided all delicate topics for the visit, and my sister-in-law showed a sweet solidarity by traveling with her daughter to come see me and Z. Perhaps the highlight of the whole trip was getting roaringly drunk, dishing dirt on just how tremendously fucked up my ex's family is. Not that everyone's family isn't a mess of neuroses and petty grievances, but the ex's family seems to make an art of it.

Throughout the trip, I veritably itched with loneliness for my love, L, who was similarly gripped by her own sense of loss and boredom. Perhaps our constant synergies went too far, however, as she was sick on the exact same day as me, also with a throat ailment. For a pair that is rarely apart for more than 24 hours at a stretch, this was something of a strain, with both of us trying to buoy our emotional neediness with a steady stream of text messages, emails and plaintive wails that would probably cause the average 15-year-old girl to cringe in embarrassment. Yes, we can be that kind of sickening couple. 

The trip wasn't all bad, however, as I closed a major loop in my life by having an in-depth talk with my father about my dead mother, a subject that he's made an art of avoiding for most of the past 30 years. I learned many things about her that I didn't know, such as how she reacted to the onset of her mental illness, how much she loved my brother and I, and how my father was advised to divorce her, ostensibly to give her the life choice of descending to rock bottom and dying, or to find a way to crawl from the hole and live. She died anyway, and who's to know what would've happened if he would have divorced her. She probably would've died, which would've made him feel an even greater, heavier guilt all these years. Wonderfully, the whole talk was cathartic for my father, who I believe appreciated my reaching out to ask those questions that I had always respectfully avoided, and he was too pained to bring up on his own. It was probably the highlight of the trip.

The night before we left, Z was treated to bone-shaking thunderclaps that shook the entire condo. He's never heard such sounds before, having grown up on the West Coast. Strangely, when we returned to Los Angeles, we were treated to thunderclaps and rainstorms of our own. Strange how so many things of the last week - illness on both coasts, two cases of Strep Throat, thunderstorms west and east, family secrets and histories being exposed - seem to feel circular and complete, as if things are being resolved. The most satisfying resolution was falling into L's arms at the airport, embracing with such relief and joy; we were both positively aglow. 

This leaves me feeling that the summer has now officially started. Memorial Day was just an unfortunate tease, but now the summer sun is arriving, with all sorts of treats and pleasures in store for the next few months: whitewater rafting, golfing in the evening, concerts at the Bowl, and lots and lots of rolling around the sheets... 

It's great to have the thunderstorms behind, and to be looking forward into the sunshine.

Collisions

I have no real understanding of what post-separation dating as a single parent is supposed to be like. L is so unbelievably wonderful and understanding, and my relationship with the ex is generally so... even (that's the charitable word I can come up with now) that the early period has been a road of only minor bumps and inconveniences: "No, I can't do that because I have this... Hey, can we get together at time A because of event B?". These are the rhythms of parenting life that I got used to for years before becoming separated, so handling them post-separation isn't jarring in and of itself.

But coming into it unprepped, unprepared and inexperienced at those rhythms? That has to be a difficult thing for L, and she has been an amazing cohort, confidant and champion the whole time we've been together. That peaked last week, when she proactively suggested, "I want to meet A. I want to show her that I'm not something to be afraid of". 

This came from A's repeated resentments over my parenting choices in terms of spending time together with Z and L. When A learned that a group of us - L and Z included - were going camping, she expressed her extreme displeasure. Weather concerns led us to cancel the trip, and instead a group of us went to a Renaissance Faire. This sent A into a tizzy, still reeling from the fact that her son dyed Easter Eggs with L weeks earlier. Perceived threats and maternal insecurities were bubbling to the surface, and I'm not at all going to say those aren't valid or understandable fears, but it's so easy for the conception and the idea to take root that it obliterates any form of the reality. L quickly recognized this, and decided that the best way to mitigate this was to introduce herself to A. She suggested a phone meeting, but A upped the ante with coffee, and after some consideration, L couldn't wait for it to take place.

When my friend V heard the news, his eyes practically jumped out of his head, and everyone who heard this - especially me - couldn't help but look at L with total admiration for her class, guts and gumption. For me, it was the class most of all, and it demonstrated just how committed she is to me, and respectful she is of Z's situation. It was an amazing gesture, and I was deeply touched, which is how I suspect L felt when I confronted her ex-boyfriend to say that I was dating the girl that he was with not so long ago.

The  meeting went exceptionally well, with L hearing A's litany of concerns, listening to her history of resentment over her own parents' parade of boyfriends and girlfriends, and expressing how she has Z's best interests in mind, and it dictates how she acts with him. Amazingly, she told A that all the things about me that A hated were probably the things that she adored about me. A said she was "almost certain" that I wouldn't have any interest in getting back together with her - that I've moved on - and L had to bite her tongue to keep from forcibly removing the word "almost". I would've liked to have done that for her. It was only 8 months ago or so that I thought I could rescue our marriage - or that I should at least try - but now it seem so utterly foreign to me. What was I trying to rescue, anyway?

The meeting ended with the two women expressing that they actually liked each other, and was followed by A even throwing out the potential idea of L picking up Z from pre-school if necessary. A mutual show of respect and understanding, and everyone felt great about it, presumably. 

This weekend was a slightly different story.

It started on Saturday, where A's never-ending habit of being late reared its head before plans L and I had. No matter how many times I established that I needed to be out of the house by 5, A showed up 25 minutes after that, and didn't apologize for the major inconvenience. To be fair, I was so irritated that I didn't give her much time to apologize, but I would think that reaching out over that issue would be a natural human response. Yet, I don't think that A feels any need to justify any inconvenience shown me. I think she somehow feels that being married to me was such a hardship that she's owed back taxes for the misery of being my partner.  

Four year old Z started ice hockey last week, and it was a debacle, with him sobbing about wanting to get off the ice, being afraid of getting hurt, etc, etc. Then A and I took him to the ice rink for figure skating, and he fell in love with being on skates. He was great at it when he just believed in himself - something that comes up on a near-daily basis. Still, he insisted he didn't want to go to hockey again. He did, however, and apparently was fantastic. When I called A to ask how it was, I got a shit-filled guilt trip over the fact that I wasn't there, and by the way, "we're going again tonight" and that I should be there. I say that I'm with L and hear in return that, "you were with her last night, so clearly you have your priorities". 

So now I've been put into the unenviable camp of being an absent father if I don't show up, so of course I do. So now I have been guilted into attending night skating, even though I had previous plans. L points out that A, basically, has my balls in a box on her shelf. I try to explain the fact that there are some hills that I want to charging into battle to tackle, and some that are not worth the effort. But, yes, she has a very good point.

We agree that I should go, and from moment one, it's tense and ugly. I don't pay for A, and this clearly pisses her off to no end. It's not long before I express that her "passive aggressive guilt trip approach" to getting me here was, frankly, bullshit. She denies it, and then says that Z was so upset that I wasn't there to see him that morning. Again, turn me into the deficient father. 

I return home to find that L has not taken this turn of events well. She has finished a bottle of wine, and she's more than a little resentful about the fact that my parenthood is a constant factor in our relationship. But not via Z, but through A. To L my ex is an ever-present shadow - something like Mozart's father with his big, outstretched black cloak that envelops and overwhelms. And, for the first time, it seriously tweaked her out. I think that given the incident itself, her reaction was severe, but it was the culmination of many little events that led to this frank, open discussion of the reality of someone dating a single parent whose child's mother is still in the picture. And mothers inevitably hold a good deal of power in this relationship, with that trump card that can be thrown down at any moment that a father doesn't necessarily have any fair defense for. 

And L is right about setting boundaries, and A's need to control the situation, and at the same time, she can't understand just how fucking hard it is to try to keep a child happy, and a tenuous relationship with my ex-wife from tipping onto the wrong side of the emotional ledger that will have larger repercussions than any short term satisfaction that winning any given skirmish has. A wraps herself in a cloak of self-righteousness about virtually everything, and continually accuses me of being selfish, while remaining willfully ignorant of how thoughtless she is about so many things, demanding my time, my attention, my money, whenever is suits her. And what on earth has she given me through all of this process, aside from the (much appreciated) respect not to try to completely screw me in a separation? She can be often be cordial and diplomatic, but how often do I inconvenience her versus the amount of time I spend attending to her needs? It's not a very even ledger, although I'm 100%, completely certain she would characterize it as something radically different. We just don't see the world - or each other - in remotely similar ways.

Tonight ultimately had a certain purging flavor to it, and I think that L needed to get a lot out about the situation as a whole moreso than the events of the evening itself. Because these events are going to seem mild by larger issues that will inevitably arise as time goes by. It's incredibly hard raising kids as a couple, much less as single parents who must deal with and find common ground with the other parent. Especially when you don't want to be around that parent at all. 

L will accuse me of lacking some testicles, certainly, but I truly believe that there is limited upside to handle certain issues in certain ways. It's very easy to win the battle and lose the war. I feel that A works on a daily basis to win those battles - perhaps because she feels that so much of the world is beating her down - but that, to my mind at least, she is losing the war. I used to respect her a great deal - and there are many ways I still do - but that respect is draining away in so many interactions I have with her now. But I would rather be the one to take the irrational right jabs now rather than the knockout punch. Or at least I'd rather be the one who didn't sink to shots below the belt, like A telling L that "you shouldn't expect him to take you out to dinner". Not the classiest of moves, for so many reasons. 

It completely ruined L's night, and that breaks my heart. Yet, our conversation feels like one that will, long-term, be constructive and foundational rather than destructive. L could tell me just how difficult things sometimes are for her, and in the next breath say just how lucky she is and how much she loves me. Wow. That's a healthy, honest, integrity-filled relationship. Though I wish she had been able to let some of this roll off her back tonight, I have such admiration for her in so many ways. 

Eveyrthing about our relationship has been absolutely perfect. I am sorry that, for perhaps the first moment, our expectations and hopes didn't live up to the reality.

It's official

Despite the emotional upheaval of separation and divorce, from a purely practical standpoint, selling my home - a large but aging condo located in a desirable section of Los Angeles - has scared me more. Perhaps it's the fact that I know my ex and I are both reasonable people, and she's not going to try fucking me over, and I have proven again and again that I'm going to take the high road through all of this. 

But selling a condo in a down market, with all of that pent up fear that my home had come to represent, was crippling. It kept me from putting it on the market until after the holidays, and then this horrible, gut-wrenching process taking 12 weeks seemed to put me in an interminable limbo. Even though we found a buyer quickly, the daily uncertainty, the serpentine regulations was even more challenging than I envisioned the whole thing to be. I don't think I would've been able to handle it without L, who was just a complete buoy in so many ways. 

And today it's done. Kind of a Mozart Moment.

I no longer own property, and I now have a very large sum of money in my bank account. It's not large by Los Angeles standards, and the sad irony is that it's not even enough for me to go jump into another property if I wanted to (which I very much DON'T right now), but it's more money than I've ever personally had in my life. An interesting feeling, though also kind of a nervous one, because I want to kind of nurture that egg so it can be of greater use down the line. It's not something to crack open, though maybe I'll rub it a little bit here and there.

I can't even begin to express the relief I feel being on the other side of this. I am so colossally happy about everything right now, and most of it is because of L. Being on the other side of the house is just icing on the cake. Of course, I'd like to be on the other official side of the marriage too, but that feels trivial by comparison. Getting two people who philosophically agree on most things to sign a bunch of papers seems a lot less daunting than finding a total stranger in a colossally nightmarish economy to buy the home that often gave you nightmares for much of the last six years. Getting a divorce seems like a dance party in comparison. At the same time, as I told my brother, it's not high on my list of things to do right now. I feel like I just climbed a treacherous, ice-slicked mountain, and the last thing I feel like doing is strapping on some snowshoes. 

I'd rather relax, smile, be happy, be in love, and live. That sounds much better to me. And it feels just a little bit easier today.

The new view

I found myself home this weekend. In a building I've never lived in before. 

From the moment my separation went from undecided to permanent, the notion of selling our condo was a massive, looming crisis in my mind, representing many things: the removal of the pride of ownership; the emotional, physical and financial investment that went into it; the physical manifestation of my failures, and ours; the loss of the only home my son has ever known. Hanging over all of that was the increasingly fractured economy and the knowledge that we'd already lost 20% of the value of the home in 12 months. Putting off selling was a way to avoid the inevitable financial disappointment, even though the separation of our one primary asset was key to moving onward. 

Eventually, the passage of time and the unspoken calamity of my ex's financial problems pushed me into action, fearing the worst. The asking price, jarring. The market, depressing. Yet, we found a buyer in six days, close to our price. What a relief! 

Then the American banking system kicked in. Our well-heeled buyer couldn't get a loan with 5% down, unless we got our condo an FHA approval, which means that a government backed loan could be acquired. A two-week process formality, I was told. We'll still make the 30 day escrow, the realtor opined. What no one anticipated was that virtually every buyer in America (few though they may be) were trying to do the same thing. Run for cover under the patriarchal umbrella of the US Treasury. 2 weeks stretched to 4 and groaned into 6. The ex's financial calamity turning into a full-blown Katrina, as I help out in any way possible while trying to maintain a positive attitude and not hold it against her (which I successfully did).

Meanwhile, my transition period became an emotionally chaotic limbo. I had to search for places to live, but couldn't commit. A place I adored held out for me, but had to move on after 3 weeks, which felt like 3 years. The inventory of apartments turned completely over during a month. Nights on Westside Rentals and days on Craigslist led to information overload and apartment apathy. Everything came to look the same, everything felt stale. 

The only thing making it bearable was L. A constant fountain of positivity and support, I found myself wanting to include her in this process, and gaining her implicit approval of where I was going was niggling in the back of my mind. One of the things you lose with the end of a relationship is a sense of perspective. Even if you have relatively good taste (mine isn't impeccable, but it's generally solid in most things), when you find yourself alone, faced with all those decisions, there's a gnawing sense of inadequacy and fear - if I can't hold a relationship together, can I really decide what I should be having for dinner, much less where I should live, where I should raise my child? And schools, overpriced rents, geographic enclaves of the westside... it all felt overwhelming. Even as I feel more content and secure in my life, there's that slight scent of fear behind your plastered smile of confidence. 

Having L go through this with me was both empowering, and also a romantic ritual in which we were gauging each other in unique ways that gave each of us perspective in how we see the world and our places in it. Her insight was invaluable, and to walk into a standard-issue Santa Monica apartment and put myself in the shoes of, "well, I could make this work..." and have her look at me and shake her head - "no way" - was such a clear, demonstrable demonstration of confidence and faith that it made me adore her all the more. We were learning each other's tastes and preferences, which is both illuminating and also important. Crucially, we were finding that we have very similar perspectives on many, many things. As crunch time neared, and I had to view a key property without her, it felt as if I had only seen it with one eye.

Because, deep down, I know there is something special and intense taking place, and wherever I find myself has to be a place that is emotionally expansive. It needs to satisfy me, and Zach, of course. But there's this new influence in my life, one of exceptional taste and grace and competence, and that place needs to fit those emotions and perspectives.

I finally got the call that took 8 weeks - the approval came in. GO!

I race to choose where to live, but at that point, there was only one contender in El Segundo, a very unique 3 bedroom that happened to be in the middle of a parking lot, and a new entry in Mar Vista, that seemed intriguing. A week prior, Mar Vista and it's shitty school system wasn't even on the map, but Zach's presumed acceptance into a charter school nearby removed the geographic limitations that I'd faced. A tasteful two bedroom condo in a quiet, relatively upscale community with a pool and a hot tub. Big rooms, giant closets, and a strong, confident color palette on the walls. Though it wasn't in El Segundo, it stacked up over the Parking Lot. I chose it, and then endured 48 hours of the landlord deciding whether it should be me living in her property. As a homeowner myself, I think I understand the grappling. 

My landlord mojo held true, and I got the place. Literally 24 hours later I was moving in a blitzkrieg of energy that lasted for 3 straight, exhausting days. One alone, one with energetic friends and hired movers, and one with L and her sense of style, unending helpfulness, and an uniquely OCD sense of organization (I always felt I was an 7 on the organized scale, but she's well past a 10). 

But a funny thing happened on that first day of the move. The moment I carried in those first boxes of belongings, all alone, I felt a funny, funny feeling. 

I was home. 

A home that I didn't own, but one in which I felt liberated. One in which I felt my life was starting over in an open, honest and meaningful way. Full of potential and opportunity, and a new love that I can only pray never dies. During the entire move, I couldn't stop driving myself, pushing myself, because I wanted to get it done, get it finished, but also, I wanted everyone out so that I could bring L in and have her feel that same sense. 

And she did. There's something absolutely electric, and yet utterly calming, between us, where we both somehow understand what all this means, and what it could be. We sat in the hot tub together, relaxing after an exhausting day of moving, and it was pure perfection. In the four days since I've moved, I haven't thought about my own condo once, aside from the irritating, major detail that we haven't yet been paid for it - and won't be until next week. I put so much time and effort into turning that condo into my home, but it had become as dead to me as the relationship within it. People frequently asked me how I feel about selling, and today, I can only smile, and in all genuineness say that I feel great about the whole thing. 

I feel reborn in this new home of mine, and to have Zach tell me that he wants to "live here for the rest of my life until I die" only confirms that my instincts were true, my judgment was right, and my future looks much, much more inspiring than it had two months before.

And at this moment, I only wish L was here to share it with me.

The Alarm Clock

I am a punctual person. Very punctual. Some I have known consider that anal retentive, but I believe it has a direct correlation to integrity, character and a consideration for others. My ex had a different view of the concept of time, and has long struggled to be prompt for anything, anywhere. Ironically, my connection between punctuality and character don't actually apply to her though, because her consideration of others is exemplary, and she's someone that has a great deal of integrity. 

But goddamn, it's infuriating when someone is always late, especially when you're a person who's never late. And she's pissed off more than her share of people over the years with that temporal blind spot.

As a result, we got into a habit, over a decade ago, of setting the bedroom clock 15 or 20 minutes ahead. It was a way to motivate her out of bed, by insinuating the time was later than it actually was. Well- intentioned, perhaps, but all it really did was demand raw math skills at a time far too early for that side of my brain (right? left?) to be undertaking calculations. Eventually your brain grasped the fact that 7:42 actually meant 7:22, and you went back to sleep; it never solved the lateness issue. Yet, it became a morning routine habit that has persisted even after she's gone. Habit calcified into a daily mental twitch.

Today I set my alarm clock for the exact time.

I am living in the present. And I intend to stay there.

Doesn't make getting out of bed easier though on those days when the most spectacular person lays beside you, a gentle, warm smile on her face that appears to have not faded throughout the few short hours we dozed.

I suppose the alarm just gets set earlier now. That's why god invented the snooze button. Because even when you're in the present, eventually you have to get up and make the coffee.

U ever have the feeling, u got too many hits?

Prince is the musical throughline of my life. Sensual, sexy, funky and otherworldly, I've learned more, and felt more from his music than any other. Would my view of women, or sex, or romanticism, have developed the same way in the absence of "Anna Stesia", or "The Beautiful Ones"? Maybe, maybe not. 

I can, perhaps, even credit Prince with giving my new relationship a chance. If it wasn't for his spectacular flame-out in the public eye, would there have even been an opportunity to connect with another big Prince fan? Reminding someone that he's made some great music post 2000? Maybe, though possibly not. Was that innocuous interaction last year a meaningful foundation point or just a forgotten sideline? Who really knows.

Yet, it's a powerful thread among many between us, which made going to see Prince in concert without her a bittersweet experience. An unfortunately timed trip prevented her from coming tonight to a high-energy Prince show that proved two things: 1) I'm probably too big of a Prince fan, and 2) You can't be too big of a Prince fan, because when the Purple One is in the room, it's categorically impossible for him to disappoint. 

On the first point, the opener of his three concerts on one night was exceptionally routine from a setlist standpoint. Having tracked his fan message boards too long, there was nary a surprise to be had, with the exception of a delightful, sexy, "If I Was Your Girlfriend" following a blistering version of "Shhh", which never fails to tear down the house (making it all the more understandable why he hasn't left it off his routine for the past 5-7 years). Ironically, these two highlights were the kind of moments that I was dying to share with L, and sincerely hope we'll have more chances to during the Purple LA residency. 

Beyond this, Prince didn't surprise much. It was high-energy and fun, but the Nokia Theater sound was merely average, and there was a litany of songs that I never care to hear live, from "I Feel 4 U" (when is he going to retire this?), to "Kiss", to "1999" (a song that is never benefited by live treatment), to a pedestrian version of the uninspiring "Crimson & Clover". And even when he's exceptional in performance, I'll confess to getting a little tired of him pulling out "Play That Funky Music" and "Come Together". He's brilliant at them, and I was dancing my ass off like everyone else, but I'll admit that I'd like a little more variety in his set-lists. Even when I only see shows in LA, I read about all the others, and he's getting a little staid. This set-list wasn't demonstrably different from Coachella. Though, I'm certain that the two later shows will provide more variety and dig deeper into the catalogue... the songs I probably wanted to hear. I knew this going in though, and it's not fair to complain about his structuring of the mainstream crowd show.

Still, the massive HD video screens were a delight, giving audience members a rare treat to catch every single glance, smirk and guitar pluck in 1080p. Even though our seats were decent, they weren't close enough to capture that energy head-on, but the exceptional video production provided an impressive intimacy with an artist who was both deeply irritated by frequent sound problems (affecting his playback more than the audience), and strangely touched by a return to the big stage. His final thank yous, where he shook perhaps every hand in the pit, even showed that he was a bit teary. I have to wonder why this show would do that to him, given his expertise and longetivity on stage. Was it the unique, historic nature of the night? Something else? Hard to tell.

And it is those flourishes, glances and declarations that are part of what makes a Prince show so remarkable. He is in total control of the environment, to calling out lighting cues in a 7000 seat house every minute ("gimme the house lights!"), to his crazy ability to create a rhythmic beat to "Hollywood Swinging" for 10 minutes with every part of the theater singing along, following his every order and purple promise of funky orgiastic glee. When he brings up the same geeky white guy to do a blistering rap of "Play that Funky Music" for at least the third time that I've seen (and no less than the 5th I've heard about), it's clear that Prince's showmanship is so brilliant that he can knock it out in his sleep. It's distressingly simple to feel jaded about the gifts he's shared, but you have to stand back and appreciate how terribly, amazingly hard it is to make it seem so easy. And he makes it seem so easy.

Which is what made the routine feel so fresh, as he managed to give "Purple Rain" a new feel and tone, and his rendition of "Let's Go Crazy" was easily the best I've personally seen live from him. Yet, he saved some of the best for last, using his encore to play "The Bird" and "Jungle Love". This wasn't, in itself, a shock, because I heard those same songs live last month, but the fact that he encores with them is so ridiculously silly that there's a perverse glamour to it. And watching 7000 people do the Bird is pretty sweet. Seguing into "The Glamorous Life" seemed to be just another playful embrace of his love of all things Minneapolis and the mid-80s, but when Sheila E snuck up behind him, him pretending to be surprised, to take over the vocals, what seemed like a fun stunt turned into a funk classic. She looked regal into her late-40s, then joined Cora on the drums for a jaw-dropping dual drum solo on one kit that left you breathless, while the one of the greatest rhythm guitarists in the world plays along with his sly smirk.

So even when he leaves you wanting in the originality department, he leaves you gasping with the sheer show of virtuosity. 

What remained missing was the one I wanted to see the concert with. Sure, it was a blast watching my friend V, still a practical Prince virgin, soaking it up (he had no such criticisms of the show, as I privately had), but it's a special experience that I hoped to have with L. And believe that I'll have sometime soon in the future... 

Revelations can be good

Today was a significant day for important relationships in my life. I have started seeing a wonderful, amazing, continually captivating woman, and we find ourselves reaching levels of connection and intimacy that I couldn't have forseen. Amongst other things, that brings up the Zach issue, as that's obviously a factor in whether or not we find a connection with each other: is she a person that I could envision around my son? Is my role as a father something that she can contend with? This isn't to remotely say that anyone is picking out doilies and china patterns, but these are the natural and necessary questions that come up in this kind of adult-world dynamic. Because if those things aren't even conceivable, what are you doing with each other?

Needless to say, I have absolutely no concerns on the first point, and she has been astonishingly wonderful on the second - sensitive, thoughtful and engaged. The speed and uncommon intensity of the bond we're building led to a somewhat inadvertant meeting with Zach, which brings up the next, natural question: when does my ex learn that I'm dating someone? The initial plan was to loop her in first, but, alas. Due to the ex's oft-mentioned struggles, I have a perhaps undue sensitivity when it comes to adding to that. I can only presume she doesn't want to hear about me being happy, etc. This doesn't make her a bad person; it's completely natural and I'd probably be the same. No, at a certain point in time, I can guarantee that I'd have been the same. Loneliness and unhappiness breeds resentment.

But now the issue was coming to a head, and when do I deal with that? I aimed for what I thought to be an appropriate sense of timing, but as with so many things, making plans can be pointless; the situation resolved itself at a time - and in a manner - that was not of my choosing. As I largely expected, my ex figured it out on her own due to the amount of time she spends dropping in on the condo, though certain ill-placed evidence made it hugely obvious. Yet, she brought up the situation in a completely unexpected and seemingly arbitrary fashion, absolutely launching into me for a perceived sense of selfishness, along with a rather ridiculous claim that she is, in some way, "taking care" of me. This couldn't be anything further from the truth, and just demonstrates just how differently we view the world and our relation to each other. It was surprisingly ugly, and had nothing (on the surface) to do with me dating someone. When it finally came up, she brushed it off with a "good for you. I'm happy you have someone" blanket statement. I think this is just her taking the high road, and I credit her for that, but the whole thing was just so strange that it was impossible to know what to make of it. 

But more importantly, it was out in the open, and that felt great. And the special person this is all about appeared to appreciate it as well.

What this led to, however, was a larger discussion about how the ex and I philosophically view dating new people and the introduction of those potential people into Zach's life. This led to the revelation that the ex actually dated someone late last year for a couple months. If I had learned that back then, during what was one of the hardest periods for me, I would've likely not handled it well. Yet, as it was shared now, there was something so distant and vague about it that I, frankly, couldn't care less. Good for her, I suppose; it didn't hurt in the way that I expected it would, and had been emotionally preparing myself for most of the last year. In fact, it didn't hurt at all. It was strange hearing of the contrived scenario where this guy met my son, and there's a natural relief that he's not still around, as there may not be a more sensitive issue for a devoted parent than the (mostly unfound) fear of being emotionally replaced. In fact, that's a scenario I saw play out in my own childhood, as my step-siblings shunned their own father and latched onto mine. But still, it's the rhythms of life, and I felt surprisingly fine with all of it. It probably helped knowing it still wasn't going on.

Also, my person is someone that I think would be a wonderful influence to Zach, and who I am eager to get to know him better. They actually have a similar, mad (mean that in the good way) energy that is utterly endearing and captivating. I think they could become good - even great - friends.

Later, the ex and I had an even more in-depth discussion where it proved that we're both gaining some valuable distance and perspective from our marriage. She even made the comment, parroting a friend, that "everyone should have a first marriage". That's perhaps a bit too smug, but there's a truth to it. We were so young; we didn't even know who we were, much less who the other person was. And, clearly, we couldn't handle it. We didn't know what we wanted out of ourselves much less another person, and so it went so very, very wrong. We're both sorry for the choices we made, and how we let them happen, but at the same time, I think we recognize that it was perhaps meant to happen that way. We weren't perfect for each other, but we did help build the people that we became. She told me that I helped her become the person she is, which can't be anything other than a compliment, and I feel the same way about her. Though I also think she inadvertantly helped unearth things about myself that I don't appreciate; this is not her fault, however. 

We also talked a lot about her family, and the poisonous gossip and aligning that people will try to engage in about us, and how I, in particular, won't play that game. I've expended a lot of energy and effort trying to have a solid relationship with my ex, and I intend for that to continue. We even commented that maybe we could even be those kinds of ex's that are sometime again real friends. And that may be a good thing. Certainly we couldn't possibly want each other, in any way, shape or form, but we do care about and respect each other. So, ironically, what was a situation that I somewhat dreaded, actually put things on a much more elevated, honest level, and that's a good thing.

Most importantly, it gives me an even greater level of confidence and comfort in this new relationship, if that's even remotely possible. Which it honestly doesn't seem to be. Going through these discussions and revelations were, ultimately, about what's best for my son, and how two ex's relate to each other, but there was also a strong pull to address some of this because I want the most honest, fair platform for a new relationship that is developing a meaning for me that I didn't expect. I needed to address it for me, but I wanted to address it for her. 

Words are too small

It's been 8 months since I started writing down the experiences of the past year. Though there are sporadic readers from places as far flung and random as Utah, China or even Africa, this was never meant to be something that anyone other than myself was meant to read. A place to put down some of my most intimate, darkest thoughts as a way of both purging and understanding them. It's been immensely valuable too, both as means of coping, but also as a sort of marker. A gravestone of sorts, marking the before and after moments of my life. 

My life doesn't seem remotely the same as it was a year ago. There are throughlines, of course. My son, the company I work for, certain friendships, etc. Yet, I am not the same that I was a year ago. It's possible that fundamentally people don't change. However, maybe what changes are the fundamental aspects of our nature that we elevate or suppress based on our experiences, our interactions, or fears, our hopes. Maybe it's all deep down inside us, but we selectively choose what comes out, and what doesn't. And then, at a certain point, we seem to lose control over those choices; our bodies, our minds, our experiences start to make the decisions for us, and this becomes who we "are". But there are other sides of us still hidden there deep in the weeds.

I feel those parts of myself emerging again, that I may have suppressed along the way. Hope, belief, optimism, beauty, connectedness, peace. These are things that I always saw as fundamental parts of me, but somewhere along the way got pushed aside. I'm not blaming anyone for that, and ultimately, I'm responsible for letting that happen. I let the stress of life overtake those things that I was, and wanted to be. 

And now I find myself shown things in myself that I may have never even known were there, or if they were, they were long forgotten. But those are things that feel so utterly natural, or right, or... perfect, that it makes you realize that we all have Mozart in us, even if we're battling his and Salieri's demons along the way. 

And those things are emerging - and being brought out - in the most beautiful ways, that I don't feel like I've changed or that I'm a different person. I am becoming the person I originally saw myself as, and feeling myself connected in a way that I never saw coming, and may have never thought possible. I feel that certain words, like peace, or calm, make sense to me in a way they never did before. Peace is a really, truly beautiful word.

These are ramblings that likely make little sense. Sometimes words are too small to capture the feeling. 

A Gift of Grace Wrapped in Barbed Wire

Today is Saint Patrick's Day. March 17th. A festive holiday that exists for no other reason than to get blisteringly drunk. Gotta love a holiday like that. I'm part-Irish too, so I can respect the urge. For me, however, St. Patty's day has always had another connotation. 

It's the day my mother died. 

29 years ago today, my mentally ill, intensely nurturing, highly intellectual, especially troubled mother died of an apparently inadvertent drug overdose. Might have been intentional, perhaps not. It depends on your perspective, mostly. I was 6 1/2. 

Men in dark suits collected me from my second grade class. Took me to my neighbor's house, where I waited in the basement for reasons unknown to me. Also unknown to me was the fact that my father was on a business trip, getting the news just before a plane flight (god, how complicated that must have been in the long-before cell phone days?), and they actually had a plane reverse taxi back to the gate so he could return home. 

One of my mother's brothers, who I don't remember at all, told my older brother and I the news (my dad never forgave this uncle for robbing him of this right and responsibility). As I waited in the basement for my father, for what seemed like (and probably) was hours, I remember telling a little baby - or maybe it was a doll - what had just happened to my mother. I probably didn't understand it, but explaining these events to someone even littler than me gave me a certain empowerment that was otherwise completely missing. 

Later that night, father and sons were back home. I'll never forget how trashed the house was. Garbages overturned, house nearly dark, the bed askew. She was found by a neighbor in the bedroom, perhaps on the floor. I had slept at the neighbor's the night before, because my mom didn't "feel well". I remember her crouched on the floor, naked I think, with bruises on her. Where did they come from, I wondered. This is my last visual memory of my mother. Self-inflicted, I am now sure. For years, I presumed that our trashed house was caused by the police investigation. But what if it was her? Did she rocket through the house in a manic rage, throwing over furniture and garbage cans? Did she die in pain? I'll never know, but I can't imagine it was any worse than the pain her life had become, trapped in her past, her delirium and her mental illness.

I saw a lot of emotion in my house growing up. Mostly anger. As a child, you are protective of your mother, and I naturally always thought my dad was in the wrong. He would be locked out of the house, pounding on the door, my mother screaming through the wood. Surely, he must have hurt her badly, right? Right? I recall my mother telling me one night that she was forcing him to sleep in his car because he was evil. It wasn't until at least 15 years later that I realized he was trying to manage the situation, to keep her stable, and to keep my brother and I safe. She once pulled a belt around her neck, threatening to hang herself. In her mania she had also threatened our lives. After I was born, she wrote on the wall that she wanted to kill me. How terrifying it must have been for him, fearing for his sons. Especially with all the traveling he did.

That night was the first time I ever remember seeing my father cry. I know he loved her, but I'm sure he was also crying because he failed to save her. He birthed great, wracking sobs while perched on the edge of the couch, with Dave and I not knowing what to do. I think we hugged him. Or he hugged us. While I don't necessarily remember my father as a cuddly kind of dad, he was a caring, supportive father, and so it's more likely that he pulled us into his embrace. We cried together.

But in the years after her death, those tears were relatively infrequent, and I felt a kind of numbness over what happened. For years, I privately chastised myself for my lack of deep, intense grief over my mother's death. Did this make me a bad person? Cold? Unfeeling? I am relatively quick to emotion in most other cases, and really a romantic at heart despite it all, so this would be inaccurate on the whole.

But when it comes to my mother, it wasn't until last spring that I found out why I developed this way. After her death, my father remarried, I got additional siblings, and though our house was one of the constant movement that only four kids only 5 years apart can create, there was under it all a sense of stability and calm. The chaos of my mother was replaced by the firm, competent hand of my stepmother, who wasn't cuddly either, but was what kids often think a mom is supposed to be: devoted, diligent,a great cook, the taskmaster and judge. Stern but always available, and no matter how frayed she became, she never did things like lock dad out of the house or threaten to hang herself. 

No matter how you look at it, that was better.

I didn't understand it then, and only now do, but I latched onto that stability and wanted to do everything possible to maintain it. I became the good student, the "good" kid. This was relatively easy as a middle child with a complete fuck-up stepbrother, an eldest "golden child" that stepmother put a giant target on (probably because Dave so easily achieved everything my stepbrother couldn't, or didn't want to), and a little sister who was everything that little sisters are supposed to be - self-absorbed, a bit spoiled, charming by half, and a little hellion underneath. 

It was easy to float under the radar. I had a series of private rebellions throughout high school, but I was apparently clever enough to keep most under wraps, and during those earlier years, I was the self-contained, independent, self-reliant, untroubled kid who didn't ask for much and didn't expect much. Just having a sense of calm and security was probably enough for me, that I didn't want to bother anyone with my own adolescent insecurities and fears. My parents were always there for me when I needed them, but I don't recall ever needing them. Or admitting that I actually did. 

I learned to control my own world, because if someone else controlled it, it may spin out of control. Deep down, I learned to fear uncertainty and constant change. This became ingrained in me, and something I'm learning to - and desperately want to - roll back, layer by layer, piece by piece. To find a middle ground that's more flexible, more emotionally sustainable. I wish I knew that about myself years ago. 

I never held my mother's sickness against her. I don't say this to sound holier-than-thou, but rather, I always wanted to appreciate what she did give to me in our short time together - intelligence, creativity, an affinity for storytelling. And her death definitely helped build that self-reliance and independent streak that I don't think I would've found otherwise (her dying made me not want to rely on my stepmother if at all possible, because there was probably a subconscious fear that getting attached could mean losing another parent). 

But that said, I also need to own up to the fact that my mother's chaos also caused one of the least favorite parts of myself. My apprehension over change played a not insignificant role in the collapse of my marriage, because deep down, I just need to know that things are going to be okay. Mothers tell you that. And then I didn't have a mother. And for the brief time I did have a biological mother, I had one for whom nothing was ever okay. Having a wife for whom things were so rarely okay probably instigated reactions and emotions that I couldn't have possibly understood in the moment.

Rosemary gave me many gifts, but that's one I wish I could've politely declined. But no parent wants to pass their damages and issues to their children, and there's no way she could've known. In fact, part of me believes that she may have felt she needed to die in order to free Dave and I from her chaos. Which was, in its own way, a gift. A gift of grace wrapped in barbed wire. 

So St. Patty's day is a day of green beer to go with your eggs and ham. What the hell is it supposed to celebrate, anyway? Hell if I know. I have never felt any urge to blow the doors off this holiday. I'll leave that to other people. At the same time, I rarely feel morose on this anniversary, and most years have little reaction to it other than a private mental note ("Oh, yes, that happened today, didn't it?"). Though this year may be a little different. 

So 29 years later, wherever my mother is, I hope she has the peace she deserves. And if she's still hovering around, unsettled because of whatever damage she may have done to her sons, I would like her to know that, on the whole, we turned out pretty much fine.