LOVE AMONG THE RUINS

We’ve all heard that kind of story before. Or seen it, in a hundred chick-flicks or old black-and-white Audrey Hepburn movies. We meet a girl, a young woman really, who either a) is hopelessly plain, and suffering from low self esteem, b) has just been left at the altar or is about to marry the wrong man, or c) is totally hot but is just now realizing she forgot to fall in love as she climbed to the top. She takes off, somewhere old, somewhere romantic, someplace brimming with  either covered bridges, crumbling Corinthian columns, or smoky cafés which serve impossibly strong coffee. There she stumbles haphazardly into the man of her dreams, who is inevitably shirtless and glistening unnaturally, and after some resistance they both fall in love and spend a brief weekend, or week, or month, or whatever, together in bliss, living on espresso and crusty bread and making love for hours as either the daffodils bloom and fill the world with hope, or the autumn leaves turn brilliant as a reminder that all beauty fades. But the affair is doomed before it begins, and soon the two lovers must return to their lives, she as either a successful neurosurgeon and entrepreneur, or celebrated model who would rather read books; and he to his fishing boats, his horses, or his wife and kids. A bittersweet goodbye, some tears, and a scene involving a longing gaze out of the window of a train or a taxicab heading to parts unknown.
The thing is that I had an affair like that once.
Except that I was already married. Mark was actually with me at the time. And the glistening stranger wasn’t a man but a dog.
We were on vacation in Athens, Greece. It was the late 1990s, some time before the Euro because they were still using Drachmas back then. I thought it was cool that we were using a unit of currency that had been around since before the time of Jesus. And you could tell, too, because one Drachma was worth practically nothing. A Coca-Cola at the time probably cost like 30,000 Drachmas.
Anyway, Athens certainly has no shortage of crumbling columns, and we had already spent a few days exploring the ruins, the Acropolis, the Plaka and the Old City.
It was actually our last day there. The next day we were heading out to see some of the beautiful blue and white islands of the Adriatic. The whole time we had been in Athens, Mount Lycavittos had been there, beckoning, crying out to be explored. Mount Lycavittos sits in the middle of Athens, rising out of the urban clutter like a single giant boob on a giant one-boobed Hollywood starlet. The legend says that at one time, Athena kept the future king Erichthonius in a small box. One day she went off to fetch a mountain to bring back to use at the Acropolis. She left the box containing Erichthonius with the daughters of the king and told them they must not open it. Of course, overcome with curiosity, they opened the box. A crow witnessed the event, and flew off to tell Athena, who was so enraged when she heard the crow that she dropped the mountain she had been carrying. And that is how it looks, like somebody just sort of plopped a mountain down in the middle of Athens.
So, that day, Mark and I decided that we would explore Mount Lycavittos. We walked from our hotel, winding through the ancient, cluttered streets of the city, until we found ourselves at the base of the mountain. We found a small paved path, which soon disappeared into dirt and brush, and with no small effort, we climbed our way to the peak, just under 900 feet. At its peak, winded and windswept, we found spectacular views of the city, and a small but charming 18th-century Greek Orthodox chapel, the simple, whitewashed Byzantine style which is as plentiful in Greece as taco stands are in Texas. At its door sat the prerequisite old Greek yaya, in her widow’s weeds, complete with black shawl, black babushka, a wart or two, three teeth and a working cell phone. There is one of those at the door of every chapel in Greece. The funny thing is, that probably less than twenty years before, they had all looked like Melina Kanakaredes, all statuesque and beautiful with long henna ringlets and perfect noses. Something horrible happens to Greek women after 45. Maybe it’s all the Ouzo and the olive oil. But, I digress.
The inside of the chapel flickered with the dancing light of dozens of candles, lit by unseen pilgrims, as it bounced and played off the gold and silver of the revered icons, mysterious and inscrutable to me as the Buddhas of Angkor Wat. Outside the chapel were commanding views of the ancient city of Athens, which sprawls out for miles in all directions, an unending sea of Mediterranean terra cotta and Greek whitewash. There is also a restaurant. It is one of those “eat at the top of the (mountain/skyscraper/canyon)” type of places, with walls of windows and plates of greasy spaghetti Bolognese, which seem to sprout as naturally in those environments as edelweiss in the Alps. 
The restaurant was open, although inexplicably empty. Apparently no one else had felt the urge to climb Mount Lycavittos that afternoon. We had lunch there, served by an older man, a gentleman who did his job with the grace and dignity reserved for those of the Old School. A napkin over the forearm, a bow tie and just the slightest bow, regardless of the mediocre fare.
We discovered that the top of the mountain was serviced by a funicular, a peculiar type of railway car which is pulled up and down the steep mountainside using cables and counterbalances. After lunch, we rode the funicular back down to the bottom, sharing the car with a handful of local men, older guys, probably heading home for the typical Mediterranean mid-afternoon siesta, bantering with one another in Greek, probably talking about how ugly each other’s wives were or kvetching about politics, which haven’t changed much in Greece since the days of Troy vs. Sparta. Hearing them reminded me of being in a barbershop sometimes, when all the men are talking about sports. It’s all very manly and slaps on the back, and I’m just sitting there listening, with no idea what the hell anyone is talking about.
At the bottom of the mountain, the funicular left us off in the fashionable Kolonaki district of Athens. We wandered the streets for a while, and somewhere near the Presidential Palace was where we met Buster.
Now, I had heard that the city of Athens made an effort in 2004 to clean the streets of the thousands of stray dogs and cats which plagued the city. What methods they may have employed, I shudder to think. But this was long before 2004, and the “problem” of strays was still pretty bad. For the cats, it didn’t seem quite as brutal: they would make their homes in the ancient sites, out of the way of the insane Athenian traffic; and often kindly women from the neighborhood would take it upon themselves to look after the cats, leaving food out and caring for the sick ones, that sort of thing. The dogs had it much harder, wandering the mean streets, hungry and desperate, struggling to survive day to day. The fact that the people of Athens regarded them as dirty, diseased public nuisances did little to make their lives any easier. A swift kick was easier to find than a kind smile.
Mark and I aren’t from Athens, though, and we couldn’t help ourselves from saying hi to the dogs who came our way, and from offering a kind word and a little scratch behind the ears, regardless how matted or unkempt they may have been. So, when a floppy-eared, sandy colored mutt came our way, all smiles and wagging tail, we stopped and said hello. We let him sniff our fingertips, gave him a little pat on the head, and went along our way.
He followed us.
For about ten or fifteen minutes, the little mutt would shadow our moves, never losing sight of us through the crowded city sidewalk. At one point, Mark said to me, “Let’s see if he’s really following us.” So, a block or two later, we stopped, and sort of hid against a wall. The little dog walked by. But, a few moments later, when he realized he couldn’t see us ahead of him, he started sniffing the air, and when he caught our scent, he came running over to us as if to say, “Hey! I almost lost you guys!”
“I guess we have a friend,” I said. We named him Buster. It was a name that had come to me in a dream a few months before, and eventually it would be what we came to name our dog back home.
The three of us walked together the rest of that afternoon, Mark, me and Buster. At one point, we were strolling through the National Gardens, and we came to rest on a park bench. As we sat, Buster gave us a little bark and a little wag of the tail, as if to say, “Wait here- I’ll be right back,” and he took off into the woods. Mark and I wondered for a moment whether that would be the last we would see of our little friend.
A few minutes later, though, we heard an excited barking, and out from the woods came that sandy colored mutt, barking happily and smiling from ear to ear, and with him he had brought at least ten or fifteen of his buddies from the park. He was leading the pack, a pack of raggedy, unloved, lovable misfits of every conceivable size, shape, and color; from precious little lap dogs to giant, slobbery hounds, and they were heading right for us.
For a moment it was a little unnerving. Here we were, sitting targets for a pack of wild dogs who were running straight towards us at full throttle with teeth bared. It was too late to get away, so Mark and I climbed up atop the back of the bench in an attempt to at least keep our vital parts out of reach while we assessed the situation. 
What a sight it must have been. There was no need for fear. Picture Mark and me, perched on the back of that park bench, surrounded on all sides by a pack of dogs, barking happily and trying to jump up and be the next one to get a kiss. Buster was standing there beaming, his doggy heart was bursting at the seams with love and happiness. I felt like one of those kids they tend to feature in Estée Lauder perfume commercials, a tiny little boy being mobbed by a litter of love-hungry puppies. Meanwhile, the Athenians who were passing by couldn’t help but stop and stare, they shook their heads but they couldn’t help but smile a little at the two crazy Americans being attacked by a pack of filthy strays. I, myself, was laughing.
This has become one of the most precious memories of my entire life.
After a while, though, it was time to say goodbye to the pack. Buster continued to walk with us for the rest of the day, waiting for us if we stopped into a shop or a gyro stand, without benefit of a leash. Before long, people began to look at him as if he was not a stray, but as if he was our dog, and suddenly this dirty little public menace was just somebody’s nice dog. And I think he began to feel the shift in himself, as well.
Before long, the sun began to dip in the late-Spring Athenian sky, and we had to make our way back to the hotel. Mark and I both wondered what would happen once we got there, but neither of us had an answer that we liked, so we just let the moments pass and enjoyed our time together with the scrappy dog. More than once, my heart skipped a beat as he made his way through the city with us, narrowly being missed by buzzing Vespas, belching noxious exhaust and their drivers’ fists raised in ire.
But soon we found our way to the relative quiet of our hotel’s neighborhood, and to the front door. I could see the desk clerk peering out at us, one eyebrow raised as if to say, “You’re not bringing that filthy animal in here.” But we knew that already. I think all three of us knew.
So, we took a few minutes and sat with our little friend. We told him that he was a good boy, and that if we could have brought him home with us at that moment, we would have. It wasn’t that easy though, and after a while we had to say goodbye, and I hugged him and told him I hope he had a good life. The sad part was that a part of me knew that his life probably wasn’t going to be that good. That’s the part of me which aches a little bit every time I think of this story; the part that’s aching a lot right now as I write it all down.
We walked in to the hotel, the desk clerk eyeing us suspiciously as we made our way up to our room.
Buster the dog laid down in front of our hotel and cried. We heard him from our room, that mournful, whimpering cry of a dog whose heart might just be breaking. We were boarding a plane the next morning, though, heading for Mykonos. There was nothing to be done. My heart might just be breaking as well, and all I could think was equal parts of “I’m sorry” and “Thank you.”
Soon, the cries died down, and the next morning as we lugged our bags to the curb, he was gone. A part of me was glad about that, but a part of me looked up and down the block, secretly hoping to see him running towards me.
This is where the film ends, with me in a taxicab, looking through the window as we drove through the orange-tinted mist of an early morning in Athens, silently saying goodbye to my Greek love affair. We broke each other’s hearts.

ONE IMAGE - ONE HUNDRED VOICES

I submitted a piece to this project. "Flash Fiction" ("a style of fictional literature or fiction of extreme brevity") - limited to 250 words. I'm not known for my brevity. Deadline is 12/7/13 with posts appearing after 12/9.

oneimage-onehundredvoices.com

 

 



True Colors

To my gay and lesbian brothers and sisters: Maybe we've been told for much of our lives that we are dirty, shameful, somehow less than everyone else; that our love isn't really love but sin. Maybe we've had to hide, maybe we've had to hope that we would blend in to the background and not be noticed.

But you know something? All that is wrong.

We are beautiful and we have no reason to hide.

 

 

 

Q&A

Cape Codder asks: Do women pee in the shower too?
Dear Cape- My first reaction was, “Why the hell would anyone ask a question like that?” Then, the right side of my brain kicked in with its own question: Has it been established that men pee in the shower? I mean, unless you’ve been asking around, perhaps you are the only person who pees in the shower at all.
Nevertheless, in my effort to answer each and every question posed to me, no matter how absurd, obtuse, or distasteful (well, if not “answer” every question, at least “reply” to every question), I shall attempt a reply to this one.
First of all, this is a subject on which I am singularly unqualified. My mother was the only female with whom I have shared living quarters in my entire life, for one thing. I never even saw my mother naked, for heaven’s sake, much less asked her whether or not she peed in the shower. Even if I did live with women, even if it was just me in a whole houseful of women, I doubt that I would have ever found a way to introduce the topic into a conversation. Unless maybe it was like 3am and everyone was really buzzed on Zima and playing Truth or Dare in the rumpus room.
However, my female friends on Facebook have assured me that women do, indeed, pee in the shower. At least some of them.
Upon further consideration, though, it seems to me that it would actually be more remarkable if someone actually did not pee in the shower. Ponder this: Classic comedian Buddy Hackett had a line which went like this, “He’s the sort of guy who steps out of the shower to take a leak.”
Food for thought.

Uncle Fuzzy writes: Why do men exaggerate?
Dear Fuzz- First of all, let me say that this was absolutely the most interesting and the very very hardest question that anyone has ever asked me, ever ever ever. I thought about it for like a million years, and it consumed me so much that I could not think about anything else at all the whole entire time.
However, after all that contemplation, I could not find even one tiny, miniscule shred of evidence that men exaggerate at all. Well, maybe one out of 200 million men might exaggerate a little bit about his enormous income or how miserable his head cold is, but other than that, I don’t know any guys at all who exaggerate. But thank you so much for asking, I really appreciate it, more than anything else in the whole entire world.

Kurious in Killeen writes: What do you dream?
Dear Kurious- First of all, I recognized you right away as the same writer who asked the question “Why?” a couple of months ago. I am beginning to learn that you like to ask the very difficult, extremely profound questions. None of these questions like, “What is your favorite brand of jarred spaghetti sauce?” or, “Coke or Pepsi?” You want to get the biggest bang for your question-asking buck, so to speak.
Of course, your question itself could have many different meanings. I noticed that you did not ask “What do you dream of?” or “What do you dream about?”, but simply, “What do you dream?” So, it makes me think that it’s not so much about the nightly visions we all share, the nonsensical stories we weave for ourselves out of disjointed images of the day’s events, beautiful bodies and gorillas playing saxophones, but more about the bigger dreams, about a life well-lived and the world around us.
I still allow myself the larks: the dreams that the Prize Patrol will come knocking on my door one day with a whole bunch of roses and a gigantic check made out to me for twenty million dollars. But I also dream about what is much more likely: of being able to grow old and live in a comfortable home with my husband without having to worry about money. I dream about that one all the time.
I dream that one day, someone will stumble across my blog and offer me a contract.
I have a very real dream right now of walking the Camino de Santiago in Spain. It is an 800km (about 500 miles) journey from the French Pyrenees to Santiago, Spain. I am planning to walk it in 2018, have felt called to walk it, actually. I think about it quite often, but don’t really discuss it much with others. 2018 is a long way off and most people really don’t get it, anyway. But I dream about it.
I want to say, as well, that many of the big dreams I had when I was younger have actually come true, which is pretty awesome. I have found True Love, which I always believed in. I live in my own home and it even has a white picket fence. I have seen the world (although there’s a lot left to see.) So, my list of Big Dreams seems to be dwindling. I think that’s a good thing.

The Good Husband asks: What is love?
Dear Husband- I see that this is the week for unanswerable questions.
Of course, my very first thought upon reading your question is the 1993 hit by Haddaway, “What is Love (Baby Don’t Hurt Me)”. Thank you very much, now I’ll never get that song out of my head.
For this question, I believe it is our language itself which falls short. Love is so many different things, it is nearly incalculable. The Eskimos have like a hundred words for snow, tribal cultures in Africa have fifty ways to say “that sand is fucking hot”, and yet we only have one word for love.
The problem is that the word has become cheap. How can you say that love is what happened when you looked at your baby daughter’s face for the very first time, and then turn around and say, “I love “Duck Dynasty”!”
People can spend their whole lives on a quest for Love, and yet they claim that they “love that new Geico commercial”. The word seems to have lost its value.
So, my friend, I am afraid I cannot really answer your question. I do suspect, however, that whatever you give away, in terms of love, pretty much determines what you will receive.
For now, let’s groove!



Kapa’a Mama writes: Have you read the new Pratchett book yet? Seen any good movies lately?
Aloha Mama- It certainly is refreshing to get a good old, down-to-earth, plain, honest question for a change. The sort of question that friends might ask one another over a Fribble and a SuperMelt at Friendly’s. And a two-for-one, at that! The downside is that the answer to both of those questions is ‘no’. Cue pregnant silence and a slurp of your Fribble.
I am currently on my local library’s waiting list for “Raising Steam”, which is the new Discworld novel. Apparently, this one entails the introduction of the first steam engine to the great city of Ankh-Morpork. Could be interesting. The last Pratchett book I read was “Dodger”, which wasn’t a Discworld novel but Sir Terry’s spin on Dickens and Victorian London. It was good: classic Pratchett.
I should take this opportunity to proselytize a bit for Sir Terry Pratchett and the Discworld books. Certainly one of my favorite, if not my favorite, authors of all time, Sir Terry has a huge following in the UK, but unfortunately hasn’t “raised much steam” here in America (see what I did there?). He has written and co-written dozens of books; the new release marking #39 or 40 in the Discworld series alone.
It is impossible to categorize or classify the Discworld books. Fantasy, certainly, but it’s not all Sorcerers and Faeries. Literary satire (“Eric” is a carefully crafted send-up of “Faust”), hilarious social satire, to be sure. It is as if he has held a mirror up to our society- a carnival fun-house mirror, that is.
This is what I would recommend. Go to your library, or B&N, or wherever you download your so-called “E-books”, and do a search for “Discworld”. Scan the list of titles. Pick a title that looks good to you. Do not read a description, do not read the flaps or anything else. Simply start reading on page 1. Within 50 pages you will be hooked, and most likely laughing out loud to yourself on the bus so that people are looking at you funny and sort of moving away. The Discworld books can be read in any order, but the themes tend to become more complex as they come out.
For my fellow fans, here are my thoughts:
First book read: “The Truth” - hooked by page 3
Favorite book(s): a tie between “Carpe Jugulum” and “Thief of Time”
Favorite character(s): Gaspode the talking dog, and any of the Igors
Favorite “series”: the witches
(would love to hear from you on your list…)
AS for the movies, I haven’t really seen anything remarkable in a long time. I’ve seen some decent movies, sure; at least it’s better than television and worth $1.25 at the Red Box. But I haven’t been really blown away since I saw “Cloud Atlas”, and that was months and months ago.
The last four movies which really blew me away, and all for different reasons, were “Cloud Atlas”, “Life of Pi”, “Best Exotic Marigold Hotel”, and “The Way”.

Windsor Wife wonders: Where did the term "not one red cent" originate from?
Dear Wife- The difficulty here is not in answering your question. The difficulty is in making the answer even vaguely entertaining. I don’t think it can be done. I thought about making something up, but I couldn’t come up with anything. I thought about answering your question in the form of a story, which I sometimes do. But the story would have to involve hoop dresses and old money and possibly the burning of Atlanta, and I don’t think I have the time or patience for an undertaking like that today. So, I suppose my only option is to simply answer the question.
Back when pennies were made from pure copper, they had a much redder hue than pennies today do, particularly after having been circulated for a while and handled a bit. This was long before ordinary people got involved in stocks, bonds, derivatives, mortgages, 401(k)s, and all the other financial instruments which have turned money today into little more than a shell game, so the closest thing most people had to “worthless money” was a penny. So, to say that something was not worth “a red cent” was to say that it was worth so little as to be worthless.
It pains me to write such a boring response.

Trippy!

Q&A

Cape Counselor wonders: Is there a reality beyond here?

Dear Counselor- Absolutely.
Sometimes, when I read these questions, I find myself picking apart every word, not unlike politicians who labor over every bit of language in a bill or in a constitutional amendment. If I’m not careful, I can soon overthink a question so much that it becomes unanswerable; again, not unlike Capitol Hill. The word in your question which concerned me the most is the word “beyond”. To me, that sounds as if we have this reality, here, now; and there is another reality or multiple realities waiting sequentially, afterward. There are actually a myriad of different realities which exist all at the same time. There are both Big Reasons and Small Reasons for that.
The Big Reasons for the existence of multiple realities is that we don’t actually live in a Universe, but a Multiverse. One of my favorite authors of all time, Sir Terry Pratchett, writes about the concept often, and refers to it as the “pants-leg” theory of reality. The idea is that in the Multiverse, every possibility of every day, every action, reaction made or taken, consciously or unconsciously, plays out in its own universe, each one splitting off of the other like the legs on a pair of trousers.
For example, when you were at the Shop-Rite last week and the guy behind the deli counter asked you if you wanted Boar’s Head or Shop-Rite brand cold cuts, you answered him “Boar’s Head” even though you wanted the cheaper brand, because there were people standing around and you were afraid you’d look like a cheapskate. Well, at the very same time, you also answered “store brand, please”, and that version of you split off into an entirely different universe, a universe where you saved 14¢ a pound on low-sodium ham.
So imagine, all these realities, each one playing out and splitting apart into infinitely more realities, all coexisting and getting along just fine. We just sort of pick a path to follow along the way.
The Small Reasons mostly stem from the fact that the concept of “reality” itself is flawed. What we think of as “reality” is completely subjective, something we make up for ourselves day after day in order to make sense and order out of the world around us.
Take, for example, the recent World Series. Imagine two fans at the ball park that night: a Red Sox fan, and a Cardinals fan.
Red Sox win. The crowd goes crazy. A historic night in Beantown.
Now ask the two fans to describe the night. You will get two radically different answers, and both of them would be 100% accurate. The Red Sox fan will undoubtedly use a lot of words like “awesome” and “amazing” and “wicked pissah”, while the Cardinals fan will use words like “disappointing”, “humiliating”, and “nearly got beat up in the parking lot”.
Two realities existing side by side.
So, you see, there do exist other realities “beyond” our own. But just remember, in another dimension, quite nearby, I answered your question with an “Absolutely not.”

Big Lil writes: I would like to hear your thoughts and memories on the first sisters in the name of love!!!
Dear Lil- Wow, now that was a long, long, time ago. If I remember correctly, it was probably around 1989 or 1990, before AIDS really received much in the way of funding. What is now the AIDS Support Group of Cape Cod was then the Provincetown AIDS Support Group, and they helped people with AIDS and what we then called ARC with medical support, food, “buddies”, and other staples of human dignity. It was pretty much up to us as a community to fund the Support Group, and in Provincetown in the early 1990s that could only mean one thing: throw on a dress and put on a show! So that’s what we did.
The theme that night was self-explanatory: “Sisters are Doin’ It for Themselves”. The venue was set: the Post Office Cabaret. The core group was myself and the other ScreamGirls, Lila and Svetlana, and Dixie and Blanche and the Reverend Brooks; and of course yourself, my dear, our illustrious Mistress of Ceremonies.
We put out feelers among all the waiters, bartenders, shopgirls, and other riff-raff of Provincetown to come on down and do a number. It was so long ago, they had to bring their music on a cassette! It’s been so long, it’s hard to remember everyone who performed, but aside from the people I’ve mentioned, I seem to remember Eve, (yes, that Eve) doing a number, along with Kevin Driskell (aka Baby Strange), Queen Marcia and others. I seem to remember that there was no dressing room, (or if there was it was all yours), so all the queens were changing in the back of the room between their various numbers, right behind the back row of the audience.
The crowd went wild that night. Here were the rank-and-file, the heavy lifters of the Provincetown economy, even back then. The people who showed up for work every day, ran up and down those stairs at the Lobster Pot, blended those Strawberry Margaritas at Café Blasé. They were up on the stage, in a dress two sizes too small which they had just bought at the thrift store earlier that day; and they were in the audience, giving away hundreds of hard-earned dollars to the cause, one dollar tip at a time. It was awesome.
I don’t remember how much money we raised that night. Probably less than $2000. Of course, $2000 went a lot further back then. But it was something. We were doing what we could. We were Doing Good and Looking Fabulous. Sisters. In the Name of Love.


　
Manhattan Minister’s Wife asks: If you could be any animal what would it be?
Dear Manhattan- This seems like it would be an easy question to answer, but in fact it is not. This is probably due, at least partially, to my tendency to overthink these things sometimes. But the truth is, I’m am really not sure what type of animal I would prefer to be. There are up-sides and down-sides to every answer.
At first, I thought about the Koala. Mark and I went to a Koala preserve near Melbourne when we were in Australia. They are unbelievably cute and cuddly-looking. They also sleep 20 hours a day, which is something I’ve aspired to for most of my life. But then I remembered that they ate only one food their entire life: eucalyptus. I tried hard to imagine my entire lifetime eating nothing other than leaves that taste like cough drops. So I guess Koala is out.
It seems rather unimaginative, but I’m going to have to go with what I know on this one, and answer “a dog”. They are the animal with which I have the most empathy and the closest relationships. But even this answer comes with qualifications. I’ve always said that dogs either have it really good in this world, or really bad. I’ve seen the numerous strays on the streets of places like Athens and Puerto Rico, and their lives are hard, hungry, and mostly short. So, I would like to narrow my answer down somewhat.
I would like to be a dog. Preferably a mutt. I want to have floppy ears and a dopey grin. I want to live with a family who loves me. Families can consist of just one human or many. I want to spend most of my day napping on a couch or in a sunny spot just below the picture window. I want there to be at least one member of my human circle who lets me get away with almost anything. I want to be fed and kept warm in the winter. I will work for my keep, even if working means pulling a sled through hundreds of miles in the snow, or if it only means loving you and protecting you from the mailman.
Yeah, that sounds good.

Golden Oldie wonders: Fleetwood Mac or Peter Frampton?
Dear Golden- Interesting question. Somewhat thought-provoking, as it is somewhat out of context. I mean, Fleetwood Mac or Peter Frampton what, exactly? Which one would I rather have playing a Bar Mitzvah? (Fleetwood Mac) Or a “Happy Divorce!” party for a 50-something woman? (Peter Frampton)
Or possibly, who would win in a Celebrity Death Match? Clearly Fleetwood Mac would win, not only because they totally outnumber Frampton, but they have Stevie Nicks, who wears boots all summer long. She can stand on Frampton’s head and spin around in those boots, all the while chanting a very potent Welsh Wiccan curse upon him. Sayonara, Peter Frampton.
But, let’s narrow it down to one album apiece in order to level the playing field.
Frampton has “Frampton Comes Alive”, which must have been in the collection of every teenager alive in 1976. I remember two things about that album. One thing was that because of the stage lighting, the picture of Peter Frampton on the cover looked like he had pink hair. The other thing was that my brother liked to play his stereo in the morning when he was getting ready for school. So every once in a while I would be woken up to Peter Frampton talking into his guitar strings on “Do You Feel Like We Do” or “Show Me the Way”, and at the time this was not an experience which I enjoyed.
Fleetwood Mac gets “Rumours”, which is clearly one of the classic albums of all time. There is arguably not a bad song on the entire album, and every single track has gone on to be a classic or a hit. My memories of “Rumours” stem from my earliest days on my own, when I had my first real apartment. I left the nest quite young, I was barely 18 which would have made it about 1980. I remember listening to “Rumours” on cassette on my Walkman, riding the bus from my job in Harborplace to my apartment on University Parkway in Baltimore. I remember listening to “Second Hand News” - “won’t you lay me down in the tall grass and let me do my stuff?” - with the volume turned way up so it sounded as if Fleetwood Mac was playing right inside my head. Back then, the music leaked out of those old headphones like crazy, so I’m sure the entire bus was listening to it, too. I enjoyed it, anyway.
Plus, they have Stevie Nicks, who wears boots all summer long.
So, based on all that, my answer is Fleetwood Mac.

Shark with a Shield asks: Vanilla or chocolate?
Dear Shield- No contest here. Chocolate.
Anyone who knows me knows that I am the textbook Chocoholic. I love just about anything sweet, but chocolate, well, takes the cake, as it were.
My earliest memories of chocolate are of Nestle’s Quik, in powder form. It was the only way Mom could get me to drink milk, and I still don’t like drinking white milk to this day. I have sunken to the depths of choco-addiction depravity. More than once I devoured an entire bag of Reese’s Cups Minis on the walk home from the bars at DuPont Circle to my apartment in Logan Circle in DC, a fifteen minute walk. The entire bag. And I could do it today. For much of the wretched six months I spent living in Key West, I was so broke that a Snickers Bar qualified as one meal of the day. Chocolate has seen me through good times, bad times, ups, downs, you name it.
I could quit at any time, I just don’t want to quit. So don’t ask me to, OK, man?
I’ll be fine. After a RingDing.

Cuz in Charlestown asks: If you could pluck a persons eyes out, turn the eyeballs 180 degrees and plunk them back in, would they view everything upside down?
Dear Cuz- Really?
More than anything, your question disturbs me. This is the scene which it evokes:
A seedy bar. A crappy old tube television plays the Weather Channel at one end of the bar with the sound off. An unused dart board hangs askew on one wall, and the harsh fluorescent light hanging over the pool table proclaims Miller the “champagne of beers”. Two men approach. One of them is short, unwashed, and fidgety, like a 4’11” Steve Buscemi with eyes bulging out of his head. The other is big, muscle-bound, and slow. He is both stupid and inexplicably hostile, a bad combination. He steps up to you, well inside your personal comfort zone, and as he does, you notice the food stains on his shirt and his breath smells like he hasn’t brushed his teeth in a month.
“Hey,” he says in a thick, thick-headed Cockney accent. You feel tiny drops of tobacco-colored spit hitting you in the face. “I’m gonna pluck out yer feckin’ eyeballs, turn ‘em around, and stick ‘em back into your feckin’ head!”
The little ferret-faced one laughs, a short burst of sound like a machine gun or an over-excited chipmunk. “Hey, Larry!” he says, sounding even more like Steve Buscemi than he looks. “Do ya suppose he’d see everything upside down? Huh? Huh? Do ya?” He laughs again, nervous squirrel.
What happens next?

Pensive in Provincetown asks: How are we remembered, and do we make a difference?
Dear Pensive- This is a very deep question. Two deep questions, actually, but it seems to me that the answer to both of them is the same, and that is that it is up to us. It is up to us how we are remembered, and it is up to us whether we make a difference.
Perhaps it would be a good exercise for all of us, some day when we are alone with our thoughts, one of those days when we’re feeling courageous enough to really look at our own lives for a few minutes, to ask ourselves that question. When you are safely ensconced in your pine box or your decorative urn, and people are sitting around drinking coffee out of paper cups and commenting on how moist the chicken salad is, what kind of stories do you want them to be telling about you? That you were an amazing mom? That you had the best music collection? That you overcame adversity with grace and humor? That you were smart, that you were funny, that you were fearless?
However you answer that question to yourself, then that’s probably where you need to be focusing your energy; a signpost on how you should probably be living your life.
As far as whether we make a difference, it is not so much up to us whether we make a difference as it is what kind of a difference we make. Our very existence in this world has already made a million differences in a million uncountable ways. (See “Butterfly Effect”) We can choose to make a difference for the better or for the worse by deciding, quite simply, to do the Right Thing or not to, whenever presented with the choice.
To me, it’s all about what I call Legacy. Legacy can be great wealth or great fame, but it doesn’t have to be. Whatever the humblest of us leaves behind is our Legacy. The way people remember you, or don’t; the difference you made, or didn’t; all those things. Your family, your Art, your footprint on the world. All these things are your Legacy, and it is never too soon to start working on leaving a good one.

　

Goodbye Dad

John T. "Jack" Halley

October 7, 1930 - October 18, 2013

 

 

Here is a link to Dad's obituary