No Santa for Carlos

Carlos always had chapped lips. Sometimes, they were so chapped, they bled a little. He was the smallest kid in class -- far smaller than the other middle-schoolers that attended our afterschool program. And he was not only small, but very young. None of that wise-beyond-your-years quality that I had come to expect from Bushwick kids. Carlos liked to jump around, scream a lot and talk about Pokemon.

When Christmas rolled around, Melanie, whom the rest of the kids had appointed special events coordinator, proposed a Secret Santa type of set-up. Seeing as I had barely enough money for my subway card or food, I opted out. Melanie asked if everyone else should be included. I shrugged a "sure, why not?" without lifting an eye off my Village Voice.

"Well, what about Carlos?" Melanie inquired.

"What about Carlos?"

"Do you think he would be interested?"

"You kidding me? You think Carlos would have a problem with receiving a present?"

"No --- my problem is whether or not he'd remember to GIVE a present."

"Oh..." my voice trailed off. Melanie made a good point. Could one depend on Carlos to remember a present? I seriously doubted it. Often, his own mother would forget to pick him up.

"You're right. Better not include him. It would be embarrassing if we were to do this and he was the only one who forgot to bring something."

With the go-ahead, Melanie mobilized her troops and exchanged each others' names. Of the twenty or so students I taught photography and videomaking to each afternoon participated. Everyone except for Carlos.

I thought nothing of this for a while. Until the day of the Christmas party. When everyone showed up with cakes, cookies, soda, chips and a very special, secret package in tow. That's when I started sweating. What had I done? What possessed me to make such a stupid decision to revoke Carlos' privileges to participate? Who cares if he had forgotten to bring a gift? I could have brought something in his place. A super-bouncy ball would have been just fine. Or one of those wool caps they sell outside the station. Heck, a package of M&M's would have made the kids happy. But receiving nothing while others were celebrating something was going to crush Carlos.

I stalled as much as I could. We ate. We talked. And then we ate some more. We played some games. I made up a couple and we played some more. But the clock was ticking and the mob was getting anxious. I relented and they had their way. Nikki handed a package to Vanessa. Vanessa gave her gift bag to Jevon who then gave his box to Francisco. Raymond tossed a small package over to Melanie who handed Freddie a gift. I stood, transfixed on Carlos as his eyes followed the movements of his classmates. I could see the gears turning inside his little skull. It wouldn't be long now... oh, doom time.

Nikki opened up her box of chocolates. Vanessa revealed a pair of pink gloves. Francisco showed off a six-pack of soda. Raymond marveled at his new mechanical pencils. Melanie got headphones and Freddie got a super-bouncy ball.

And then it finally happened.

"Where's my present?" Carlos squeaked.

Most of the kids didn't hear it. But Melanie did and she shot me a look.
I glared back at her and mouthed, "Stop it."

She shot me back a look that said, "What the F do we do now?!"

Oh, why did I have to be the only adult in the room. Why was this happening to me? I wasn't supposed to be here. I'm not supposed to be teaching. I'm supposed to be partying with Quentin Tarantino. I'm supposed to be on the cover of a magazine. I'm supposed to be bragging about myself to James Lipton and talking up my next big project. Why am I here instead - feeling like shit for shattering the spirit of an innocent little boy named Carlos who through no fault of his own will not be celebrating Christmas with the other kids in his afterschool class.

"Yay! An extra present!" shouted Francisco.

Were my ears playing tricks on me or did Francisco just say something about an extra present? My eyes darted over to where he was and sure enough, there Francisco stood clutching a boxed collection of cheap cologne and perfume. Francisco didn't know it yet, but I was going to tear that box away from him.

"Francisco! Can I talk to you for a second?" I yelped in the most stern teacher voice I could summon at the moment.

Francisco shuffled over, face still beaming with delight.

"Where did you get the extra present?"

"Samantha was absent so Raymond said I could keep it."

"You think I could give you a dollar for it?"

"A dollar? No thanks. I got a dollar."

"Okay. But you see... I need to have it."

"You? But you don't wear perfume."

I wasn't in the mood to argue, but I had to consider my tactics carefully.
"No, Francisco. I don't. But you see... I've made a big mistake. Carlos doesn't have a present. And it's my fault. And if you help me, I can make it all better and everyone will go home happy today," I reasoned.

Francisco stared down at the box in his arms.

"Man... I was going to give this to my mama."

I stared at Francisco. He stared back at me, then at Carlos, then at the box. He held it a beat more and then without looking at me, handed it over. I bent down and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Francisco, you are a righteous dude."

I quitely made my way over to Melanie and slipped her the package. That's all the sign she needed as she walked over to a tearful Carlos and presented him with the box.

Talk about a frown turned upside down. That boy ripped that box open immediately as he bounced up and down. Seconds later, he was applying that stinky perfume to the back of his ears and all over his neck, running up to all the single ladies and making them take a good whiff. Francisco sulked... for the next five minutes or so before challenging the other boys to a contest to see how many Twinkies they could fit in their mouths at once (he won by a landslide). The girls performed an a-cappella version of TLC's "No Scrubs" and Freddie kissed Nikki who in response threw her bookbag at him.

It was a joyous Christmas that year. They were the first group of students I ever taught and this life lesson was quite a fine Christmas gift that keeps on giving.

Life Soundtrack: Hallelujah

Angry, defiant -- sad, beautiful -- weeping, angelic -- consuming, passionate.

This song has haunted me for a very long time. It first discovered me in a dark theatre in Harvard Square, a scared little boy who wanted to take the world hostage and had no weapons to do so with. It followed me and stayed by my side even when I no longer had the fight in me. I heard it as I beat the keys of my manual Smith Corona, as I stared up at apartment ceilings from the street below, wondering "what does one have to do to live in there?" and posed other big questions. When the rains hit and I had no coat. When my feet were tired and the trains stopped running. When money was scarce and friends were working or out of town... when I would lie awake in an empty loft staring at the ceiling through a nicotine cloud, the song was my companion. It was there throughout the nursing of my bruised heart, throughout my championing of a wildly distorted ego and throughout the aching, painfully real loneliness. When I split fifths of Jim in Williamsburg, burst into tears and danced myself into oblivion -- it laughed with me. But it was also there to be shared and rediscovered when new love and life took a chance on me. When discovery and revelation was no longer something to be wished for, but was present and vibrant, thriving. It was there to enchant us with finally something to agree upon... to push me through the peaks and valleys of adventures in three cities, too many bad jobs, a marriage in Vegas (and two revenge-soaked receptions), fights about nothing and fights about something, ailing family in denial and lost friends whose silence begged acceptance and the joyous birth of my beautiful boy.

"And it's not a cry that you hear at night... it's not somebody who's seen the light... it's a cold and it's a broken Hallelujah."

Almost Prom

Senior year of high school was doomed from the get-go. My dear drama teacher had retired during the summer after my junior year and apart from college applications, I didn't have much else to look forward to. College wasn't a reality yet and "real life" was far too distant to even think about. So I did what any normal Fairfax teen would do: hang out with friends at Dharma Coffeehouse, chain-smoke Marlboro Mediums, listen to the Dismemberment Plan and dream of living lives larger than we did.

Now, I have to say I was really fortunate at the time to have a close-knit crew of friends. YJ was the Neal Cassady of the bunch, a handsome Korean kid who I regarded as an older brother of sorts -- a surburban cowboy who prided himself in doing the opposite of what was expected of him. Eli was two years our junior and always invited himself along to whatever it was that we would be doing. If we were heading over to Dharma, he would jump in the backseat. If we bought a pack of Marlboros, he'd be the first to bum one.

One particular afternoon, the three of us hatched a plan --- one that I swear the devil inspired. I mentioned, rather off-handedly, that prom was coming soon. While none of us had given much thought to going (c'mon, bad ass boys just didn't do that prom thing and besides, Eli was still a sophomore), I thought it worth mentioning. I think it was YJ who initiated the "what-if" conversation that eventually spawned our devious plan. YJ asked me who I would ask out to prom if I were to attend. Well, given that my four year crush on Kelly Vonderpark was over, I would naturally choose Laura Goldstein. Laura was the object of lust and affection for many of the boys in the drama wing, much to the chagrin of the other thespian ladies.

"You can't ask Laura Goldstein," Eli objected.

"Why not?"

"She's a sophomore."

"So?"

"And she's Jewish."

"So?"

"Well... if anyone should ask her, I should ask her," Eli protested.

"But you're a sophomore. You can't go to SENIOR prom, Eli!"

"What makes you think she'll go out with you?"

"Dude, Eli -- if the both of you asked her out, you really think she would choose you?" YJ pointed out.

"What are you saying? Are you saying that she would choose him over me?"

"Dude, if all three of us asked, she would choose either of us before she goes with you."

Eli stared at us as though we had been smoking crack. So I did what any respectable man of 17 years would do. I settled the entire ordeal with a bet, a bet that would make Zach Morris and A.C. Slater proud.

"Let's all ask her out."

There was a brief pause as YJ and Eli considered this. Then...

"Aw, yeah!"

"Righteous!"

"You're on."

"What do we win?"

I thought hard about this one. What prize could possibly equate with the honor of bringing Laura Goldstein to senior prom? Hmm... oh, of course --

"Each loser buys the winner a pack of cigarettes of his choice."

"Deal," both responded. And with a round of firm handshakes, the bet was on. The rules were simple, we would all ask Laura to senior prom. The man whose invite she accepted would also be the recipient of fine tobacco. Visions of Davidoff Magnums, Chesterfield Kings and Lucky Strikes ashed through my head.

My plan was simple. I would pop the question before the school assembly the next day. In that way, I wouldn't have to go find her at her locker. There would be a school-sanctioned reason for all grades to be in one place.

And when I did, it was much simpler than I thought. This coming from someone who up until that point had never asked anyone out -- be it a dinner date or a study date. And here I was asking Laura Goldstein, the cutest girl who would let me come within a five foot radius of her, to the senior prom. It went something like this:

"Hey, Laura."

"Hey, D."

"What are you doing on Saturday, May 10?"

"Isn't that your prom?"

"Yup. I wanted to know if anyone has asked you to go with them yet."

"No."

"Oh, good. Cause I wanted to know if you'd like to go with me."

"Really? Um... yes. Yes. I mean, I'd have to check with my mom, but yes."

"Okay... very cool."

That was it. And it was very cool. Only it wasn't. Cause I immediately felt like a real asshole. I had successfully asked Laura Goldstein to prom and it had this ugly bet attached to it. But there was time. I could call it off. All I had to do was find Eli and YJ and tell them that Laura was going to prom with me and they could just chew it.

But before I could find Eli, he had found Laura and asked her himself. Laura told him that I had already invited her and he backed off. YJ didn't even try. Both boys acknowledged that I was the victor and promised to purchase the aforementioned cigarettes. But I let them off the hook. To collect would be to cement the fact that all of this was for show. And that's the sad part -- it really wasn't. I really liked Laura. And because of that, it didn't take long for things to unravel.

I called Laura a couple of days later to chat about nothing the way boys who crush on girls do. I did it from the payphone at Dharma, sitting atop a couple of stacked milk crates (oh yeah, that's love, baby). We talked about our days and she said that she had mentioned prom to her mom and that she would think about it (understandably, seeing as her daughter was going to accompany a dashing upperclassman to senior prom where all sorts of sinful things happen before, during and after). And then she dropped it:

"I heard about your bet."

"What?"

"Yup."
"Who told you?"

"That's not important. What kind of ridiculous bet was that?"

And that's when the guilty, recovering Catholic took over. I told her that it didn't originally start as a bet. That it was a real crush and that I was with my boys and that did something funny in a man. And that once she said yes, I regretted it immediately and would give anything to turn back the clock and laugh at the mere notion of something so insultingly stupid.

"Um... I wasn't talking about that bet." Laura interjected.

A long pause followed after that. And soon after that long pause, we hung up.

Needless to say, Laura didn't go to prom with me. No one went to prom with me. And I didn't ask anybody either. YJ went to prom... the year after he graduated. Eli went to prom... when he finally became a senior. Laura most definitely went to prom. Probably two of them. And what was I doing on Saturday, May 10? Most likely, I was smoking cigarettes, sipping coffee and dreaming of lives bigger than mine. Do I regret not going? Nah... unless writing this blog entry means anything.

Life Soundtrack: What Goes Around

If Brooklyn was my introduction to life after college, Philadelphia was where I cut my teeth -- in theatre, in teaching and in life. I was working a part-time gig at an elementary charter school off of 9th street market in South Philly when one of the kids' parents offered a higher paying opportunity to work with his community center. Situated on Washington Avenue, his center dealt with adjudicated youth. They needed a group leader to mentor a motley crew of teens who had survived run-ins with the law. Instead of sending them over to juvie, they were sent to this program. No problem, I thought. I had worked with a tough crew of underserved youths in Brooklyn. I'll dazzle them with my arsenal of arts-integrated lessons, connect with them over film and poetry and inspire them to change the world around them. But like most of my educational experiences, I had no idea how in over my head I would be and how completely misinformed I was.

Tabz was the senior member of the group. He had sold crack since he was 13 because that's what all the oldheads did. Dane was an Italian kid who fronted like he wasn't (most likely because assimilation spared him a good, daily ass-kicking). Phat was a Cambodian kid who took every opportunity to promote his affiliation with the Bloods. Jazmine was a big girl of 16 who wore very little clothes and always brought candy. Yassan and Javon were brothers of different fathers; neither one could read past third grade level.

And then there was Jacob Bright. He was guilty of truancy. Why go to school when it's less dangerous on the streets, he argued. Jacob came in late and high (when he did come). On the days he was present, he would come slumped over, sit away from everyone else and bop his head to the tunes playing in his head. He wore the same thing every day -- black long-sleeve shirt and black jeans. No one in the group cared to talk to him and he cared nothing for them. Just putting in his time.

On one evening, I successfully engaged the group in a discussion about their favorite music artists. All of them cited hip-hop artists and sang the praises of Eminem, Jay-Z and 50 Cent. Jacob offered up Nas, but the others smirked, saying he was a sell-out and irrelevant. I printed off some lyrics of their most popular tracks and began a lesson on similes and metaphors. Just as I had suspected, most of them had never sat down to decipher the lyrics that they could recite by heart. But Jacob had. In fact, he ground the class to a halt when he spoke up about Eminem's "The Way I Am." Everyone including me -- we listened intently as Jacob discussed Em's point about the Columbine massacre and how the public was content to dismiss the shooters once they found a bad guy in Marilyn Manson's music. The other kids didn't even know what Columbine was.

After that, I never left Jacob alone. And he didn't leave us alone either. He started attending regularly and started participating regularly in classroom discussions. I also started noticing that he had stopped slumping. When I inquired, he informed me that he had stopped smoking pot and had applied for some jobs. He had started writing and kept a small journal is his pocket. Tabz and him had become friends outside of the center and they were starting to record some tracks together.

Before I left the program to pursue a year-long directing fellowship, Jacob presented me with a burned CD of his favorite Nas tracks. He told me that what was on that CD would tell me a lot about his station in life. And truth be told, up until then, hip-hop and I were not friends. I didn't speak the language; I was strictly a guitar-bass-drums devotee. But it's roughly six years later and that well-worn CD still gets play. And the lessons in it are something to behold and rediscover time and time again. All at once, they are angering, frustrating, enlightening, challenging, saddening, puzzling... very much like Jacob, who like the best students I've worked with (and so much of the reason why I love working in education), taught me more about the world than I could have ever aspired to teach him.

The track featured here is Nas' "What Goes Around." It informs me of so many of the students I've had the privilege to work with -- the world they inhabit, the consequences that they were born into and the obstacles that they work to overcome. The opening notes set the scene for one amazing rant from one of America's most gifted MC's.

Life Soundtrack: Born to Run

I know, I know -- this is so commonplace, a must-have on every greatest hits playlist, a cliche for the townie, karaoke crowd with Kerouac dreams, but Born to Run has been on my life soundtrack since... well, since well before puberty. I was a young Springsteen fan of eight when my mom gifted me with his Born in the U.S.A. album and after I conquered that pop masterpiece, I swallowed up Tunnel of Love (which in my opinion is a completely overlooked masterwork). Somewhere along the line, I read about the Born to Run album and soon after discovered the anthem that is the title track.

Throughout my college years and into my early 20's, I regarded Born to Run much like other appreciators. It was a call to arms, a barbaric yelp -- the sound of an American-made muscle car roaring to life with pedal firmly against the metal with open road ahead and "outta Dodge" the only clear destination. Behind were the skeletons, ghosts and demons -- the could-have-been's, should-have-been's and might-have-been's -- the unkept promises, unconfessed sins and unforgiven souls. That myth of the unknown future was such a powerful thing and it was so much more attractive than the ongoing struggle of the now. It was so much of what I loved about America -- the idea of reinvention and renewal --- of discovery and revelation. And of course, there's love. There's so much celebration of love -- love as savior.

When Henry was born, Scout was unable to hold him since he came into the world via c-section. Instead, I was sent down ahead of her to the recovery room with new boy in tow. Like most parents, I was speechless -- partially due to fatigue and wholly due to an overwhelming awe-inspiring love. And like most babies, Henry greeted the world with a healthy cry. To comfort him, I held him close to me and as we bounced our first of many dances, the words of Springsteen's battle cry spilled out of me - but with an understanding so wholly new to me -- a depth and gravity of emotion I had never grasped or communicated before --- "Henry, let me in... I want to be your friend, I want to guard your dreams and visions... together, Henry, we can live with the sadness, I love you with all the madness in my soul... Someday, boy, I don't know when - we're gonna get to that place where we'll walk in the sun... 'til then, tramps like us... baby, we were born to ruuuuuuuuunnnnn."

And many sleepless nights later, Scout, Henry and I are still running.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mfzov0Cq90o

The High Horse that (Nearly) Kicked My Ass

When I was living in New York in my early 20's, Mickey turned me onto an Irish pub near Irving Plaza called Shades of Green. We loved this place. The owners, real Irishmen and women, treated us like family, welcoming us by name and bringing our preferred drinks to the table without ever asking for our order. The walls were emerald green, the wooden booths well-worn and polished by thousands of Manhattan ass and the jukebox stocked my favorite tunes (it's possible I've spent $100 over the course of my time there just listening to the Stones' "Beast of Burden"). From the kitchen came Irish staples like authentic bangers and mash and the perfect Shepherd's Pie.

On one particular Friday evening, Mickey and I found Shades to be quite crowded. Despite this, we elbowed our way through and settled into a booth across from the bar. Mary (oh, sweet sweet Mary) found us and brought Mickey his kamikaze and me my bottle of Bud. As I was poor at the time, I was rolling my smokes while Mickey helped himself to one of his Camels. We proceeded to get our drink on, as was the habit on many a night at our beloved Shades.

It was then that I heard it... him.

"So the bitch looks at me like I did something wrong. And I'm like, 'Bitch, your daughter can't read and you're looking like I did something to you?' And she's looking at me through these cheap sunglasses."

I looked over towards the bar to see a couple of 30-something suits shooting the shit. The guy talking was obviously unwinding after a long day with his collar undone and sleeves rolled up. His boys nodded and smirked as he continued his story of woe.

"The thing is she can't speak English. And I'm like, 'We can get an interpreter for you.'"

"What language does she speak?"

"Fuck if I know. Cantonese? Mandarin? Japanese? Point is the bitch doesn't speak English."

Now we pause here to get a little backstory on me. All my life, I've heard a lot of similar smack-talking about people who don't speak English. And I've heard people smack-talk about "my kind of people" to my face. And all my life, I've been able to put it away, to somehow excuse this ignorant behavior and take the high road by letting it lie. But somehow tonight, things felt a little different.

"I said to her, 'Hey, can you take off your sunglasses?' and she's looking at me like I just asked her to... I don't know... give a shit. But you know what she says to me? 'I can't stay to talk with you.' You believe this shit? The bitch can't speak English but she knows she can't stay to talk to me. Probably has to go cash her welfare check or something."

And that did it. Something in me snapped. Mickey saw it all over my face. He saw it in my exhales of smoke. The next time Mary stopped by to check on us, I asked her to deliver another round of whatever the guy was drinking along with a napkin on which I scribbled:

"Courtesy of a Mandarin-handled welfare check"

Clever, no? Mary replied, "Of course, darling," and she delivered.

Mickey and I waited, quietly sipping our beverages while listening to the sounds of a man being handed his ass. It didn't take long for this guy to figure out who sent him the drink. Hmm... perhaps the two twitchy fellas in the booth within earshot of them who were doing their best to look cool? Oh yeah, and one of them was... how do you say?... ASIAN?!

The guy (whom I shall call Mitch from here on out) sat down next to Mickey, across from me and placed the napkin on the table.

"Did you write this shit?"

I smiled at him.

"Do you know what I've been through today? I work my ass off, put up with all the bullshit at work and come here to blow off some steam and then I get this shit?"

I started rolling another cigarette.

"You're going to ruin my evening? Cause I'm blowing off some steam? Cause I'm here with my friends having a drink?"

One of Mitch's guys sits next to me, across from Mickey. Mickey shoots me a look as if to say, "what the hell are you getting us into?"

I lick the sealing of my cigarette.

"Fuck you!"

With that, Mitch crumbles up the napkin and throws it into my face. Now a normal man would respond to that. Physically, probably. There would be an exchange of sorts followed by some blows and then we'd be escorted outside by management. On the sidewalk, the fight would escalate until the cops were called.

But that's not what happened. What happened was I froze up. I hadn't thought it through. I had only thought of what a badass move it would be to send this guy another drink with such a badass note. And now, I was going to get my ass kicked. But that's not what happened either. When I didn't react, Mitch knew then that nothing was going to happen. He explained that he was a teacher in a rough part of town (to which I replied that I was a teacher in a rough part of town). He offered his hand in friendship and I didn't accept it. And we left it at that. His crew left after that and Mickey and I breathed a sigh of relief. As the night wore on and we got increasingly drunker, we laughed about how ridiculous it would have been had we gotten in a fight as we both knew that we would have been slaughtered. I can fully admit now that it was a cowardly act disguised as a brave one -- a petty move in place of a more righteous one. I hope that the me now would have confronted him as an adult and discussed rather than dismissed. But hindsight is, as they say, 20-20.

"In some ways, it would have been fun had we did get in a fight," I offered. "It would have been fun to draw some blood and I bet we could have picked up a couple of chicks looking real macho with our cuts and bruises."

Mickey and I laughed about it all night. And more than ten years later, we're still laughing about it. Had we actually gotten our asses kicked, I doubt either of us would be talking about it.

Romancing Au Pied de Cochon

Fellow old school District dwellers, do you recall that lovely Georgetown bistro, Au Pied de Cochon? Those who remember knew it well, I imagine cause they don't make them like this anymore. It was a rare breed and unfortunately, extinct. While DC plays host to many a stellar bistro, this one really seemed as authentic a bistro as one would find on any street in Paris. Open late into the night, Au Pied de Cochon was often packed with a motley crew of DC-ers. Loud. Bustling. Warm. Wonderful. And the waitstaff, clad in black T-shirts and pants hurried about the marble table tops delivering croque monsieurs, cassoulets, French onion soups, pate de maison and canard a l'orange with amazing efficiency. Framed black and white snapshots lined the walls -- a photo album exposed for all to see. Above, a tin ceiling and copper pots below a mural of chefs chasing after a sqealing pig. All of this -- from the cuisine to the service was handles with not an ounce of pretense and unlike many of the ones we have to choose from now, the prices were startling fair -- inexpensive, really.

I found myself a regular patron around the time I turned 18. Frightening how long I've been a card-carrying member of the bourgeoisie (gastronomically, speaking). But c'mon -- good coffee, excellent frites and allowance to light up smoke after smoke? No discussion. I loved it so much, I wasted no time in introducing it to my friends. But unlike the neighborhood Denny's, this wasn't a place I felt okay bringing folks who didn't know how to eat. So instead, I started reserving it for dates, intimate ocassions in which I could carry on a quiet (and hopefully, effortless) conversation over brie almandine.

I think the first date I took ordered a Spanish omelette while I ordered the French onion soup. For this, I got a bit of a tongue lashing cause it made her look bad for ordering the larger dish while I ate like a bird. Little did she know that my soup probably had more fat and calories than her two eggs. Sadly, I never took her back there. She didn't like her omelette nor the vibe. Alas...

Another date didn't order anything. She watched me eat. That's not entirely true. She asked for refills of water, smoked cigarettes and ate the entire bread basket -- which proved incredibly inconvenient since I ordered the pate de maison. What does one eat with pate when there is no more bread left? She said she really dug the place. Well, that sucks to be her because she was never invited back.

The next date was one of those "is it really a date" dates. A friend of mine had just moved into town, a friend of mine whom I happened to have a giant crush on. But right off the bat, you could tell it wasn't meant to be as I picked her up three hours later than I intended and drove her all the way from Chantilly to my favorite bistro. One of those rose peddlers came by the table and like a gentleman I bought her one. But a flower and a delicious croque madame doesn't make up for such ridiculous tardiness. She soon moved again and we fell out of touch.

Now the last of my dates, I took the girl's parents along. We sat at the table in front of the large store window looking out onto Wisconsin Avenue. I had crepes with mushrooms and chicken. Her parents played 20 questions over glasses of wine and gin and tonic. Good food, good conversation and good company. I must have done well by all because I moved in with her soon after (and would eventually marry her).

The last date was September 12, 2001 -- my birthday and the day after the planes struck NYC and DC. While no one wanted to go anywhere, we moved ourselves to eat out that evening and the only place I could think of that would provide me with any comfort was my beloved Au Pied de Cochon. The place was empty. CNN was on the tube and one customer was parked at the bar. I ordered cassoulet and a glass of the house red. Our conversation was sparse and quiet. We finished my birthday dinner at a leisurely pace and left.

We moved away soon after that and by the time we returned to DC, Au Pied de Cochon had closed its doors for good. It's now a Five Guys location. As much as I love me a good Five Guys bacon cheeseburger, I find it hard to accept that burgers are being slung at what used to be a DC institution -- where Russian spys escaped their handlers, where the servers could be as courteous as they were hot, where bread baskets hit the table before you could remove your coat, where an early bird three-course dinner cost only $11 and where one poor surburban boy could play out his Parisian dreams a little closer to home and take a chance on romance.

Ah... those were the days.

The Loneliest Man

This is a repost from a very old blog I had started back in 2005 when my father had a series of strokes.

He stood there for what seemed like forever. More probably, it was only five minutes that elapsed. But he stood there, letting the waves crash against his trunk of a body. His gaze fixed on the length of the beach, at no one in particular – as if the distance itself was his focus. He then moved further out. This time the waves hit him around the waist. Again, he just stood there, the palms of his hands just barely chopping against the water as the late afternoon waves pushed in. Again, he looked out at the horizon, up and down the length of the beach. After twenty or so minutes, he trudged back towards the sand and sat himself where it met the ocean. He would sit and let the foam of the surf dissipate around him. Then, he got up and repeated it. Out into the water he went. No swimming. No wave-jumping. Just silently wading. And then, he left – walking over to a crumpled up towel and bag, knocking his flip flops against the wall, and out of sight.

As I sat on the balcony watching this man as my wife read her book, I wondered what he was doing here all alone. He didn’t seem to be bothered by all of it, the loneliness. Perhaps, he wasn’t lonely at all. Perhaps, he was what I had claimed to be in college (when I was going through a major Morrissey phase) – alone, but not lonely.

Shortly after, my dad awoke from his nap and came out to share a beer and a smoke. I shared with him my observation of this man, whose image had stirred inside me so much emotion. My dad smiled and said that my head was thinking like that of a writer’s – that what I ought to do next is fill in the blanks. He then said that he had a similar experience a couple nights before my wife and I arrived.

“I sat out here with Mom and looked out into those waves, out along the stretch of sand,” he said to me in very tired Vietnamese. “And I got to thinking… and I said to Mom, ‘Look at all of this… the water… the sand. It’s been here forever and it took forever to make and it will stay like this forever… the water… the sand. But the people, these people who come… they are not forever. They will come and go.’”

He paused as he recalled his thoughts.

“You know it’s funny… one comes into this world and asks themselves at the beginning of life, ‘Why? What’s the point?’ and when you come to the end of it, you find yourself asking the same question.”

“You ask it throughout life, Dad.”

“Yes, that is so. But you never do find the answer, do you? All of these philosophers, all of these geniuses… we answer it with God, with happiness, but no one really knows.”

He paused again. This time I don’t know why. Perhaps, he was searching for the answer. Perhaps, he wasn’t. Perhaps, he was just frustrated with the idea of never knowing. Perhaps, he was hoping that hadn’t drank and smoked so much in his life, that the polyps on his liver proved no threat and that it all had been a serious misdiagnosis. Perhaps, he was trying to find a way to finally tell me this instead of mom doing it behind his back.

“You know, Dad… perhaps, it isn’t important to know why we live this life. You said it yourself, no one knows and no one tells us if they know. Perhaps, the more important thing to be asking is ‘How do you live your life?’”

And it was then that I had the urge to cry, to sob, to vomit all of the love and admiration I had for this man who was my father, who lost his country when he was my age and helped raise a family of artists. But I didn’t. I couldn’t. He wouldn’t want that. So instead, I asked him a question.

“Have you seen ‘Big Fish?’”

My dad looked at me as though I had cried, sobbed, vomited all of that love and admiration.

“‘Big Fish?’ I love that movie.”

“I cried so hard at that movie, Dad.”

“Me, too. I cried hard, too.”

And that was all that really needed to be said. Mom awoke from her nap and together, my wife and I drove the two of them down the beach to the end of it. For the past 24 hours, my mom had been nagging us to snap a photo of the two of them on the stone jetty at the end of the beach, past the pier. Though it remained unspoken, my mom really wanted this picture for posterity. Despite it being unspoken, this whole picture thing irked my dad so. But he did it anyways. And before leaving, a couple of strangers were kind enough to snap one of all of us.

I told him I loved him before he left and just before driving off, I heard him say it back to me, but with a swagger as though he was just ordering French fries.

As my wife and I walked back to the boardwalk, I felt it. The push of the waves, the length of the beach, the forever of it all.

About Wes

When I first moved to the neighborhood, there was a boy with a rat-tail named Wes who lived in the cul-de-sac at the end of my street. He was in my fifth grade class and on the first day of school he befriended me when all of the other snooty kids kept their distance and inspected me. During my very first snack time, Wes was kind enough to share a can of cream soda (my first taste of this wonderful pop, mind you) and some of his snack crackers. Discovering that we lived on the same street, Wes walked home with me, introducing me to two very cute girls on our block (folks, this happened in fifth grade, so cut me some slack). We went over to their house and they entertained us with an entire hour of renditions of country favorites like Randy Travis' "Forever and Ever, Amen." Our friendship continued to blossom, with him inviting me over to his house to watch bad T.V., play Super Mario Brothers and eat chocolate pudding-filled cupcakes (and ogle his hot mom -- again, I'm sorry, but she was really a looker).

As time went by, the other students started warming up to me and I learned more about the lay of the land. You see, Wes was a dork and by being his friend, I was also a dork. This was made clear to me everyday and Wes started to notice that it started to affect our interactions. During snack, I had stopped sitting with him. After school let out, I wouldn't necessarily walk with him. And worst of all, he noticed that I was hanging with the crew of kids that had always picked on him. This is where things got really bad. One afternoon I happened to be hanging out on our school playground with Wes. The "cool kids" were there, hanging on the swings and monkey bars as though we were in some pre-pubescent version of West Side Story. Wes had to go into the school for whatever reason and left his bike outside and unlocked. Knowing full well what these kids were capable of, he warned them to keep their hands off his bike. They all nodded and kiddingly reassured him that nothing would happen to his bike. But as soon as he disappeared into the school, they plotted.

"Let's hide it," one would suggest.

"Let's deflate his tires," another would say.

"You do it."

"Naw, you do it."

"I'll do it," I proudly declared.

Stunned by my audacity, they silently stared as I walked over to my friend's bike and started letting the air out of both tires. I can still recall the loud, long hiss as each tire flattened out. I didn't have to look at the cool kids to see that they were impressed. I had passed a test they hadn't even realized they had given me. When I was done, I stepped back and sat down on a swing, waiting for the scene to play itself out.

Wes came out minutes later and quickly hopped on his bike to leave. It didn't take long for him to realize that his tires were deflated. He hopped off, shoved his bike to the ground and started charging at the group of kids, threatening to kick the shit out of them. They screamed back at him, telling him that they had nothing to do with it. I stood up and walked over to Wes. I can recall speaking in a cool, calm steady voice -- "Wes, I took the air out of your tires."

Wes, frozen, stared at me in disbelief. "No... you didn't."

"But I did."

"How? Why?"

I didn't have an answer for him. I sensed his pain. I had betrayed my first friend in my new hometown. There person that first reached out to me when others didn't, the one who opened up his home to me, shared his cupcakes with me -- I betrayed him. And I did so in such an ugly way. Despite my admission, Wes was still unwilling to accept this sad truth. He was adamant that the real culprits were the cool kids. Tears in his eyes, he leapt back on his bike and pedaled hard down the hill towards home -- the sound of steel frames and soft rubber crunching on the grass.

Needless to say, things changed after that. We were enemies. He hated me and for good reason. One time, I even got into a fist fight with him (to this day, the only fist fight I ever got into). I used to say that it was because he was picking on my sister, but that's only half of it. The fight was really about us. It had to happen. Wes had carried that anger in him for so long and I needed an excuse to have it out. We never talked after this. He and his mom eventually moved. I think once after that, he came back to visit. I remember I was out in front of my house doing something mundane like raking leaves. He was in front of his house, too. We made eye contact and acknowledged each other with a "hey" before going back inside.

To this day, I have a lot of trouble keeping friends. It's horrible and I know it's rooted in some major insecurities. It's also ruined a lot of potential relationships like that really pretty tomboy who had a crush on me (she was obviously on CRACK). For whatever reason, I believed what others said about her -- that she was weird, that she was ugly -- and totally pushed her away. Her and a million of other would-be friends. And where are those shitheads now? The haters. Don't know. Definitely not friends with me.

So as feeble as it is, I want to say to Wes and all of the other people I've ever been ugly to by listening to my fears instead of my heart:

"I am sincerely sorry. If I ever had the fortune to meet any of you again, please allow me to buy you a drink and apologize in person. I hope that wherever you are, you all are doing well, that you're surrounded by folks who love you and celebrate all of your achievements."

As that turn of the century artist, Usher, so wisely sang, "this is my confession - just when I thought I said all I can say..."

Love for Pig

As far back as I can remember, I've been a pork lover. One look at my current physique would clue you into this fact. If it's pig -- I'm eating it. Bacon, prosciutto, pancetta, pork belly -- it never gets old. A well-seared, double-cut pork chop, I'm in. Slow-cooked pork shoulder that falls apart and ends up shredded on a plate atop some black beans -- all over it. Whole pigs roasted over a spit until the skin becomes cracklin' -- bring it. Even the hum-drum of a marinated pork loin will beat the crap out of a chicken breast any day.

But my passion for swine is shared by millions and as Kevin from this past season's Top Chef knows, it's not just skin deep. Growing up in a Vietnamese household, it's difficult to escape the consumption of pig as it's found in almost every delicacy that came out of Mom's kitchen. Her crispy, deep-fried springrolls were stuffed with a wonderful mixture of clear vermicelli noodles, shitake mushrooms, sweet yellow onions and ground pork. There was caramel pork, a decadent stew of pork shoulder and hard-boiled eggs spiked with a healthy dose of nuoc mam that came piping hot to the table in a well-worn clay pot. But nothing compared to the Sunday morning dish known as xoi lap xuong --- sweet, glutinous rice steamed with Chinese pork sausages. Like American bacon, it could raise the dead (or in my case in the mid-90's - a college kid home from break with a three-day hangover). The aroma of pork fat making sweet love with fragrant rice would waft up the stairs, crawl below the door and reach far up into my nostrils inspiring brief, but brilliant dreams of never-ending dim sum buffets with bikini-clad vixens slinging pork buns and steamed pork dumplings into my gaping mouth while Tom Waits and I puffed away on a pack of Marlboros.

For the uninitiated, this dish is something incredibly common. At dim sum parlors, it's a staple. You might find it wrapped in banana leaves and served up tableside in small steamers or hidden below upside down glass bowls. But usually, these places (though meaning well) clutter the dish with too many other additions like woodear mushrooms to allow people to relish the simple perfection that is xoi lap xuoung.

Mom was almost religious about it (and it's a faith I've continued to practice unlike my abandoned Catholicism). It's about the perfect balance of rice and sausage. These chinese sausages were small red suckers that were real chewy, with lots of pork fat. Think cured chorizo without the paprika and more savory than spicy. The only additions were blackened scallions, chicken stock, Maggi seasoning and a dash of sesame oil. Don't let anyone tell you different. The scallions were brilliant because the slight burn would give off a hint of smoke. The chicken stock gave the dish its savory base with slightly rich sweetness (think of what happens when you cook plain white rice in stock instead of water). Sesame oil gave the bouquet an extra note while Maggi seasoning gave it a sharp saltiness. All of this worked in perfect harmony to deliver a dish that upon finishing one's plate, one would take the fork straight to the pot to graze -- where another prize awaited the hungry pork-lover. Like a good paella, this rice dish, when made by expert hands, produced a soft, but crispy crust that all would covet. Mom would actually serve the family the gooey, soft rice while savoring the crust all for herself. She would take the pot to the table with a small dish of Maggi on the side -- then go to town.

To this day, despite numerous attempts to reproduce this gem, to recapture this recurring memory of my youth, I continue to fail. And sadly, for dietary reasons, Mom rarely makes it anymore. It's a pity. But it doesn't stop me from trying and regardless of how the dish turns out, because the sausages are store-bought, I happilyo indulge my love for pig on a very regular basis.