Unless you live under a rock that does not offer television coverage, surely you have seen the DirectTV commercial that is a funny “When you do this, then you do that” exercise, you know: When your cable goes out a bunch of things happen that conclude with reenacting scenes from Platoon with Charlie Sheen.

Admittedly, they’re only funny the first time you see it. By the third viewing, they’re horrifically annoying. But still, I liked it so much that I decided to write my own… based on a true an entirely true story.

Don’t spend gorgeous Sunday evenings drinking at bars that don’t take credit cards and ask for your ID to start a tab.

When you go to those kind a bars, on those kinda nights, you might have several lovely drinks.

When you have several lovely drinks on a patio you might think it a good idea to call an, *ahem*, old partner of mutual convenience who now lives in a hoity-toity party of town.

When you settle your tab at the bar that doesn’t take credit cards to go see that convenient woman, the bartender might forget to give you your ID back.

When the bartender forgets to give you your ID, and you have a buzz (but not in the same neighborhood as drunk) before heading to see a woman in a hoity-toity part of town, you might have written the wrong address and passed such to the taxi driver.

When you give the taxi driver the wrong address, you might have to walk a few blocks in that hoity-toity neighborhood.

When walking-while-black in that hoity toity part of town, you might draw the attention of the local police.

When drawing the attention of the local police for walking-while-black and not having your ID because the bar that doesn’t take credit cards forgot to give it back to you, you might get “detained” by the local police.

When you get detained – not arrested but it sure felt like it – because the local police “can’t confirm your identity” despite all of your credit cards, and other identifying information, you still spend hours in a police station for no good reason.

Don’t go to bars that don’t take credit cards because you’ll eventually be detained by police… since not walking/driving/breathing-while-black is not an option for me.

We are separated by a generation, a thousand miles, and I haven’t worn a hoodie since I was an undergrad, but I am still Trayvon Martin…

when I am (still) followed around stores

when I cross the street at night before some random she has a chance to just so I won’t have to suffer the indignity of watching her jaywalking away from the dangerous me

when I hear doors lock as I pass near a car

when I am unfailingly polite to rude police officers because the consequences of not doing so are disproportionate

when I am routinely passed by empty cabs on the street

when I am reminded that my tailored suits and fancy education don’t really make me immune to the everyday slights

when I encounter (too goddamn frequently) the realization that the color of my skin is probable cause for suspicion

and I am Trayvon’s father when I delivered the “Talk” to my 20year old nephew who I pray will never have to give that talk when he is my age 

Dear Dreadlocked Woman Driving the Top-Down BMW* Yesterday,

I don’t know why you waved at me as you drove past the coffee shop. The truth of the answer matters not as you kept driving leaving my mind to complete its own question. I choose to believe that you found some sort of kindredness of spirit, some commonality in appreciation of enjoying the glorious weather days when they come. I choose to believe that you waved because something kept you from stopping even though you wanted to join me as much as I would have liked to have been your passenger. Some days it doesn’t matter where you’re going.

Thanks, I needed that.

Sincerely,

The Cigar Smoking Guy from the Coffee Shop Patio

* model of car only referenced in case someone knows a dreadlocked woman with a new drop-top 3 series and you wanna point her this way.

**

Dear New Girl at my Favorite Bar,

There are rules to this; rules for flirting at the bar, rules for servers flirting with guests. I know better than most that every restaurant professional uses flirtation to enhance tips. You break the rules, however, when you traverse the distance between the harmless and the “I want you now” flirting. You crossed the line not when you invited me to your place to drink rum the bar didn’t have (yeah, ya kinda did,) but definitely when you didn’t mean it.

When my friends did everything but bolt me to the chair to get me to stay for a night cap after they had left, you made me look like a fool. People are entitled to flirt in what ever (reasonable) manner they wish. Servers making a guest feel foolish because you mislead them, issued false invitations, and created a phony impression, however, break rules for civility and professionalism.

Sincerely,

The Gentleman Who Never Sit in Your Section

and p.s. Do not try to hug me again.

**

Dear Woman I Wish I Could Like More,

Concern and desire to make a partner happy are great. Being excessively deferential, on the other hand, is decidedly un-sexy. I am sure that there are some men out there who want to hear “Whatever you want” in reply to every question. Certainly some men are charmed when you tell the bartender “I’ll have whatever he’s having.” But those men are either: seeking stepford wives, or soon to make a guest appearance on Law & Order SVU.

Sincerely,

The Gentleman Who Thinks Smart, Opinionated, Assertive Woman are Sexy.

**

Dear Women I Hope to Kiss in the Future

If you, like the last few dates I’ve had, believe that you should lead with the tongue when kissing, let’s just agree to disagree. If you think that porn is instructional not recreational (as applies to the kissing,) let’s just not bother. If you prefer tongue to be the main ingredient in kissing not just the salt that accents it, please, the good lord willing and the creak don’t rise, may our lips never cross paths.

Sincerely,

The Gentleman with a String Tonsil Inspecting Dates

Dear Woman from the Other Night,

When you said that I sound “delightful” and I replied that “it’s just the booze that makes you think so,” I wasn’t trying to be rude, or imply that you were loaded. It’s just that I have never been good at taking compliments and my natural inclination is to deflect them. If anyone knows Theresa from Dupont, please pass along my apologies.

Sincerely,

The Man Who Blew It with the Really Cute Girl (not the first time that’s happened)

**

Dear Bus Driver Who Saw the Guy Running to Catch your Bus but Kept Driving,

I could have dismissed your unmitigated meanness as inattention… but I saw the woman at the bus stop point to the trailing guy and ask you to wait. You, are in fact, underscoring the largely false stereotype about DC writ large and Metro in specific. That you did so on New Year’s Eve when people ought to be filled with good will for all makes your dickishness even more egregious.

However, I do wish to thank you, because it gave me an opportunity to show kindness to a stranger. Even though I was running late, and had very little room in the car because of all the kitchen equipment, I stopped to offer the gentleman you left behind a ride. I stopped, moved things around to make room in the front seat, and offered a ride to a complete stranger. I stopped and was willing to delay my day to take that man wherever he needed to go. I stopped because you were an arse, and by stopping I found a way to demonstrate generosity of spirit. So thank you for you for your asshattery; it tested the veracity of my convictions… and unlike, you, I did not appear wanting.

Sincerely,

A Man Who Tracked Down Your Bus Number and Reported this Incident to WMATA

**

Dear Guest at my NYE Dinner,

Your marriage is not my business… but in case you were wondering why I looked so familiar, no, it was not from the picture on my website… but it very well may be that you remember looking at my profile on the that online dating site. I remember looking at yours, and I don’t recall it saying anything about you being married (open or otherwise.) As Rick Perry might say, oops.

Sincerely,

A Man Who Has no Problem with Polyamory but isn’t too Fond of Cheating Spouses

**

Dear Guy Next to me at the Bar the Other Night,

I know that there are lots of things about me that beg the food question… like the miniature copper sauté pan that hangs from my bag. I am humbled by the fact that I have a job/life that I love and understand when people want to talk food with me. However, asking me fifty questions that all began with “So what’s your favorite ____” is not really a conversation. That you did so while I was using what little energy I had to will my Steelers to victory while also trying to get the feckless Bengals to help out by beating the hated Ravens did not help matters.

Sincerely,

The Guy Who Finally Found a Food Conversaaation He Didn’t Want to Have

I have been trying to write this post for a while. Since November 5^th actually as that was the day that one of my heroes was knocked of his perch and the resulting scandal landed too close to me.

I have viewed the seedy world of college football as an avid fan, a recruit and a player. I always placed Joe Paterno in the too short column of good guys. We now know that there is an irremovable tarnish on his once sterling reputation. Any adult who knowingly abdicates our collective and inherent moral obligation to protect children deserves a reserved corner in hell.

While it is easy to conjure ex post facto outrage, the three big reasons that prevent child sexual abuse from being the light our hair on fire issue that it should be are: the abusers almost always have friendly faces, the abused almost never have faces, and the abused often allow silence to be the second abuser.

He wasn’t a beloved football coach with a child-focused charity, he was a priest with a youth group in his charge. It wasn’t in a field house shower, it was the church rectory. It followed the same too worn path: find vulnerable child, groom with attention, then affection, make incremental moves across a line until a confused child forgets where it is. Just writing these words ties knots in my stomach.

I do not write this post seeking your sympathies. I write because I am no longer willing to let my silence continue to victimize me. I write because I am willing to stand with survivors everywhere. I write to be another face for the faceless. I write because more than 25 years, and a life well lived later, this still makes cry in a fucking coffee-shop as I type. I write this post because I feared I might never be able to write anything else if I didn’t write this.

Dear Time (re: Passage of),

I would really appreciate it of you would stop playing parlor tricks with my memories.

Sincerely,

The Guy who wants to stop thinking about The Girl

****

Dear Short Haired Girl / Once & Future Long Haired Girl,

You are still the prettiest girl in the room.

Sincerely,

A Guy Who is Happy You’re Happy and Healthy

****

Dear Random Woman from Internet Dating Site I Have Used for an Embarrassingly Long Time,

When we were chatting the other night and you asked what I first notice about a woman, contrary to your implication, I was not being coy by telling you that “it’s complicated.” Had you asked me in person, or any format that lends itself to long form answers and given me a minute to consider the question, I might have answered something like this:

I notice eyelashes, and collar bones, intellect, and shoes. I notice the cut of her jib, and the yes, the size of her rack too (however enlightened and renaissance, I am still a boy.) I notice the book in her hand, the shape of her skirt, the sway in her walk, her choice of libation, and too many other things too. It is… well, complicated if for no other reason than the fact that what I notice is situational and personal.

Sadly, you opted for judgmental and shrill… or was that just the effect of the chat format? No matter, as I am pretty sure that I don’t need any more judgment or shrill in my life.

Sincerely,

The Guy You Ran-Off Before Even Meeting (is that some kinda record for ya)

****

Dear Manager at Random New Restaurant,

Do you actually owe money to the Mob, or is your wine list just priced like you do?

Sincerely,

A Guy Who Knows What You Paid and What You Charge

****

Dear Handful of People Who Still Read This Thing,

Thank You.

Sincerely,

A Guy Who Appreciates That You’re Still Here.

I usually reject generalizations as a hallmark of a lazy intellect. I usually dismiss the demonization of people as unproductive in reasonable discourse. However to all of the preachers and false prophets who are warning of the coming wrath of God because of the end of Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, you are all a bunch of hateful intellectual bantamweights who traffic and profiteer in ignorance. All of you can go pound sand.

Just in case, I was wrong and you were right, I looked outside for locusts, or other signs of a falling sky. I found a sun struggling to peak from the cloudy and occasionally rainy skies… but it’s late summer in DC so that’s not unusual.  What freakish occurrences have marked the hours since the end of DADT?

• I overcooked my roasted red pepper risotto.
• I went to sleep without having a bourbon and cigar first.
• The Red Sox continue to fold like a house of cards in hurricane… (oh, wait, that’s not that unusual but let’s blame the Gays anyway.)
• Right to Life organizations decided to protest the extremely questionable execution of a man in Georgia… (oh, wait, that didn’t happen but wouldn’t that be a sign of the Apocalypse… or intellectual & moral consistency?)

Hours after a conversation with friends that featured a bit more candor than planned, I had a Carrie Bradshaw moment. I found myself sitting on my patio with a cigar, a bourbon, and this computer to contemplate the following:

How do you know if you made exceptions because you felt something exceptional, or if the exceptions were made for dubious reasons? Does it even matter after the relationship is over and all that’s left is the getting over it?

I didn’t answer any of those questions. I just took another hit of bourbon, watched blue gray smoke curl into the sky, and thought about how small the world must really be for me to have a Carrie Bradshaw moment.

~~~~~

New Rule: Baseball players who wear old-school stirrups instead of long pants are automatically 3.62 times cooler than their slack legged counterparts.

Addendum to the New Rule: The aforementioned does not now and never shall be applicable to Alex Rodrieguez.

~~~~~

The incomparable Aaron Sorkin has twice written that the only reason a man gets really good at anything is to impress a woman*. Ignoring the heterosculsivity** of the concept, truer words may never have been penned.

~~~~~

All of the excitement about Restaurant Week reminds me of people getting all a flutter about New Year’s Eve – the anticipation and hype almost never matches the reality. That so few restaurants get this promotion right is an annual disappointment to me.

~~~~~

* References made in both West Wing and Sports Night, there happens to be a great website that tracks the overlap between the two shows.

* Heterosculsivity and its related adjective Heterosculsive have already been sent to Urban Dictionary

If I ever get around to writing the movie script/novel that I am convinced lives in some recessed corner of my head, the following text message conversation will make an appearance:

Her: it’s too late for you to come over.

Him: um, ok?

Her: At this hour, a lady should not be receiving company lest the concierge at her building think her less than lady like.

Him: soooo… meet you at the garage entrance?

Her: See you in ten minutes.

From very early in my childhood, older members from the fraternal side of my family have told me how much I look like my father. As I got older, I was told the resemblance grew stronger. I never quite saw it, but they were referring to me looking like my old man when he was whatever age I happened to be at the time. The first time it made any sense to me was shortly after I split with my ex-wife.

I had just shaved my head for the first time – ending a marriage leads most people to some radical changes – and my hair resembled the extremely close cut style my father favored in the 1960s. Whilst unpacking a box at my new loft, I came across a picture of my father from that era and I had to look at it twice to make sure that it wasn’t me. I finally got it.

My dad is a good looking man and it was comforting to finally see what others saw and to know what I was going to look like as I got older.

All these years of hearing it and me finally seeing it for the last decade or so didn’t prepare me for this week. It didn’t prepare me for the first time my mother called me by his name. It didn’t prepare me for the next evolution of our relationship as this wasn’t a slip of the tongue.

Some days are are chicken, some days feathers. I’m tired of eating feathers these days.