A Few Open Letters

23 February 2011

Dear Pretty Pretty Princess, P3 for short*,

You asked me why I lose my poker face and can’t hide my disdain when I am around your bloviating boyfriend or his name is mentioned in discussion. First, we’ve known each other for more than a couple of years, so you know that I know from bloviation. Second, it is not his useless rhetoric or constant need to insert himself and his perceived trump card into any unoccupied corner of a conversation. Third, you have to know that it has nothing to do with your unfounded suspicion that I still want to be in your bed.

No, P3 , my allergic reaction to him has everything to do with the fact that he is about as secure as a puppy that marks every part of his territory at every opportunity. It has to do with the fact that any man who has compulsive need to have a hand on his partner’s ass for the entirety of an evening is small, petty, and ungentlemanly. It has everything to do with the fact that you not only accept this unacceptably possessive, and unseemly behavior, but you seem to embrace it like a woman who thinks she can do no better. My problem with him is the P3 that you’ve become with him. You cannot expect your friends to watch you dissolve yourself into him and then want to drink the weak tea that results.


A Man Missing a Friend


Dear Bartender at the Ebbit,

When a guest asks you for a “Basil Hayden Manhattan, 75-25, extra-cold and skip the cherry and the bitters unless you have some Orange Bitters around” the proper response is something in the affirmative. You may also be inclined to think that the orderer might know a thing or two about cocktails, might even be Industry. The absolutely improper response would be to, wrongly, insist that Manhattan’s don’t contain bitters. You really should not belabor the point – especially because your lack of preparation is showing – thrice more.

Who did you bang to get that job?


The Industry Guy Who Went to Another Bar after that Cocktail


Dear Family,

Life is complicated. I get that. You know that I get that better than most. Please stop taking me for granted; I am not your foregone conclusion.


The Emotionally Exhausted Son, Sibling, Uncle, and Cousin


Dear Woman Who Would Prefer Not to be Named,

That suede kitchen apron might be the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me… up there with the book of Neruda Love Poems from another woman who would rather not be named. It means the world to me – you will forever be my lesbian soulmate.


A Man Who Ain’t Easy to Shop for

*Charmed reference for those of you who don’t think I have ever consumed absent minded pop culture,


Call It What You Want, But…

16 February 2011

I miss Bill Whithers’ early music

I miss mid 1990s hip hop

I miss running a restaurant

I miss the late great radio station WDCU

I miss Aaron Sorkin writing great TV

I miss traveling before a bunch of terrorists made airline travel as elegant as dinner at the Smorgasbord

I miss inspiration

I miss the best dessert place in the history of DC, Dolce Final

I miss the abundance of civility

I miss having a steady last call of the night

Even as Pitchers and Catchers have already reported, and the rest of the camps open today, I miss affordable baseball… anyone up for a minor league game?

I miss smokey jazz joints with a cat older than my father working the brushes (if you’re unfamiliar with the term, that’s a damn shame.)

I miss the certainty of purpose that I’ve somehow replaced with holding life together through force of will, a roll of duct tape and good luck

I miss writing in my journal

I miss my old post-divorce loft

I miss evenings of uncomplicated truth and overly complicated women

I miss blue lights in the basement

I miss slow dancing

I miss the nights when sleep came easily

It’s been barely a week, but I already miss football

I miss drive-in movie theaters… even though I have never been to one

I miss writing with fountain pens, or more accurately, good cause to use them

I miss the days when bra straps weren’t viewed as accessories and better still just weren’t viewed

I miss easy recoveries from the times I mortgaged the morning for pursuit of the night

I miss the illusion of meritocracy but wonder if I am better for the disquieting knowledge that replaced it

I miss my mojo, if you’ve seen it, please send it back my way

I miss the days when I always knew where the goal posts were… and if you’re the bloke in charge of moving them, please go pound sand

I miss writing this blog – the acknowledged vanity, the quiet craving for affection, yes, but the community of disparate spirits most of all.