The Promper is Blinking at 1:00 AM

“Mary is typing”, is what the prompter was blinking. The prompter that is a part of the chat
aplet that hangs on the bottom of my Facebook page. “Mary is typing”, and then nothing; and then,
“Mary is typing” once again, as I waited for a reply to a comment I made in answer to a call for a
sympathetic ear. I get those calls a lot these days it seems.
My generation seems to be having a hard time of it lately. Judging from my own circumstances,
I shouldn't be surprised. Nor am I in any position to give advice. I've fallen on hard times, and I am
absolutely my own worst enemy. But I'm kinder to others than to myself, and so I give it a try.
My generation. Generation X: which sounds so cool. Counter culture warriors against the
prevailing zeitgeist. We saw the mistakes of the 60's and 70's and resolved no one would pull the wool
over our eyes. We saw institutions fall from having been built on inadequate foundations; we saw
hedonism for the empty, meaningless pleasures it provided. We resolved to believe in nothing, and
walked bravely towards a field of bricks and mortar and no tools with which to build with. Yeah, we
were so cool.
I've only been on Facebook for a little over two years. I spent much of that time trying to
reconnect with people from my past that I've lost touch with over the years. It is nothing short of
astonishing to me how many people I've known who were homeless for a time.
I've been unemployed for nearly two years, and as I face what I fear is its inevitable conclusion,
I try to draw strength and comfort from those who've traveled down this road before me; and tried to
take the measure of what they've gained from their experience.
I live in constant fear, but sometimes I do wish it: to start over; to be reborn; to hit
control/alt/delete and reboot the chakras so whatever crap is in the buffer of my memory is wiped
clean. But then I'd lose my books, CD's and DVD's; and finally, I'd lose my cat.
Most of what I'd lose are just “things'. But these 'things' reflect my tastes; which inform my art;
which is inextricably bound to my identity. Which admittedly hasn't served me well in more years than
I care to count, but more from neglect than misuse.
They tell me I'm talented, and they know talent when they see it. So I'm forced to conclude that
I've squandered my talent. And so, like some asinine equation: x=y and so of course why must equal
ex, I walk away satisfied, until I realize I've answered none of my questions.
Questions like how a driven and talented actress can find herself homeless and living in a car
miles away from anyone who knows or can help her; or how an improvisation performer and teacher
can find herself in an abusive relationship, until one day she leaves with no where to go and soon after
finds herself admitted to a hospital for malnutrition and other medical complications after which, she's
sent to a home for battered woman with nothing but the clothes on her back.
I've known people who've lived on grape jelly and bread for a week and a half as they waited
for the next check to clear. And a once dear friend succumbed to drugs and alcohol in an attempt to
destroy himself by inches until he found religion and is now, technically still homeless, but living in a
commune, inhabiting the austere life style of a temple monk. He too was tented and brilliant. Much
more so than I.
I have not been tested as these others have. I am a blade that has never known the hammer or
the anvil. So what makes me think I can cut to the truth?
“Mary is typing”. She is unhappy in her marriage; miserable even. She remarked once that she
knew she was marrying beneath her but felt she had no other options. She contracted syphilis years ago
from a sadist and coke fiend with a confident air and forceful personality. He cheated on her regularly
with street hookers after first trying to entice her in joining him on this quest for a three way. Somehow
the lights didn't blink. But I'm not one to judge. I think everyone's got a burned out bulb in their attic.
She takes pills regularly, and the disease has been in remission for years. But such is the weight
of our past mistakes that we feel we must pay for them until the end of our days. Like dropping anchor
in the middle of the ocean and the tide pulls, but takes us nowhere.
“Mary is typing”, because she has something to say. This woman who was my first love; and
who's nature and character forever defined my notion of love, through all my succeeding relationships
for more than twenty years.
We were kids when we fell in love and she was forced to move to New York. There, she made a
go of it: went to college and studied opera singing; became a member of the New York Metropolitan
Opera, no less. As a member, she took fencing and stage combat from some of the finest instructors in
the world, worked side by side with some of the top names in Opera, and was directed by Franco
Zefferilli no less. To a Shakespeare geek like me, that's royalty. She has traveled the world and been
paid for doing what she loves. She is legend in my mind, and I envy, but do not begrudge, what success
she has achieved.
And she's fallen on hard times. She works sporadically, and her husband part time. She lives
under the constant shadow of her house being repossessed. She has a child she loves very much; and is
not enough to quench this unshakeable passion and possession she feels.
She says she wants to leave her husband, but she has nowhere to go. I say she doesn't mean it,
and it sounds like they (and he) need counseling. I say I know she doesn't want to hear it. I know she
doesn't believe in it. But it seems like they (and he) are stuck in a rut, and an objective point of view
can help you see the forest for the trees. I tell her also, if she's serious, she can file for divorce. That she
can apply for food stamps, as as a single mom, she'll get money too, from the Department of Children
and families. She can sell the house, move in to a cheaper neighborhood, and sue for child support. It
won't be ideal, but maybe it'll be for the best. Maybe it'll give her husband the kick in the pants he
needs and it'll be a kind of perch from which she can rebuild her life. Go back to school, and start
again. Plenty of woman do.
To which Mary types her reply, and after a few moments the words “Mary is typing” flashes on
screen again. This is an indicator she's changed her mind a number of times over what she wants to say.
This, at last, is what she types:
“
I just want to be a rich wife with time to be spoiled, cherished, and cared for.”
“How's that working out for you?”
“Fuck you.”
I have been largely unemployed for two years. I have subsisted on the kindness of strangers; the
the unemployment compensation fund that I have earned; the food stamps I've begged for; and I've
squandered the time to finance those dreams I never had the courage to pursue. All this time off, and I
never used it to write a significant piece of work: a novel or a screen play; some sort of magnum opus.
So I should be the last one to talk.
“I see all this potential, and I see it squandering. God damn it, an entire
generation pumping gas, waiting tables: slaves with white collars.
Advertising has us chasing cars and clothes, working jobs we hate so we
can buy shit we don't need. We're the middle children of history, man. No
purpose or place. We have no great war. No great depression. Our war is a
spiritual war... Our great depression is our lives. We've all been raised to
believe that one day we'd all be millionaires, movie gods, and rock stars.
But we won't. And we're slowly learning that fact. And we're very, very
pissed off.”
-From the 1999 film Fight Club
And 911, which should have been a wake up call, belongs to another generation entirely. We're
still chasing the dreams of our youth, and wondering why they haven't come to fruition. In this new
economy we're collecting unemployment checks and food stamps in compensation for the bill of goods
we were sold that were never delivered. We have become dependent on the very institutions we have
always disdained. How did this come to pass?
Well, in point of fact, the evidence for this is inconclusive at best. We don't suffer from the same
level of unemployment as 18-29 year old’s, but we do find a harder time of recovering from job loss or
catastrophic illness than our parents did. The value of our homes fell drastically when the housing
bubble burst, and we became one bad day away from financial ruin. The majority of foreclosures fall
squarely on Gen X'ers according to the Pew Institute. So, not only did we never become rock stars, we
didn't even get to enjoy the same level of middle class our parents did.
I never wanted to become a rock star. I wanted to be a working actor. I wanted to be Bob
Ballaban. He is a man who shows up from time to time, in some of my favorite films. When he tried his
hand at directing, his film was nominated for an Oscar. He showed up on Seinfeld too.
What I wanted, was to be just a guy, who gets paid for what he loves to do, shows up on time,
delivers the best work he's capable of, and is appreciated for his efforts. I can fore-go the accolades. I
can fore-go the awards (even though I've had my Oscar acceptance speech memorized for over three
decades). I just want a pat on the back and some assurance that work will be there on the horizon.
When you put it like that, it doesn't seem like much to ask. But I'm a writer also, and I know
how to load my words. Self pity is abundantly available precisely because it's free and serves no
purpose. The reality is, it's up to me to see past that, and it's up to me to navigate through it.
“Beneath the surface of characterization, regardless of appearances, is the
question who is this person? At the heart of his humanity, what will we
find? Is he loving or cruel? Generous or selfish? Strong or weak?
Courageous or cowardly? The only way to know the truth is to witness him
make choices under pressure to take one action or another in pursuit of his
desire. Pressure is essential. Choices made when nothing is at risk mean
little.
-Robert McKee from the book Story
He was talking about the relationship between structure and character in story telling technique.
But it sounds a lot like a primer to life to me. Like the words I wish my father had spoken before he
passed away when I was just fourteen.
Here's something else from one of my favorite writers, Neil Gaiman.
“A freelance life in the arts is sometimes like putting messages in bottles,
on a desert island, and hoping that someone will find one of your bottles
and open it and read it, and put something in a bottle that will wash its way
back to you: appreciation, or a commission, or money, or love. And you
have to accept that you may put out a hundred things for every bottle that
winds up coming back.”
So those are the odds. As any Las Vegas bookie will tell you: when you're playing the long
odds, you've gotta last the night, if you're going to cash out at the end.
I have squandered my reserves and I have watched them dwindle down to nothing. But here's
another truism for you: when you have nothing left to lose, you have everything to gain. This is the
state of mind I feel we must have as we face the challenges of this new economy.
We are no longer a manufacturing based economy. We are a service oriented economy We find
or sell the things the things that people need (or merely want) and tell them it will make their lives
simpler, or at least more enjoyable. We provide a service that relieves them of their stress and we tell
ourselves it is a noble endeavor; and it is. What we sell, is piece of mind.
So I hope I've given you something to talk about; certainly much of it has been for my own
benefit. I'm hoping you see your life as a series of challenges instead of obstacles. Because challenges
can be met. Obstacles must be overcome. Obstacles are your enemy. Challenges can be your friends.
We could all use a friend or two in our lives.

Why Spider-Man Matters and Why Geek Culture Loves Him

With the new Spider-Man man franchise kick starting just around the corner, I thought it would
be a good time to dissect our favorite arachnid and figure out what makes him tick: what works; what
doesn't; and why he's so easy to relate to.
More than any other hero in comics culture, Spider-Man is easily the most identifiable, because
he's the most like us. Forget the fact that he was gifted with the proportionate speed, strength, and
senses of a spider. Forget the fact that he swings on webs at impossible heights and exhibits acrobatic
feats the likes of which any Cirque du Soleil gymnast would envy.
Concentrate firstly on the fact he swings on webs of his own design. He concocted those webs
in a home made chemistry lab because he's a science nerd. He's a straight A book geek: a card carrying,
wedgie infused, picked upon, laughed at, member of his high school science club, with more brains
than brawn, which alienates him from the peers he so desperately wants approval of.
The thing about wanting the approval of peers that largely don't accept you, is that you can learn
the wrong lesson in seeking it. Which is exactly what happened to Peter Parker. The minute he started
thinking selfishly; about wanting his due, at the exclusion of others, is the minute the first of his great
tragedies befell upon him.
The thing is: who can blame him? What picked upon geek with his nose in Tolkien novel even
as paper ball went flying towards the back of his head, can't relate to a desire to make things right? To
get their due? To show them all that the thing they love is not so bad, and that loving it makes them a
better man or woman for doing so?
And given the chance: to make fools of them all; to score the winning touch down; to cash in
your chips a winner at a Las Vegas casino; wouldn't you take it? Sure you would. And it wouldn't be so
bad, so long as you didn't step on anyone to to do it. Peter Parker's a good guy. He didn't step on anyone
to make his money early on. But he forgot it's not enough to not step on people. Sometimes you have to
get involved. Sometimes you have to stick your foot out and jam it in society's door and say, “Wait a
minute! This is wrong! We can do better. And we should.” And that's where the phrase, “With great
power, comes great responsibility” comes in. But that phrase, succinct and perfect as it is (thank you
Stan Lee), however much it should be emblazoned on every town hall, every municipal government
building, every corporate share holder's meeting room, doesn't begin to describe the tragedy of Peter
Parker's life. What describes it perfectly, is that he didn't listen to it.
Because he didn't listen to it, he didn't stick his foot out. Because he didn't stick his foot out, his
uncle Ben died. No more powerful reminder of his civic duty could exist. No greater lesson can be
learned. It's why I wish more people read Spider-Man; certainly more people in positions of power. I'll
bet you anything the Occupy Wall Street movement is filled with Spider-Man geeks.
Peter Parker is a tragic figure in comics. There are many: Batman and Daredevil to name just
two. But unlike them, Spider-Man lost his father figure at roughly the age of fifteen.. The age where a
young man needs his father most. It's a hormone driven rebellious age where you think you know all
the answers because you think your parents are out of touch with the world. You need a firm hand to
tell you, “You haven't got it ALL figured out yet kid. What you're going through now is as old as time.
You need to stop: and consider. Because who you decide to be, whether you become him or not, will
have its reverberations throughout the rest of your life; in ways you can't imagine.”
Peter got that lesson the hard way and his uncle Ben died. But here's the thing: and it's the thing
I can tell you with absolute certainty. Because my own father died when I was fourteen. Because I still
carry the weight of that every day I wake. I'm 48 years old, and there isn't a day that goes by when I
don't think, “What would my father have made of my choices?” He wanted the best for me. He
nurtured my curious mind. He didn't care that I exhibited an interest in comics, so long as I was
reading. My mother saw them as “funny books”, and beneath me.
At one point, my collection grew so vast (they took up so much room, and that musty smell I
still love, permeated the house so strongly) that she made me take them out and store them in the shed.
In Florida weather, storing them in a wooden shed, is putting them in a breading ground for mold. To
top it off, my uncle at this time decided to keep pigeons, and the only place he could store them was in
the shed. This was before plastic bags. This was before a collector's market. This was before anyone
had any idea how valuable comics could become.
So one day, in a rather depressed state of mind, I bemoaned the state to which my comics had
fallen, to which my father asked me, “Why didn't you say anything before?” “Because I didn't feel I
had a choice.”
And this is what he said; what I will take with me to the end of my days: If you don't stand up
for what you love, then your love is insincere.”
At the time, I thought he couldn't be more wrong. But this is a man who at the height of the
Cuban/communist revolution, got my mother out; got her daughter out; got his sons and wife at time
out, and himself along too. He must have begged, cajoled, threatened, and bribed to make ALL THIS
happen. Forget Spider-Man, my dad was the Batman of Cuba!
My point here is, no matter what I do, I imagine I will always fall short of the expectations I
feel my father would have had. If this is true for me, what must Peter have been thinking on the day
Gwen Stacy died?
Gwen Stacy, Peter's first love, died for no good reason at all. She died because the Green Goblin
wanted to hurt him. The Green Goblin, at the time, was the only villain besides Ra's al Ghul, who knew
his nemesis' secret identity. But the Green Goblin (at the time) was very much a Jekyll and Hyde figure.
He only knew Peter was Spider-Man as the Green Goblin, and the rest of the time he was his best
friend's dad.
He couldn't help but minimize the threat, and he couldn't help but feel sorry for both him and
his friend Harry.
But that's me cutting Peter some slack. As he dove off that bridge and webbed Gwen's ankle,
inadvertently snapping her neck, what must Peter have been thinking? The time honored adage, “With
great power, comes great responsibility”, can be interpreted a number of ways. It was the worst day of
his life, and he still keeps on swinging.
It has become fashionable in the comics these days to cut Spider-Man some slack. He has a well
paying job in which he gets to dictate his own hours (how cool is THAT), he has a spider suit for every
occasion (much like Batman), he's in every non mutant super hero team and suddenly New York loves
him! As someone's who's grown with Peter, I couldn't be happier for him. But it's a little bit like that
indie actor you see who's made a career of making off beat choices and taking risks. Then, one day,
Hollywood sits up and notices and starts casting him in high profile movies. Finally, he's making real
money, and you couldn't be happier for him. But it seems like he's cast in the same two or three roles
over and over, and he's just sort of costing by.
It bodes well for me that Gwen Stacy is an important character in this next, new franchise of
films, because it seems to me to indicate they want to get back to Spider-Man's roots. The Spider-Man I
knew struggled with rent. He was a photographer for The Daily Bugle (and yeah, it's a bit ridiculous
that someone with his science acumen would be a free lancer – not even a salaried employee with
benefits) where once a month he'd bring in photos of Spider-Man fighting some major super villain.
With the rents being what they are in New York City, I can't imagine it was ever enough.
But he got by. Sometimes by sharing rent with his friends; sometimes by the skin of his teeth. I
can relate. That's the thing about Spider-Man: you can relate. Because like you, he's been through his
ups and downs. Because like you, he struggles to get by. Despite that, he always finds the humor in
every situation whether it's being pummeled by bad guys or teeming up with another hero. He deals
with adversity through humor and refuses to see the darkness within. He has something relevant to say
to all of us and that is, “Cheer up! It's gonna be a hard day, but today's the day you just might get to
make a difference. Today's the day you just might become the hero you've always wanted to be.
Sometimes all it takes is for you to stick your foot out.” Such is the way great journeys begin.

Some hands need holding

I was at the unemployment office today and there was this old Hispanic man asking why he hadn't received his unemployment check since he applied way back in October. The attendant (who spoke Spanish) gave him a phone number to call and inquire. As he started to walk away dejectedly, I asked him if he'd been reporting his hours every two weeks like he was supposed to, and he looked at me mystified. When you call to report your hours, you get a recorded message asking if you want to continue in English, Spanish, or Creole. But here's the thing, it asks you in English. And then you press the appropriate key, and a recorded message guides you through the rest of the process. He couldn't get past the English part. He just needed to know what key to press so he could fill out the rest. So I took him to the phone banks and guided him through it. When I pointed this out to the attendant (who was Hispanic herself and should have been sympathetic) she replied (in Spanish, mind you), "Ahhh, no, no, no, no. He hasn't received a check in 4 months? That's his fault! How can you let something like that go on? I'm not here to hold anybodies hand!" What I should have said was, "Well, maybe because he comes from a foreign land, where things are done very differently, and he truly has no idea how to navigate through our sometimes very complicated system, because he has no frame of reference. Being, you know, from a foreign land. Like our parents. My mom, who couldn't work the intercom system in our condo 'cause it had "too many buttons" (three - talk, listen, and open door). Sometimes, you do need to hold a strangers hand, 'cause the alternative of what it says about our society is too horrible for words. Sometimes, you need to hug a smelly bum on the street who's begging for change, because he's so stripped down of his dignity that he's either invisible, a nuisance, or an after thought. And so you hug the smelly bum as you hand him a dollar, just to say "Hey! I see you. Your carrying around the baggage of lost dreams, missed opportunities, and regret. I get it. I get it." Sometimes you need to do that, because most of the time you don't, and what your looking at is really a fun house mirror reflection of you. Sometimes you need to put a quarter in a stranger's parking meter as you see the meter maid approaching because you, yourself are very nearly broke, and if it was your car, you wouldn't be able to afford the ticket. And that's what it's about: the ticket. Sometimes the cost of admission is too high, just at that point when you really need to hear those sweet sounds that reverberate in your heart and remind you; you have a soul!

The Internal Conflict

A character who does not rise to the challenge: who gains small victories, at the cost of great defeats.

What is the impediment? The obstacle that must be breached?

It has to be fear of failure. And fear of the unknown. There has to be a kind of solace, in the expectation of diminished returns. "Life is a veil of tears", my mother once said.

And, "When you have children, your life is no longer your own."

This is how we compromise our dreams, and live with the day to day. And we find our joys in moments, even as we feel largely unfulfilled.

We come up with "coping" mechanisms, that gratify our collection of moments, because we percieve, that the larger tapestry is beyond our ability to weave.

As I see it, there is no way past this without an application of belief. A conscious decision to have a degree of faith, not in the inexplicable, or mysterious, but: if applied in a constant forward momentum, your actions will bear fruit.

A friend once told me, if you ask 20 chicks out on a date, one of them will say, "sure, why not?" Guaranteed! If you go to the club, and ask 20 chicks to dance, one of them will say yes. And probably way before you reach the 20th.

Another friend told me, "But what's the worst that can happen? That they say no. For guys like you and me, the worst is exactly what you fear the most." So rejection is not that easy, when it's rejection you fear the most.

Trial and error is the only way I can think of to get past the mountains one needs to climb. But I'm writing from experience, when I say, I had my training wheels on for a long time.

There should be training wheels for life. A safety net, from which we can bounce with joy, until technique organically develops, and your to fearlessly cast it aside.

The problem as I see it though, is that life has too many pitfalls, and moves at a pace, faster than can be seen by the naked eye.

So that we try to prepare our children even as we stumble and fall. And we say, "Don't do as I do. Learn from my mistakes." But we're bound to repeat those same mistakes, because we've never been shown the results otherwise.

This, as I've concluded, is the point where we must break with tradition. This is the point where we must forge our own path. But it's easier said than done. And it can take years, even a life time, to see the light of day.

I hope that's not the case for me. But neither do I see myself moving in a forward direction. This blog is as much an effort to break down my fears and static motion into its basic elements, as it is an impetus to consider something new.

Monologue #1: When All You Get Is One Shot

     Sometimes all we get, all we get, is one shot.You have your moment; it presents itself, and if your not ready, life passes you by. "Carpe diem, quam minimum credula postero." "Seize the day, trusting as little as possible in the future." But I don't know too many people, so focused, so aware, waiting for that moment to saunter in, as if aligning itself, in the cross hairs of human ambition.
     Most people I know, live for second chances. We fuck up. We make mistakes. And beg for a second chance: to make things right; to make a better argument. Say, "I love you", when it needed to be heard. Shut up, when you needed to listen. Not take that fourth drink. Pass, instead of shoot. Stop, instead of go.
     And I should never have let you go. But I was young, and had no idea how special you were. Or how unlikely true love is.
     I spent years, listening for your laugh in another woman's voice. Hunching down, or straightening up, trying to find the fit in my arms that you filled so well. And waking up, with the echo of your voice. And living with you in my imagination. And of what you'd say, about this or about that.
     And laughing. Over some joke you made years ago. Maybe hoping for second chances is really not being able to move on.
     But if so, then why else do we pray? Isn't that what redemption is all about? The chance to set the record straight? To live the life we were meant to live? Is there a time limit? As finite as our time on earth? I don't know. But I've carried this torch for so long, I've gotten used to the burden. I can carry it a while longer.
     My arms aren't so tired I can't hold you. My strides aren't any heavier than they've ever been. And I'm here. Whenever you want. I'm not so broken, I can't be mended. I'm not so tired I can't get up. I need something to believe in, but hey, I'm willing to believe. I can wait. Waiting is easy. It's just a silence waiting to be filled: with song; with laughter; with the spoken word, or the sharp breath of life. Silence is just a void, waiting to be filled. And does that remind you of anyone you know?

The Fringe and the Underbelly

     The first stripper I ever had a crush on was an ex porn star who turned me on to Tori Amos. She said, "If you like Kate Bush, you'll love Tori Amos."
     She was a feature dance, which meant she was booked for a week I went to see her on three occasions, and on the third, she pulled me up on stage and had me soap her body with a luffa sponge and enough suds to accentuate but not hide every luscious curve I felt of that beautiful body.
     The second dancer I ever had a crush on would dance to "I can't be with you", by The Cranberries. And I don't know if she was giving me a message, but never the less, I loved that song. It's very danceable. And so music, has always been an element of seduction for me.
     She was paying her way through college, studying to be a vet. So few of them make it all the way through though: once they realize they can earn more than a doctor in a week.
     For a while, at least. As they get older... they negotiate a little more... and a little more... what services they can provide in the confines of the champagne room.
     A stripper once told me, "Once you accept that your body is worth a certain cash amount, you start to put a price on everything else you'll do. Talk to someone you don't really like. Kiss someone with bad breath. Go down on them. Agree to fuck them. Most guys can't get it up in the champagne room anyway. When occasionally they do, you at least have protection."
      If you want to know the difference between a hooker and a stripper who "puts out", it's this: a stripper has sex in the same place, with a bouncer nearby. A hooker changes her locale, and if she's got a pimp, it's best he remain invisible, or the client might get spooked. A stripper has regulars, whom she will see again and again, over time. A hooker is always fucking someone new. A stripper to talk to over time and you get to know each other's life stories. A hooker is watching the clock, and will tell you when your time is up. A stripper is constantly reinforced over how sexy and beautiful she is. A hooker is treated like a vagina with a life support system.
     But chiefly, and perhaps inexplicably, a stripper is more confident, even free spirited, than a hooker who may be working through some guilt, or even low self esteem.
     Now, there's an argument, that strippers have self esteem issues too. Walk into any strip joint in the country, and you'll find that a fair amount of the boobs on display are silicone based. And sometimes the buttocks too. And whatever their issues, strippers aren't stupid. They know the "assets" for which they are being praised are transitory; and beauty is always in the eyes of the beholder.
     They know the level of charm they have to bring in order to stand out from the crowd. They know they trade in fantasy, in an alcohol inebriated den of lust desire. They rarely date their customers; preferring instead the complicated relationships of deception they have with their friends, family, and lovers. How much self esteem can you really have, when you lie to everyone about what you really do? But they carry themselves with confidence, and they're aware of their seductive charms.
     The last stripper... I fell in love with, is like no stripper I've ever known before. On the occasion when I found myself broke, but with enough cash to buy a $20 bottle of Victoria's Secret "Secret Passion" glitter body spray (with a 20% employee discount) and turned it over as a Christmas present, she not only paid for my drinks ($7 for a bucket of 5 beers), but gave me money, a handful of dollar bills, to tip the ladies with, as they came off the stage to collect their tips. THAT'S (at the very least) unusual and exceptional. Judged on its appropriate and relative terms, it is kind, generous, and even loving. A stripper that gives YOU money, is a rare creature indeed! So rare in fact, that I tried to set up a date with the lady in question, and meet her outside of work. Just to see what would happen.
     But strippers are not the most reliable of beings, and they lead very complicated lives. On the day in question, her dauhter had her car, and she had to work overtime, and I wound up sitting in a restaurant, waiting for two hours, getting drunk to the point of resentment. And anyway... do I really want to have a relationship with a girl who sucks dick for a living?
     But I still love her: at least, in the measured doses I allow myself to. We're still sort of "friends with benefits", in which commerce for "services" is engaged.
     Understand, there are two kinds of strip joints. The big, fancy, gentleman's clubs that on a Friday night will employee, easily, 100-150 woman: model babe after model babe, strutting their stuff on stage.
     And then there is the neighborhood bar. The neighborhood strip bar especially before 7pm. is where you get to have a few drinks, in a quiet corner by yourself, listening to good music, admiring the scenery, even occasionally writing, until your favorite gal walks off the stage to collect her tips, and you invite her for a round of drinks and some conversation. Shift change occurs between 7 and 9pm. Day shift girls, are by and large, not as pretty as their night shift counterparts, but some of the are; single moms who have no one to take care of their kids at night and find they can provide better for their children stripping than they can working retail. In Miami, we have a large immigrant population. A lot of people who discover for the first time, what a truly industrialized nation can offer for those who can afford it. But to earn it, they have to work much harder than they ever have before. And not being versatile with the English language, (although it IS Miami, where the majority of the population speaks Spanish. But still, the expectation, and demand, that you are fluent in English is still prevalent  among most employers), hampers their ability to find good jobs, in what is already a service industry driven economy. And stripping is... well, to quote Glen Fry, "It's the lure of easy money. It's got a very strong appeal!"
     I'm the son of a professional gambler. A very good poker player, who loved to play the ponies. He loved the big payouts. He loved how your fortune could change in an instant. He blew a lot of money at the race track. The opposite of a very cautious style he had developed at the poker tables.
     So I understand the urge to "go all in." I understand having big dreams, and the feeling of being frustrated by fate. It is that ability to dream that for good or ill, has always defined my art. And it is the reason why I am drawn to the fringe.          
     The fringe is not the underbelly: that soft spot/weak spot from where some people lash out and others reside. The fringe is right on the border. The fringe is where you get to have your principals, and compromise them to a degree. From the underbelly, your in survival mode, which is when you finally toss them away. It's at the fringe, where we have sympathy for others hanging by the precipice. It's from the underbelly, where we may even take pleasure, or a kind of solace at least, as we pull them underneath. People on the fringe, have generous spirits. People from the underbelly, wallow in despair. There's something very honest about people on the fringe. People from the underbelly will lie to serve their own ends. People on the fringe can trip and fall over the precipice. But people in the underbelly, often have nowhere else to go.
     I hang on the precipice on a daily basis. I'm broke, uneducated, and desperately alone. We face the chasm in our solitary despair, and we dream (or pray) of the inciting incident that will pull us away. And that's what we have in common. No matter how we express or negotiate those terms. We pull for the little guy; we root for the underdog. We buy our lotto tickets, and celebrate with hope renewed, when we win a free ticket.
     Because anything is possible. Because anything can be won. Because dreams are meant to be followed; and promises are only waiting to be kept. Here, on the borders of the fringe,  we see the remains of dreams broken and renewed; and gather the pieces, as we try to make something new.

A Romance IN A New World

     My mother and father had what you might call a tempestuous relationship. It started out rocky enough: my dad was already married with three grown sons, when he had an affair with my mom, with a daughter from a previous marriage, who's husband died of cancer, it represented a second chance and an escape to freedom. For my father, fifteen years her senior, and whom had known my mom all her life, it must have represented a chance to revisit his youth he'd known since she was a child. It was a May/December romance they had to wait 'till their middle ages to consummate. My father had been a cop before the fall of Batista, and had used his political connections to have my half sister sent to America, where, still being a minor, after six months, she could claim my mother on humanitarian grounds. He then used up his remaining favors to get him, his wife, and his children, out of Cuba and onto Ellis island, where freedom surely beckoned him to its shores.
     Once all that had been arranged and achieved, the affair began full swing. From what I remember, and what I've been told, it was not an easy time for my mom, being "the other woman." Many lonely tears were shed, and a good catholic girl from a small town like my mom, must have felt the weight of guilt acutely.
     Eventually, she got pregnant, and being a woman in her forties, there were risks and complications. I was a rather large and heavy baby (12 lbs. I think) and they had to perform cesarean section in order to deliver me safely. Years later, my mom would show me her cesarean scars whenever I misbehaved and say, "Look what I had to go through to bring you into the world." And like the petulant child I was, I answered, "I never asked to be born!"
     My mom told me once, that my dad never wanted her to go through with the pregnancy. But I never felt anything but love from him. He would dote on me, whenever he was around.
     And there in lies the heart of our rather complicate trinity. My dad had a wife and children he lived with. He'd visit us every couple of days. But still, I remember his absence was keenly felt by the both of us.
     My mom was a seamstress in a clothing factory and she'd get home late and tired after a long day of work. It's easy to see why, in my early years, I acted out so much. I craved attention and lacked structure. In many ways, I still do.
     My sister hated my dad and the effect the relationship was having on my mom. She couldn't wait to get out of the house, and as soon a she turned eighteen, got married and did, with a man who had a short temper, and would later abuse her, both physically and mentally.
     She told me once, she used to change my diapers, and would baby sit for my mom. I have no memories of this. Indeed, my earliest memories of her after she moved to Miami, and my mom followed soon after, in order to "keep the family together." This would be about 1971, when I was 8 years old.
     Within 6 months, my father got a divorce and followed suit. My parents got married in 1972. I know this from rummaging around their room without permission and finding the marriage certificate in my mother's dresser drawer.
     They lived together for two years and fought all the time. And made love too. This, I also discovered, having walked in on them "in the act", once I learned the trick of opening locked doors with a butter knife.
     Eventually, my dad moved out, but not far. He rented a little studio a few blocks away, where he kept a cat as my pet, fed me lunch after school, and bought me comics to read. It was a routine I grew to love.
     I think I blamed my mom for my dad's absence from our home. I remember I used to claim I loved my dad more than my mom. Eventually, they got back together. In a two bedroom house, where my uncle also lived, my father insisted I needed a room of my own.
     Not long after he moved in, and the anteroom was constructed, he died of a heart attack. I was asleep in my room while my mom and uncle accompanied him to the hospital. He forbade them to wake me because he didn't want me to worry. But in the morning, my uncle awoke me, telling me why I had to go to the hospital. And not long after I arrived, he was pronounced dead.
     Now comes the resolution; the point that I've been leading up to. Despite all of the strife, and all of the ups an downs, there at the funeral, with my dad lying in an open casket, my mom shed all the tears which I was unable to. They were not phony tears, or begrudging tears, or the tears of misspent affection. They were genuine and heart felt, and remorseful of all the days lost. A river of sorrow, racked from a heart of regret. And I? Shed not a one. And felt guilt for years after, for never having done so.
     So that now, I do not know who to blame.; only, that love is a journey on a turbulent sea. And more than that, I've never known, in all the years I have lived.