Just for fun

Several weeks ago, a friend sent me an email telling me that I should submit something to a new column entitled "How It Is" in the Lifestyles section of the local paper. She claimed I had "tons of stuff" I could write about love, marriage, dating, etc. So within a few hours I wrote and emailed two pieces to the editor. One of the them was published (posted here June 5); the other was not. This is the one they chose not to publish--written about experiences from a few years ago. Although it may read like a piece of fiction, it is not.


Wild Ride to the Mountain

So there I was—with my photo and blurb up on match.com.

The good-looking mountain climber from New York, 25 years my junior, who flies out here a few times a year to climb Mt. Shasta sounds rather intriguing. Not to mention he’s hot. But let’s get real.

So I hook up with this real estate guy, who takes me to a party in the East Bay. I become increasingly aware that the oversized blazer I purchased at Ross the day before will be returned on Monday. I’m feeling awkward and looking forward to going home, alone. But when 'Jim' invites me to his hot tub, I feel the tantalizing electric charge of a “dare.” I figure at my age I can make reasonable decisions. Plus I’m curious about where he lives because everything about him indicates wealth and extreme good taste. So I say ok.

The house is Tudor style and gorgeous, surrounded by trees and flora. He gives me a quick tour, which includes three bedrooms and a massage room. 'I give great massages, incidentally," he states as an aside, as we pass the room with a massage table in the center and head up the stairs to his bedroom where he gives me a white bathrobe to put on and gives me the option to undress in the bathroom if I choose. I do.

Feeling self-conscious about being naked, I disrobe quickly and slide in. We proceed to have a vivid conversation about his life and times preceding our having met online a few weeks before, which includes a few marriages and many girlfriends. Then he suggests we go inside for a glass of brandy. After offering me a joint, which I turn down, he makes it clear (with his hands) that he wants to have sex. I don't, and don't.

Now he hits me with his proclamation: “If there’s no sex during the first date or two that’s ok, but if by the tenth date we're still not having sex--that's where I draw the line.” I announce I’m going home. Two days later he sends me an email with an attachment. When I open it (at work) I discover a chart composed of twelve color photographs of the most private part of the female anatomy, each decorated with flowers and jewels. "I thought you would enjoy this," he says in his email. Next.

The lawyer seemed interesting via email—intelligent, no-nonsense, and distinguished. We agree to meet at a park in San Rafael. ‘Sam’ invites me to his condo in the wooded hills of San Rafael for dinner. Shortly after finishing the overcooked pasta and tasteless mushrooms, along with a fragrant glass of Zinfandel, I thank him for dinner and conversation and say I’m heading out. He looks stunned, "What? No sex?” I give him the benefit of the doubt and laugh. Then he says, "I'm serious. I thought us ex-hippies would go for a romp in the bedroom.” I’m thoroughly disgusted and find my way to the door. Fast.

Now consider the "tea guy." He suggested Starbucks, but reluctantly agrees to my alternative. While I order a chai at the counter, he stands behind me. I beckon him to step up and order. He asks for a cup of hot water, and then quickly steps back while I pay the bill. After we sit down, I ask if he usually drinks his hot water plain. He smiles conspiratorially, removes a tea bag from his pocket, and plunks it into his cup. "See, that's why I don't like coming here. At Starbucks they give me hot water for free.” Let’s move on.

Finally, the mountain biker. I like his spirit, his mischievous smile, his British accent, and his intelligence. But I should have heeded the warning he gave me himself. During our first phone conversation when I asked him, "How are you?" he responds. "Horrible." Then he jumps into a lengthy monologue about a woman who had apparently led him through the mud and finally ditched him. He’s clearly obsessed with her.

I suppose I was playing out my desire to be a psychiatrist, because every time we talk by phone or get together, conversations invariably turn to her. If he doesn't bring her up, I do. 'So, Steve, how are things with “M”?' (He never spoke her name outloud; he refers to her only by her first initial.) Believe it or not, I see relationship potential here. We both like the outdoors, he’s teaching me to mountain bike. We adore good food, wine, feel the same way about George W. and other key issues. Plus we have a penchant for things European. But eventually, when I find out he’s been seeing someone for a month, along with me, and that neither of us knew about the other--I call it quits, and not without a bit of rancor.

Dating in your fifties. Wow. I may just switch to women. (Although there is that mountain climber. . . )

Double Life

That feeling of deja-vu. When it seems that the moment has happened before. As if time is playing a trick and has somehow revolved back to that original moment and we're living it again--with the same gestures and dialogue, the same sensations. Sometimes it feels as if the deja vu is itself a deja vu, that we're revisiting something that we've already revisted--sometimes even more than once.

In the film The Double Life of Veronique, directed by Krzysztof Kieślowski (who also directed the trilogy: Red, White, and Blue, we meet a young woman (Veronika) in Warsaw who has just left a music competition and finds herself caught in the turmoil of a political demonstration. She drops her portfolio and while retrieving sheet music that has been strewn about on the street, she observes another woman (Veronique) getting on a bus. The woman looks exactly like Veronika. Once inside the bus, Veronique begins taking photographs of her "double" in rapid succession. Veronique looks at her photographer in quiet fascination.

The story reveals a portion of the lives of both women. We see certain similarities--their interest in music, a certain naivete, closeness with their respective fathers. One of the personas tells her father she feels she is about to fall in love. But it is the "other" Veronique who falls in love--with a writer of children's books. She sees him performing one of his stories as a puppet show. Chroeographing the movements of a beautifully fragile female puppet, he tells the sad story of a woman who lives in a box, dies, and is transformed into a butterfly. Veronique catches glimpses of the puppeteer as he works in the shadows. At one point, for no apparant reason, his gaze falls upon Veronique. It's as if he had been drawn to her by invisible strings.

It's a strange and ephemeral story. The writer of children's stories tells Veronique about the new story he is writing and twin puppets he is making to bring the story to life. It is what he perceives to be her story: at precisely the same moment as a particular woman was born in France, another woman who looks exactly like her was born in Poland. Actions by one are often 'perceived' by the other as if it were part of their own lives. So the two are invisibly intertwined.

A fascinating possibility, which could account for some of what we perceive as deja vu. Or at least why we sometimes do things without knowing why, sometimes even things that don't make sense and don't even feel like the things we would do on our own; and yet we feel pulled by some unknown force to do them. Or it could be part of the phenomenon of parallel lives, a parallel universe. That perplexing reality of looking into the mirror and wondering who is on the other side. Alice in the Looking Glass.

For more movie reviews, visit my movie review blog, Slick's Flicks

Riding with Sadie

[published in Cycle California, June 2008]

Here's a canine who typifies the positive attitude we generally associate with dogs. Everything is her favorite thing if she is (or at least believes she is) the focus of attention. Therefore it stands to reason that if we pile the bikes, helmuts, ourselves, and HER in the car, something fun--something that is for and all about her and thereby her favorite thing, is about to happen.

Many of the great mountain bike trails in the San Francisco Bay Area are not dog-friendly. For the most part, this is for good reason. Singletrack is challenging enough sometimes, not to mention the uphill/downhill etiquette rule. So imagine someone's Fido running about, zigzagging up, down, and across your path while you're trying to keep yourself from plunging into a nasty patch of poison oak, or worse yet, headlong over the edge into a rocky drop. It's a safety issue not only for you, but for the friendly four-legged creatures themselves.

About a year and a half ago the guy I was dating and I thought it would be fun to take my dog Sadie along with us on a ride. Sadie is a little fireball--a mostly black and white terrier mix, with possibly some Border Collie thrown in for good measure. (The reason for the later is her rather obsessive interest and focus on "the ball.") She's a veritable tomboy at heart. To the point where anyone who meets her refers to her as "the little guy." It's not a guess; it's an assumption. Although a more feminine side can be perceived when she daintily prances through the grass, as if to avoid mussing her paws or her tail, all the while her vibrant orange vinyl collar gleaming against the wiry black fur. The sojourn was a magnificent success. It was an amazing ride through the rolling hills above Pleasanton (Oracle and wind power country). And the best part was watching Sadie having the time of her life--running like the wind, nearly always ahead of us, even racing downhill.

So on this sunny Sunday, I wanted to do it again. But somewhere different.(The guy from a year and a half ago is history, incidentally, but that's another story. . . ) So my partner and I, a guy who used to road bike 75 miles in one day, headed out for the Morgan Territory Regional Preserve, near Livermore, but high, high above.

It's a place of mostly wide track open dirt trail on rolling green hills, with occasional forays into more forested areas. A wondrous place to be on a sunny spring day. Expect spectacular views as far as 100 miles away to the snow-capped peaks of the Sierra Nevada. Closer in are views of Antioch/Stockton, Los Vaqueros Reservoir, and the San Joaquin Valley to the East; Dublin/Pleasanton and the San Ramon Valley to the West. Getting to the parking lot at the begining of the trail takes you through ten miles on a one lane road that winds through an area of estates and stables. This is beautiful country and the perfect time to be here for a bike ride is a spring or fall day. Because in the full summer it can get dreadfully hot. And if it's a windy day in the winter--look out. The wind is fierce. So high up and so open. Nothing to brace it.

But Sadie didn't care. As we put on another layer or two before heading for the beginning of the trail, Sadie already knew that we had planned a wonderful afternoon for her. She picked up the nearest stick, tail wagging ferociously, and placed it at my feet. But we had better things to do. "Come on, Sadie. Let's go."



The entire three hours we rode, we ran into one other mountain biker and maybe as many as five or six hikers. That's all. Oh yes, there was one other dog. That's one of the many reasons this trail is so well suited to riding with your dog. As I've menioned, it's a wide trail. (Note: in dry weather the road is very, very rutted, partly because of the rains that came before and left their mark and partly because many of the grazing cattle that roam all along these trails have left their mark as well. So expect a lot of bouncing on your seat. Wear the best-padded bicycle shorts you have and remember to lift off your seat whenever it makes sense, which will be a lot.)

So even though we sailed through a few areas laced with poison oak, the trail itself is free of it. As long as your dog is under voice command (which is one of the rules posted), you're absolutely fine. The other rule is to have with you a leash that is no shorter than 6ft. You don't have to use it; but you need to have it with you just in case.

Be sure to bring water (of course for you, but I'm talking about your dog). A dog treat or two wouldn't hurt either. Our Fido ran like the wind and when we stopped in the middle of the ride and then at the end, she drank ravenously from one of those portable canvas bowls.

One thing about Sadie--not only does she like to run with the bikes, she insists on being in the lead. And if she isn't, she barks in protest. She also likes "the pack" to stay together. Once or twice, when i was off-bike and way behind my bike buddy, Sadie whimpered sadly, as if to say, "Wait, she's back there. Something is horribly wrong."

Bike riding with your canine pal is a wonderful workout for your pal (and you as well). But be careful. Just like people, every dog is different. So be sure to monitor if your Fido is happily running along or if he is panting, dehydrated, and keeping up with you only out of love, not enjoyment. It so happens that my Fido seems to have a self-rewind. She'll run to what seems like exhaustion, but then a rest of a few minutes seems quite enough for her to recharge, and then she's ready for more. But you be the judge. And you don't have to ride the whole trail. There are plenty of options, with an assortment of paths that wind around and rejoin. When you get to the parking lot, you'll see plenty of brochures available that map it all out for you.


Happy trails to you (and Fido).

From San Francisco, take the Bay Bridge to Interstate 580, continue to Livermore and exit North Livermore Avenue. Head north to the junction of Morgan Territory Road. Turn right, drive 10.7 miles (this is where it gets very narrow and winding)to the staging area, where parking is free.

He's gone, but he's still everywhere

[published in the Marin Independent Journal, June 3, 2008]

Peter died in April. We’d known each other for more than thirty years. We were friends, lovers, husband and wife, divorced. Sometimes we hardly spoke, so angry at each other that we needed to feel we were on the opposite ends of the earth. But in spite of that and surprising to us both in the end, the love we had was stronger than our ability not to feel it. It simply was. Like the air. How can the air be missing?

Painful, bittersweet and lasting--the sorrow you feel after the death of someone you loved stretches you. It’s an enrichment in that way. It has something to do with how all-encompassing the missing of that person is. How you look for him everywhere, because you sense him around you. How you see him at the steering wheel in the car behind you as you cross the Golden Gate Bridge or in the warm brown eyes of a mother deer in China Camp. You sense the movement of his hand in the wind at Rodeo Beach, or his breath over the horizon at the end of the day. And you feel yourself expanding because you're reaching in all the corners, farther than you've ever reached before. Wanting to touch what you know is out of reach, but looking for a way to do it anyway. Because you know, you simply know he's everywhere.

It has something to do with the depth of feeling, knowing that in order to survive you need to keep moving forward, to accept the sorrow as you would any imperfection in yourself or in others. Imperfections that you can do nothing about. And in that, you are perfect.

It's an exploration of what love really means. How it floods you with songs and lyrics, photographs of time you shared. Smiles and tears through the minutes and the hours. And the paradox of loving someone so much in spite of all the reasons not to. Loving unconditionally. Which is the revelation.

More than anyone it was Peter who urged me to write, who convinced me I was good at it, and who led me to believe in myself. Peter, wherever you are, find peace in your heart knowing that you'll forever be in mine.