kilo1118

[kilo1118]

"Have a safe flight." Stacy is a cyber friend. We met during the height of Covid. I was deemed an essential worker and with that had returned to my travel and hotel work schedule in June 2020. Bars and restaurants were not yet open for in-person business. This lifestyle came with being newly single and with that I was often lonely. One or two nights a week my musician friend Tom would come on Facebook and play a live guitar music set. It was more than entertainment as Tom greeted all of us when we logged on and took song requests. Written dialogue was presented in a constant stream between Tom and us listeners. This created a much-needed sense of community in our lives. "Have a safe flight." I am given that send-off with regularity. I was involved in theatre for years. The expression, "Break a leg," is a way to give a shout-out to an actor who is beginning a performance, as "Good luck" comes with an awkward unspoken component of doom. Have a nice flight, feels even more doom-ridden to me. I don't quite understand the suggestion. What would my flight look like if it wasn't safe? It's not like I am likely to slip and fall in the plane's aisle or spill hot coffee in my lap. Ultimately, Stacy like so many others was wishing me that my flight didn't crash. I think well-wishing before a flight needs a rebranding. Perhaps, "Break a wing," or "May your landing gear engage." Something like that. Whenever possible I choose an aisle seat on a flight. Window seats are for amateurs and apparently, middle seats are for the morbidly obese who spill over into the adjacent seat (My seat). On this particular flight, I was the fatty, as my neighbor was a 40-something father of two with the body fat of an Olympic cyclist. I turned down the complimentary pretzels as I have developed a gluten intolerance. Jason explained to me that his health-conscious wife was gluten-free and with that, his whole family avoided wheat-based products. As we talked I found myself forming air quotes. It has become a terrible overused habit. It makes me look like a college coed who has learned that displaying air quotes is a wonderful way to further her attachment to hipster irony. "Lyndsay, he showed up so (insert air quote) well dressed (air quote) for our date." I can't find the discipline to stop doing it. Maybe I shouldn't fight it. Perhaps, instead, I will embrace my inner Jesica. I will continue the use of air quotes and I will add mime to other forms of punctuation. Two cupped hands spread a foot apart to express a parenthetical. Bent elbow with a clenched fist to signify an exclamation point. Three quick fist pumps to mime an ellipsis. My itinerary was a single night in Chicago for a meeting. Two easy 1:45-minute direct flights got me there and back safely. My pending schedule will likely keep me on the ground until October.

[kilo1118]

I am working in Sandusky, Ohio this week. Sandusky is a small but thriving city that sits on the banks of Lake Eire. Like so many Mid-Western cities and towns, Sandusky was built on the back of America's industrial heyday. Much of that periods original architecture remains today. Mostly along Water Street. There is a housing trend that has emerged in the last few decades, one that is turning out-of-use factory buildings into loft style, high end apartments and condominiums. When done well, these apartments have towering ceilings, often 14 or 16 feet high, with exposed brick walls, floor to ceiling windows, and open floor plans. Inner corridors  lead to fitness centers, and common spaces for events or simply congregating. Sandusky has several of these factory to housing conversions. My youngest son, Jackson, will often stay at my house in upstate NY, on his way to visiting his mother in New Jersey. On his way south he will spend time in a mall that has an indoor, year-round snowboard park. My local mall in Albany, NY, has a comedy club and a slew of restaurants. Like the industrial apartment buildings of Sandusky and other cities, many suburban malls have been repurposed as well. Where globalization has maimed America's industrial might, online shopping has done the same to the American mall. On my more optimistic, less cynical days, instead of seeing all of this change as negative, I am instead encouraged and in awe of American ingenuity and flexibility. I can't imagine that these economic conversions could have been achieved through public sector funding. Few would have the stomach for taxpayer dollars being spent on luxury apartments or middle-class entertainment. Yet, the world never stands still. We humans are dynamic creatures and with that I think that change is inevitable. How we respond to that change determines our level of failure or success in life, both individually and as a society.

(I have all but ceased posting social comentary on Facebook. First, because my freindship base now consits of many work collegues which makes for a less safe space to express myself, and second, because (I have learned often the hard way) sociopolitical discource doesn't seem to play well on a public forum. Still, I miss exploring ideas and learning from others) As I grew up in the 1970s and came of age in the 80s I listened as a segment of society equated doing things collectively with socialism and with that, somehow, un-American. Today, I see another segment of society equating capitalism with immorality. The truth is, these are simple economic theories and practices, and are amoral rather than immoral. Asking economic theory to have compassion, empathy, or sensitivity, is like asking a mathmatical equation or actuarial to be concerened with your feelings. I have had diologue with two friends this week. One is a practising Catholic, and a conservative. Though, he tips his hat to Bernie Sanders. Once proclaiing that, "He makes some really good points." The other friend is a bright, well spoken liberal, who like so many on the left these days, appears to have more concern with the reactionaries of the middle east than with the more secular and progressive Jewish state of Israel. I appreciate having both of their voices in my life. I don't think the political right or left present the greatest threat to our way of life. Instead, I think it is traibalism. I have lost far more friends on social media who vote the way I vote than who vote for the opposing political party. I am confident that this not a product of the people who usually disagree with me politically, being more tolorant of opposing political views, but instead, because what is experienced as being far worse than a person on the other side of isle, is someone who betrays the tribe. I learn so little in an echo chamber. Hearing only my own voice or one that sounds very similar to mine, bouncing off the walls of intelectual discource and returning to me.

[kilo1118]

I'm flying my daughter, Torey, out to visit me in New Orleans. She'll arive around 5:00 pm tonight. It dawned on me that I didn't have any sleeping shorts, but rememebered the outlet stores from my river walk the day before. I would get in my morning steps and find a sporting goods store to buy gym shorts, comfortable for lounging and sleeping. I downloaded a pedometer app on my phone, and of cource I am now procupied with how many steps I take each day. When I am not working and not driving I strive (or stride) for at least the recomended 10,000 steps a day. I now grade myself: 20,000 steps gets me an A. 15,000 a B. 10,000 is a C. 5000, a D. Anything less than 5000 is deemed a sloth day. On this mornings walk I found myself conjuring up a thesis on New Orleans: I think Nola is comprised of three predominant influences. Art, Queer Culture, and Ethnicity. Under the umbrella of "art," ( I hate to even mention the word umbrella, as it has finally stopped raining here) is first and formost the ubiquitous music scene. New Orleans sings, dances, and performs, morning through night. Most of the music is offered up on a pay as yoou wish basis. This Marxist paradigm that states "from each his ability, to each according to his needs" apears to work well. However, Nola's art scene is more than just music. Julia St. in the Warehouse District is littered with art galaries. Unlike the tourist centered art found in the French Quarter, the gallaries in the Warehouse rival those of any major art city west of New York. Also found under the embrella of art is the colorful way many residents present, in dress and style. Much of this is performative but even then, it's done well. There is an overlap between this art that is fashion based, with the second New Orleans influence of Queer Culture. If you have ever been to Provinctown on Cape Cod, you've experienced a tamer, more laid back exhibition of "out" queer culture. When I looked for a bar where I could watch the late game of the NFL playoffs yesterday, I found an obscure Karaoke bar. Soon after ariving a couple came in, both in their 30s. One of the two wore an ecceptionally low-cut shirt with the largest breasts I have ever witnessed. This persons partner was well over six feet tall, born genetically male, but presenting as an enormouslly-fabulous woman. Most everyoine at the bar was younger and they all seemed to know each other well. It is mardi gras in New Orleans right now. with that, there are parades almost every night. Even if the stated themes of the parades are sexually-secular, they are still very much influened by New orleans queer culture. ie, penises everywhere! I find it lovely how comfortable and out queer culture is in this city. One moment it's outragous, the next tender and loving. Just like having lived long enough to see the countries first black president I am equaly delighted to see this expression of sexuality and joy presented with such unihibited and unapologetic fervor. The third great factor influencing New Orleans is ethnicity: Cre·ole: a person of mixed European and Black descent, especially in the Caribbean. Ca·jun: a member of any of the largely self-contained communities in the bayou areas of southern Louisiana formed by descendants of French Canadians, speaking an archaic form of French. Af·ri·can A·mer·i·can: Black American of African descent. These three ethnocultural designations define New Orleans as much as anything else. Again, there is overlap as so much of the art created here is done so by the hand of said ethnocutures. And of cource, there are queer folk of every ethnic group. I can't recomend a better place to spoend some time. Sure, stroll down Burboun Steet. Have a beignet cafe du monde. But take some time away from that. Get your hands dirty. Have a sensual experience with this great city.

[kilo1118]

American Airlines 35E. There was no way to spin it, "E" I would mean being squeeezed into a dreaded middle seat on my impending flight from Albany International to Charlotte NC. It would be a two hour and six minute flight, a two hour layover, and then on to New Orleans. The woman's voice could be heard clearly over the speaker. "Can Passenger Joshua Krushenick please come to gate B10?" My guilty concience searched the recesess of my mind. "They found something in my luggage that shouldn't be there." No, that didn't add up, I hadn't even checked a bag. They would have stopped me at the security checkpoint if that had been the case. Anyway, I'm a 59 year old white guy; short of a kilo of cocain or severed head in my luggage, I wasn't being detained. Maybe a family crises. One of my kids, my 93 year old mother? I nervously approched the desk at B10. "would you be willing to sit in an emergency exit row?" asked the attendant. "yes, yes, absolutely," I replied. I then went on, explaining my dread of the middle seat and of being detained for contraband. I left out the reference to the severed head. As I finished my enthusiastic rant I realized that I sounded too much like the Progressive Insurance comercial, the one about preventing you from becoming your parents. This women didn't need the details of my anxiety, just as simple "yes," would sufice. I was still in a middle seat but I had an absurdly generous amount of leg room. Why had they chosen me, I wondered. Maybe, my strapping masculenity? My relative youth? My fit physique? This all seemed as unlikely as being detained for having a human body part in my carryon bag. The flight attendant began her speach, informing we travelers of the safety rules. I paid close attention. I was in an exit row after all, the entire passenger log was depending on me for their survival. I have heard these safty tip numerous times, as I am a frequent flyer. My seat cusion could be used as a floataion device in the unlikely accurance of a water landing. the attendant then placed a the yellow lifevest over her head and mimicked pulling the strap and then blowing into the nozzle to inflate said life vest. I'm a hands on learner. I have never been good with written or verbal instruction. Here I was, sitting in an exit row, in a 200 ton flying vessal, with hundreds of good souls counting on my valor and expertise to save them. I wanted to suggest that maybe we should practice. Drop the air masks from overhead. let me secure mine before helping others. Drop the slide, and let me navigate the 40 pound exit door. Have me ride the slide onto the runway while clutching my seat cusion. This was all too much responsibility for one man without the benefit of a practice run. I have short legs anyway. I would have been fine in a non exit row seat. I arrived in New Orleans at 5:52 CST. I deboarded and chose the onsite taxi over requesting an Uber. Upon arrival I expertly navigated the entrance of my Faubourg Marigny Airbnb, as it was the same one I had rented last January. I'll spend two weeks here in Nola, rather than the three I spent in 2023. I fulfilled my public service duty on my flight. Now it is time for two weeks of hedonistic self indulgance. I set up my toiletries in the bathroom. I placed my cloths neatly in the dresser. I hung my shirts in the closet and I placed the severed head in the freezer.

[kilo1118]

Mechanical issues: That was the reason given for my flight delay. I was working outside of Cleveland, heading home, via a connecting flight at O'Hair. It soon became self evident that I would miss my connection in Chicago. Denise, at the gate, was wonderful, she covered all of the bases for me. If I couldn't get out of Cleveland that night they would put me up in a hotel. However, being that O'Hair is "hub," if I could get to Chicago there would be many more options for me to get home in the morning than if I stayed in Cleveland.

I was heading into a perfect storm; It was December 21st, holiday traffic already made this one of the heaviest flight days of the year. Additionally, we would soon learn that O'Hair, one of the busiest airports in the country, would have 1300 flight cancelations, the result of the impending snowstorm. It seemed quite possible that I would be spending the holiday in a hotel room, with only a light jacket, and a weather forecast featuring windchills of 30 below zero. If this was my fate, I would make the best of it. I would go to a museum, order takeout, lounge by the hotel pool, maybe write a little.

We were told that a new plane was "found" and that we were heading to Chicago. I would not make my connection, but I would indeed be at a major hub. It struck me as being odd that there was a spare plane at the Cleveland airport. Who has spare planes just laying around on the busiest travel day of the year, I wondered. I envisioned an old hanger at the edge of the tarmac. The maintenance crew would dust off a plane that had Boeing, or maybe Eastern, emblazed on the side of it. In my minds eye I saw a couple of large propellers, and an old pilot in a leather bomber jacket and goggles.

Standing in line with me was a woman with a fuzzy dog on a leash. It was the second time in as many flights that I witnessed a passenger boarding with a dog. The woman seemed to have her eyesight as she was madly texting on her phone. It could have been a braille phone I surmised, but no, I was sure that this was no Mary Ingalls I would be boarding with.

An emotional support dog, I assumed. Fair enough, we can all experience anxiety. We were possibly getting onto a World War ll era plane, heading into a snowstorm, with no connecting flight, after all. I too could have benefited from emotional support. It's not that I don't like dogs, I think most are sweet lovely animals. I just think that with dogs I'm more like ones dear aunt, who never had children, never wanted children, but still enjoys their company, albeit on a limited bases.

Though, this did feel decidedly unfair. Her emotional support of choice was a poodleish looking animal. As mentioned, I am not a dog person, I travel too much and I can't see early morning dog walking in 30 below windchill. To each his or her own when it comes to our mental health was my notion. She can have her dog, but where was my palliative? Emotional support bourbon felt right for me. I should be able to board this old relic of a plane with a stylish glass tumbler and a 750 milliliter bottle of Buffalo Trace Reserve. Additionally, I thought it was fair to assume that my emotional support "animal" would neither bark, nor have an accident in the aisle of the plane. Though, if too much emotional support was needed, I suppose it could be argued that I might.

I headed downstairs from my hotel room at 8:15am, comfortably in time for my 8:30 shuttle back to O'Hair. When I asked at the desk they said a shuttle had just left and the next one was full. To add to that, Uber drivers were either backed up or unwilling to persevere through the obscene traffic heading to the airport. I nodded my head and grimaced. Okay, what are my alternatives I asked the eleven year old girl behind the front desk. She said, hold on, and disappeared. When she returned she told me to walk out front, the hotel manager would be driving me to the airport. This I thought was going beyond the call of duty. I climbed into said managers Nissan and off we went. I never got his name, but we talked nonstop for the entire ride. He was my age, and like me divorced. He said that the lifestyle of his work was not easy on a marriage. We spoke of the changes in the hospitality industry and then of our grown children. I was dropped off at my terminal and walked briskly through the doors.

O'Hair was a mess. People everywhere, it felt chaotic. The uniformed workers were amazing. None of them appeared stressed or anxious. I was helped several times in finding my way. I wasn't 100% sure I had a seat on my new flight, nor was I sure if my new flight would even take off, that with the immanent storm looming and all of the resulting flight cancelations.

I stood on a long line at security with a n Asian couple. Between their masks and English as a second language we struggled slightly with communication . They soon realized that our line wasn't for security but instead a line for customer service. They guided me with them to where we needed to go. I was grateful.

I boarded my plane, not believing I was really heading home until we were airborne. On my flight I thought of everyone who had helped me over the previous 24 hours. Countless people went out of their way to get me where I needed to be, relieving me of much stress. Maybe I didn't have a support dog or even support bourbon, but I didn't need either. I made lovely human connections. People with vastly different backgrounds and ethnicities, took care and nurtured me through a stressful time. I would not have traded that experience for anything. A simple trip home as planned would have been easier, to be sure, but I'm not looking for easy anymore. I'm looking for experiences. My favorite experiences, I've learned, are the ones that revolve around people, around human interaction. I certainly got that in these last two days.

[kilo1118]

The FBI search of Mar-a-Lego and the subsequent criticism of the agency, emanating from supporters of the former president, including many elected officials and members of the opinion based media has been a shocking revelation for those of us old enough to remember a time when the right-of-center disposition was to support all things related to law enforcement.   On the left, the Black Lives matter movement was/is at least as critical of the police as the aforementioned conservatives are of our counties law enforcement institutions. It feels as though our countries men (women) in blue and men (women)in black are getting it from left and right. As someone who came of age in the late 70′s and early eighties, and lived the lifestyle of an outlaw-teenager, the police were, if not the enemy, people to be feared and avoided at all cost. whether I was carrying contraband on my person, or irresponsibly driving under the influence, the very sight of a man in a blue uniform made me quiver.   Later, in my 20′s, I bartended full-time in a ruffian corner bar in Old City Philadelphia. “Maggie's,” was an off the radar joint with cheap beer and whiskey, making it a perfect stop-in for drunks, adulterers, hipsters, and off duty cops and firemen. I loved the fire fighters; they were the salt-of-the-earth, usually friendly and polite. From time to time when things were slow and I was one-on-one with a professional fire fighter, I would be enthralled with anecdotes of the harrowing events my fire fighter patron conveyed to me. Where the firefighters usually arrived in small groups and laughed and were congenial, the cops were distinctly different: they often came in stag, weary, and cynical. Racist epithets were common as were tails of their institutional abuse.  My whole adult life I carried these memories and the biases they provoked. I loathed cops. I saw them all as corrupt and abusive. Then, by chance encounter, my paradigm shifted: The Hudson Valley is a region that stretches from the Capital District, consisting of Albany and Troy south to Yonkers in Westchester County which borders  New York City. Before the arrival of the Corona Virus I anticipated a boon to the Hudson Valley real estate market. The area seemed undervalued so I began investing. After buying and selling several properties in the small town of Catskill, a place I used to call home, I bought a place in Schenectady, where I reside today. However, I continue to maintain several houses in Catskill. One of my real estate agents, by the name of Brian, happened to be a Catskill police officer. Brian is in his 40′s and has since retired from the police force, real estate was to be his retirement gig. Brian was the first cop I knew personally. I found him to be friendly, hard working, and a seriously decent guy. During the months that followed the George Floyd murder Catskill had a Black Lives Matter march. I arrived late and decided I would witness the march rather than participate. I stood outside of Crossroads Brewery and took it all in. The march was large for a small town, there were at least a couple hundred participants. A bald guy dressed like everyone else, inconspicuous and not in anyway drawing attention to himself made eye contact with me, it was Brian. He stepped off the protest route and we did a COVID fist bump, and then he continued onward, marching with the rally.    I met up with my friend Bon, and we stood with the throngs of people at the conclusion of the march. Bon and I were at the very back of the group. A speaker asked that we all remain silent as he timed out 8 minutes and 46 seconds, the exact amount of time that officer Derick Chauvin compressed George Floyd’s neck brutally ending his life. Behind us there was were two small barricades with two cops speaking to each other in hushed voices. I thought to myself, how awkward this must be for them, but here they had to be, doing their job. I’m not sure where we are headed as a country;  I am not old enough to have fully comprehended the turbulence of the Vietnam War and  Civil Rights era, I was a young child after all. I do know that if I had not met Brian, I would never have felt sympathy for those two cops manning the barricade, standing there protecting all of us even in the face of them being by proxy, the subject of much of the rallies ire.  I don’t consider myself a brave person, my risks have been financial, conversational, or creative. I have never put my life at risk, not in the military, the FBI, a police force, or a fire department. I don’t excuse Derick Chauvin. I don’t excuse the mostly left-of-center young people who derided their generational peers when they arrived home as veterans from the Vietnam war. I don’t excuse the mostly right-of-center people threatening the FBI, today. I was proud of Brain that day at the rally. That was bravery I thought. Still an active cop, marching at a BLM rally. I think being brave is a willingness to risk ones physical safety, but I also think bravery is a willingness stand up to ones peers, to challenge the tribe.  I am ashamed of myself: (for many reasons) but in this context for how I have thought about and considered law enforcement throughout most of my adult life. I am a better man having met and befriended Brian. I may not be the man he is, but I am a better version of myself. I have learned in life that I love apologizing and just as with compliments, the more detailed the better, as there is a realization of power that comes with humility and with self deprecation. This essay is an attempt at doing just that. 

[kilo1118]

The Supreme court ruled, in a 5 to 4 decision, to overturn Roe V Wade: Amy  Coney Barrett voted with the majority to strike down the law, while John Roberts and Stephen Breyer voted with the minority to uphold the law. Polls have consistently shown that views on abortion are virtually identical when viewed through the prism of gender. Whereas, a recent poll indicated that 80% of Republicans were satisfied with the recent SCOTUS ruling, while  88% of Democrats were dissatisfied, proving that political affiliation is a much better indicator of ones views on abortion than is gender. Religiosity is also a strong indicator on how one views reproductive rights. There is a clear correlation between how religiously devout one is, whether Christian, Jewish, or Muslim, and their stance on reproductive rights. i.e., the more religious someone is, the more likely they were to support the overturning of Roe.  Why then I wonder, is the vitriol from women over the overturning of Roe V Wade (justified, in my opinion), targeted at men (unjustified by the statistics). My first conclusion was that it was a simple case of misandry. If one believes, as I do, that for every misogynist there exists an equal and opposite misandrist, this makes perfect sense. Webster defines misandry as “dislike, contempt or ingrained prejudice” towards men. I think the motivating factor in this case likely stems from the latter, ingrained prejudice. My second thought when contemplating this misappropriation of the vitriol, was whether is was harmful or detrimental to the cause of preserving reproductive autonomy.,  or to society in general. Change in a modern, functional, democratic society is realized through the political process. The history of bombing abortion clinics or the assassinations' of of doctors who preformed the abortion procedure, did little if anything to curtail the procedure, instead it was the pollical process that has altered the landscape, both in 1973 and again today. I can’t imagine that men, having been scapegoated on the issue, would be more likely to engage in the political process in defense of reproductive autonomy, as a result. Basic diplomacy teaches us that we are best served if we don’t denigrate our allies.  Reproductive autonomy is a men’s issue too: The fact that it is exclusively a woman’s body that is inhabited by human cells that develop into a fetus is inarguable. The outrage that another person, regardless of their gender, should dictate whether an individual needs to act as an incubator for said lifeform, is understandably infuriating. However, the majority of women in this country are opposed to third and even late second-trimester abortions, meaning they too want the state to control women’s bodies, it’s a case of when not if. or to paraphrase the old joke, we’re just haggling over the price. A woman has a window of pregnancy that lasts approximately 30 years, or 40% of her average life expectancy, where the male part of the equation encompasses him for 80% of his life. Additionally, a woman can choose to have an abortion (where legal) for any reason, including a perceived career, education, or financial burden. A man does not have that luxury, he is at the mercy of the woman’s decision (as he should be), and can be sued for child support even if he would have chosen not to have a child. He, as a man, has no “choice.” In this way, protecting a woman’s right to choose to end a pregnancy, protects men too. Many men, including this writer, would have had a dramatically different life, if abortion was not a safe and viable option for their partner.  What would be the risk and/or subsequent reward, in targeting the true enemies of liberal, reproductive rights, instead of scapegoating men? I don’t know that I am qualified to answer the risk portion of the equation. I do know that there must be something of value in continuing with the misappropriation of blame, or it wouldn’t exist, It must serve a cultural purpose. As to the reward, I think how wonderful it would be for teenage boys, and young men, if their opinions on abortion were how they were judged by girls and women, and not something they have no control over, their gender. How good it would be for gender relations, in general, if boys and men of any age were appreciated and valued for their feminism, by progressive like minded women. It feels decidedly illiberal to condemn people based on gender, and yet it is this exact demographic, liberal women, who are doing so.  Amy Coney Barrett is a woman who voted to curtail female autonomy on reproductive rights. John Roberts and Stephen Breyer are men who voted to protect that independence. Should a 70 year old evangelical women, long past the age of reproduction, have input in to what an individual woman can choose to do with her body? Should a 19 year old man, who made an irresponsible (non) decision, and along with his partner want to terminate a pregnancy, not have a voice? He is your ally, progressive women. I am your ally. Disparage conservatism, disparage the Republican party, disparage religiosity. Don’t disparage the little boys who hear your derogatory rhetoric, don’t disparage your fathers, and your brothers. You are not beyond reproach. You are capable of gender based bigotry and of misappropriating blame, just as much as men. I am your friend. Choose to change.

[kilo1118]

Santora’s is a pub and grille that has a rear entrance on Flint Road, in Amherst NY., This is my the entrance of my choice when staying at the hotel across the back parking lot, Amherst is a suburb of Buffalo. There was one bar stool available when I arrived, shortly after 5:00pm. John, a guy I have gotten to know over the years, sat to my left. Joe, the bartender, placed a frothy pint of the pubs house brewed, “1927,″  West Coast IPA in front of me. John and I caught-up as the man who was sitting to my right payed his bill and walked out with his takeout order.  Shortly after the man to my right left the bar, a grizzled guy with an unkempt grey beard and a Santa belly squeezed in beside me. He was dressed down and I reflexively recoiled, breathing in, hoping he wouldn’t smell funny, or begin talking my ear off with incessant babble. John payed his bill, wished me well, and exited himself. Sure enough, in the moments that followed, my new neighbor begin to engage me. He told me he didn’t follow sports, a comment prompted by the large flat screen televisions being viewed overhead by many of we patrons. As the man and I spoke I soon learned that he was a long time resident of the area, somewhat retired, and a relatively new widower. He told me his name was Donald, and that he had lost his wife a few years ago after thirty five years together. I was ashamed of my initial bias and apprehension, I found Donald to be interesting and intimate.  Donald told me that he was 68 years old, making him 11 years my senior. I have taken special notice over recent years to what I have begun to refer to as half generations. Half generations, as I appreciate them, are people that I meet that are clearly too young to have been a parent, but too old to be a sibling. Generally speaking, based on my age (57), these are people that are either in their 40′s or between their mid 60′s and early 70′s. When it’s done right, these are some of my favorite friendships established or conversations had. When someone is more than 15 years my junior or senior, there are inevitable cultural differences, significant enough that I am always aware that we are not peers. Pop culture references may fall flat, certain colloquialisms will often feel forced or maybe not understood at all, the very zeitgeist changes. Conversely, with true peers, social competition and a certain form of judgement can often linger over a conversation. I find it more common when conversing with a peer that one or both of us have a need to prove ourselves. This is what has me finding that the conversations had with the Half-Generationers are often some of the most rewarding for me.  As mentioned, Donald lost his wife of thirty-five years, a few years ago. We began to talk about grief and loss. I told him that I was almost embarrassed to draw a caparison, but that I had suffered greatly from the ending of relationship that I had a few years back. Donald shook his head, he said simply, it’s still loss. I felt nurtured by his emotional generosity. We were in Buffalo; we spoke of the shooting at the nearby Tops grocery store, and of the grief of the families and greater community. I told Donald that my greatest fear was that the love of my life was in my past and not in my future -  that it had already happened. Donald told me that it would be different, but that it wouldn’t be less than. Because Donald was a half-generationer, I was completely comfortable with him mentoring me, I didn’t need to prove anything, it was okay that he knew more and had wisdom to impart, even knowing that I might not be able to reciprocate.   I said goodnight to Donald, and headed out. I had taken about five steps when  I halted, did a one eighty, and walked back over to Donald. I put my hand on his back and told him how sorry I was for his loss, and thanked him for the conversation. When I returned to my hotel I had much to think on. I began to question whether grief or love can be quantified. My loss, Donald’s loss, the loss of the families related to the Tops shooting victims, was all grief. Perhaps there was absolutely no need or value in quantifying that grief, any more than there would be in quantifying the level of love we had all experienced. Simply put, we were all grieving over lost love. By talking about it with Donald we had become witnesses to each others humanity. I was witness to Donald’s capacity to love and grieve as he was to mine.  I knew from experience that grief couldn’t be quantified, It would be foolish to ask myself if I grieved more over the loss of my father, over twenty years ago, than I did over the loss of my love more recently. Maybe just as foolish to rank how much I have ever loved or ever would love in the future, be it my kids, my romances, or my parents. This wasn’t the overhead TV at the bar with game on after all. The game would have a clear winner and loser. Donald, the shooting victims families, and I, were all winners having loved, and all grieving having lost, not one more than the other. I’m a big proponent of engaging with people ten years one’s senior, or junior. If you are humble enough to be mentored, caring enough to nurture, focused  enough to bear witness, these half-generations  can be an invaluable resource and of great comfort. As a man I will work to help a woman 15 years younger get a job interview, without hitting on her. I will occasionally flirt with the woman 12 years older, she’s not invisible, she’s actually pretty hot, and I’m more likely to be the one walking away with the crush. I’ll let a guy 10 years older teach me as I don’t always have to portray as the smartest guy in the conversation. With the guy 14 years younger, I’ll tell him to never forget to love his wife; he’s likely been told dozens of times to value every day with his kids, he needs to know from this half-generationer to adore his wife. 

[kilo1118]

I’m thinking I might date Elizabeth Hurley. We’re virtually the same age, she’ll turn 57 in June, we are the same height, 5′ 8″. I even did a decade of community theatre in my thirties and forties, so we have acting in common. I find her very attractive, so It feels likes a good match.  I wonder of she’d come to Schenectady, where I live. She could fly into Albany International, form Heathrow, as I’ve read that she’s English. Or, perhaps LAX, if she’s working on a film in Los Angeles. I imagine that she’ll take a private helicopter from Albany, so I’ll need to pick out a restaurant with a sturdy roof. I’ll be charming and gentlemanly, I’ll pull out her chair when she arrives and let her order first. I bet her hair will be a mess form the helicopter’s rotor downwash, but I won’t mention it, I’ll just tell her she looks beautiful. We’ll talk about my work, my kids, and the things I like to do, and then I’ll ask her about her career. I’ll ask, in a stage whisper, what she thinks of Brendan Frazier’s weight gain since the time they were in Bedazzled together. I’m kind of gossipy like that, I hope it’s not a turnoff.   After dinner we’ll take a walk around Schenectady, I’ll flirt mildly and she’ll cock her head to the side and blush, then she’ll nervously curl her hair around her ear. If fortune strikes, there will be a florist open late, or perhaps a bodega that sells those single roses in the plastic tube. I know Liz (I think she’ll tell me to call her that) will appreciate the sentiment. Liz will thank me for a lovely evening and we’ll head back to the restaurant and head up to the roof, where her helicopter will be waiting. Once again, I’m sure the rotor downwash will have her hair windswept, it’s then that I’ll have to decide if the tenor of they date warrants my stealing a kiss. If so, I’ll be nervous, but I’ll gently remove a messy lock of hair from the corner of her mouth  and replace it with my lips. So, it’s either Elizabeth Hurley, or makemelaugh, from OKCupid. makemelaugh is attractive too, she also likes the beach and she likes to travel. She hikes and Kayaks, and apparently all of her friends think she’s quite funny. She’s 54, but everyone says she looks younger, and the way to her heart is by making her laugh, which makes her parents amazingly intuitive, as evidenced when choosing her name. Finally, she’s not looking for a hookup and I should please swipe left if that’s what I want. I think makemelaugh should know that stealing a kiss under the rotor blade is hookup enough, for me.  The problem I foresee with dating Elizabeth Hurley is our respective work schedules. I travel frequently for work, and between her bathing suit photo shoots and her acting gigs, Liz is gone frequently too. I know by her dating profile that makemelaugh is quite funny, as I can’t imagine that all of her friends could be lying about that. Where, If my memory serves me, Brendon Frazier was the funny one in Bedazzled, and Elizabeth Hurley was kind of dry. That can become exhausting, the whole bathing suit model with the dry sense of humor thing. It’s not like I have to make a decision at this very moment. I suppose I could go on a date with both and see how I feel. It’s just that makemelaugh lives in neighboring Niskayuna, where Elizabeth Hurley would be seriously adjusting her schedule to accommodate me.

[kilo1118]

I have HBO Max. Though it’s not really mine. My EX girlfriend of five months left it on my Smart TV, before she left herself. My Spectrum channel lineup is still on hers. If this was a negotiation, I'd come up short, but I have no animus, so it's a win-win. My kids share Netflix with their mom, they left their accounts on my TV when they visited, so now I have Netflix. I have a NY Times app, thanks to a previous dating experience. I’m thinking I should make having a subscription to SHOWTIME, Hulu, or the Washington Post  a priority, when next dating.  On a cynical morning, when the promise of spring looked more like the coffee cup lid and plastic wrapper, that the thaw uncovered in my driveway, than it did the promise of warmer weather and longer days, I asked myself if we are little more than vending machines in each others lives. Just readily available  bags of chips, with a 2 ounce lie of promised sustenance.  Then something happens like last night: I have a friend I sometimes sleep with. Not euphemistically, we actually just sleep. Well, we do so much more than that. We go out to dinner, we curl up  on the sofa and I massage her feet. We commiserate about life’s hardships, we watch a movie and then we cuddle in bed all night. In the morning we take turns going downstairs and refilling each others coffee. We sit side by side, my arm around her shoulder, and we drink coffee in bed, and discuss deep thoughts. She tells me that when she meets men she never tells them that she’s a Cornell professor, because it scares them off. I tell her how I’m most interested in well educated women, that they make me purr, and that smart women expand my world and I’m cursed because I I can’t have it any other way now. She tells me that the guys she dates talk endlessly about themselves, and she has to navigate through that, that’s it’s just part of the process. I tell her that women break my heart, that each and every one of them have a tragic story. She makes us eggs and one a slice of toast each. I watch her put an orange marmalade on her toast, so I do the same on mine.  When I left her house, we hugged on the porch and expressed our love for each other. I put my overnight bag in the back seat of my car, and headed home. As I drove north on route 87, I thought about our breakfast conversation. How we giggled about me being like a gay friend who happened to be straight, and about how our not sleeping together (euphemistically), kept things from getting complicated. Sometimes I chase the wrong things in life. I chase sex, or adoration, or a relief from loneliness. But when I do that I turn these lovely women into vending machines. They become two ounces of relief from my hunger.  I pulled into my driveway and picked up the plastic coffee cup lid and wrapper and threw them in my neighbors trash can. I looked out across the Mohawk River, flowing with abandon a result of springs thaw. I remembered how it was this very view of the river that led me to buy the house last fall and I smiled. I kicked off my shoes, and put my overnight bag down on the sofa. I turned on the Keurig and made myself a cup of black Sumatra. What was this? It was the exact same coffee region, brewed in the exact same way that I’d had it only a couple hours earlier. Yet, it wasn’t the same. For reasons no Cornell professor could ever explain, a woman, her house, and her marmalade toast, made coffee that much better.

[kilo1118]

I asked the all too kind woman I was working with for a manila envelope. She responded by telling me that she only had plain white envelopes, which should suffice for the documents I was holding in my hand. I thanked her, as I placed the mortgage paperwork she had scanned and emailed for me, into the stark white envelope. I headed back to the office in which I was working as I  contemplated the manila envelope. For a brief moment, as a child, I had mistakenly concluded that these  9 X 12 envelopes were called vanilla envelopes. This of course was a delightful notion, as I could all but taste the sweetness of the creamy white ice cream in my young maw. The envelopes weren't quite the color of vanilla, I thought, but maybe they were French vanilla, which was my favorite anyway. I didn’t quite know what French vanilla was, or even that it actually tasted better, I only knew that it had an exotic name. it was French after all, and this made it all the more delightful.  I closed the office door, envelope in hand, as I sat in the black padded chair, one that had long ago lost its hydraulic lift. How could I have gone almost 57 years on this planet, still not knowing what a manila envelope really was. If it wasn’t a flavor, was it a color, a county? I grabbed the Android made wonder-killer that was sitting on my desk and Googled manila envelope: - “The main element that makes up this durable style of envelope is the Manila hemp. The Manila hemp is derived from a species of banana originally from the Philippines, whose fibers are tough. The hemp is then used during the paper making process, similar to how Kraft paper uses wood pulp.  So the mystery is solved, the manila envelope gets its name from the hemp in which it is made from.” - A species of Banana, hemp, wow! This was good stuff. Were the bananas at least in part what gave the envelope its unique color, I asked myself. I still didn’t know if manila was exclusively the name for a folder, or was it by association, now a color. Either way, I decided right-then-and-there that I would use the word in that way from that moment forward.   With Halloween approaching, it struck me that one of my favorite candies might be manila in color. I have no idea what flavor the Butterfinger is, but it is decidedly manila. The notorious circus-peanut candy could also be described as a shade of manila. Even the burnt orange leaves, hanging on tentatively from my backyard tree, are manila colored. This leads me to a conclusion: We have long been told that the Halloween colors are Orange and Black, but I am thinking this might be all wrong. Maybe Halloween was always meant to be a manila and black holiday. 

[kilo1118]

When I was a kid I dreamt of being able to dunk a basketball. At one point in my late teens and into my twenties I could graze the rim, not bad for a lad who topped out at five foot eight inches, but still, not what I wanted. I would launch skyward, rescinding my dribble, Spalding palmed in right hand (hey, it's my fantasy), arm and chest extended. Then, like thunder, my arm would come crashing down, wrist to rim, ball ripping through the net, it would ricochet off my leg and fly in to next week. I would land in a crouched position, my thighs acting as shock absorbers as I reengaged with the earth. I consider what would be my chosen superpower today, if I could have one. Flying would be amazing, time travel sublime, and being able to see through women's clothing sounds highly desirable. Though more than anything, I wish I could sing. I would have the kind of voice that soared like my dunk; my chest once again extended, as a sweetness would erupt from my lungs, through my throat and out of my gaping jaw. I would have the type of voice that would bring tears to peoples eyes. I would stand mid staircase in New York subway stations, offering my limitless talent free of charge to passersby. I would be the highlight of dinner parties. The host would stop washing dishes, and the banter would cease when I picked up my guitar and masterfully began to pick at the strings (hey, it's my fantasy). I would then begin to carol to my accompanying instrument and all in my presence would become hushed, in awe of my talent. When I sang in the shower my lovely partner would stand vigil at bathroom door, the running water would sound like rainfall, and she, this yet to exist goddess (hey, it's my fantasy), would pause before beginning her day until the beauty of my song was complete. I would go to hospitals and sing for sick children, I would go to senior living communities and sing for the old and for the dying. I would sing for my ex wife's angry divorce lawyer and make her less angry, I would sing for my friends blind dog, I would sing so loudly and so beautifully that my one time love would hear my voice and cry tears of regret. I would hike up to beautiful mountain vistas, where I would stand on massive rock slabs and I would sing out. The birds would soar from their branches as one, when I did. Other ascending hikers would quicken their pace, wondering the origin of the beauty that was cascading down on them. The religious amongst them would consider if they might not be approaching nirvana. When I sang, the cynical would become sentimental, the lonely would feel accompanied, the tired would engage, and the insomniacs would sleep. …or, maybe I'd just choose being able to see through women's clothing.

[kilo1118]

I had my first Pedicure today: my friend Bon took me. She said that men absolutely do get pedicures, so I went. She told me to wear pants that I could roll above my knees, so I did that too. I wore a black tee under my pine green linen shirt because my friend Brenda said I looked like her dad when I wore a white undershirt the night before. I always listen to Brenda. My ex wife Susan, said to not overthink it, that I would love it. Susan’s usually right.  When we arrived I immediately took notice that I was indeed the only man there. Bon steadied me, and asked that we be sat together. I liked the smell of the chemicals being used, the sound of the, unknown to me language being spoken, and the message chair that pulsated up and down my spine where I sat. The woman sitting to my right was from New Jersey, we spoke about that and about my appreciation for her choice in nail polish, an ice blue color that looked like the ocean.  Soon however, I began to feel awkward. It was the whole boujie white guy sitting up high in a message chair, having his feet worked on by a first generation Asian woman awkward thing. It felt exploitive. I talked myself in to believing it was no different than a real message or even a haircut. It’s disconcerting to me how easily I can intellectualize away a state of healthy shame. I talked superficially to the woman working. The language barrier made it challenging, but it was still fun to try.  I declined the clear polish offered to me, I still had a modicum of male pride after all. Bon brought her polish with her and it was the color of a sand. I thought that if she had put her toes up against the toes of the woman from New Jersey, they would have looked like a beach scene. Bon had fabric between each toe and had to sit with her feet under a drying fan before we left. There was a little girl of about eight years having a joyous time looking at the rows and rows of colored polish containers. I smiled in delight watching her. It struck me that my reaction to her was one I had seen in older people when I was a young father. Where the older onlooker was enjoying the wide eyed playfulness of one of my kids. I was now that older onlooker.  I thought when we left, that we men rarely self nurture. Even the little girl was being indoctrinated into a culture of self care. She would likely one day use bath salts, get manicures and pedicures, she would light candles for herself and wear comfortable slippers. It dawned on me that there were two foreign languages being spoken around me today in that business; one was an unrecognized Asian dialect, the other was being spoken to me by a group of people inhabited by double x chromosomes. I struggled mightily with the language of the Asian women, but I enjoyed it none the less. The other language I heard today, the one spoken by the little girl, by Bon, and by the woman from New Jersey, I began to understand. My feet are soft now, the calluses are gone and my nails don’t look so uncared for. I experienced two cultures that are foreign to me. I learned a little about  and from both, and I’m left with more than just two feet that feel good.

[kilo1118]

A loose rear drivers side panel on my Subaru Impreza waggled for the entirety of my 149 mile trip from Catskill to Vestal NY., a consequence of backing into a Vermont snow bank three winters ago, that has recently evolved from being a slight visual eyesore to a flappy audible distraction. I have come to learn several truths about this semi regular trip to New York’s Southern Tier. The first being that the weather is often an unfortunate mess, the second, that as charming as it would be, Vestal doesn’t appear to house a greater number of virgins than any other Broome County town. Though, to virtue signal: I swear on the integrity of my Pornhub account, I wasn’t searching or first timers. As to the topic of integrity, weather reporting appears to be sorely lacking in it. In the days leading up to my trip I read nothing of the March snow that I endured on Sunday evening, or the endless rainstorm that pelted my car all of Wednesday which only the day before I had run vainly through Catskills touch free car wash. Why I wondered, are there no consequences for poor weather reporting. I think if we threw-the-book at inaccurate meteorologists, prosecuting them to the fullest extent of the law when they misled the public, perhaps they would be more prudent in their reporting, if not more accurate in their climate assessment. I read that the ancients would attempt to predict weather by observing cloud patterns or through the highly scientific measure of astrology. I’m guessing that when they were wildly off course in their assessments, leading to crop failure or flooding, the consequences were severe. While I am not advocating for the use of “the rack”, or tar and feathering, I do think that at the very least public shaming should be utilized. Why not publish the accuracy (or lack thereof) of meteorologists, and label them with Rotten Tomato scores? Fortunately for me, I had not yet removed my snow tires. I checked in to my Hotel with my standard accompaniments; a dry-bag filled with non perishable food items and various needed sundries, an insulated cooler, a garment bag, a suitcase, my laptop, my fabric lunch bag, and a pair of sneakers for the hotel fitness room...that I never use, but I know I would feel defeated and depressed if I ever stopped bringing them with me. I have considered buying two large duffel bags that I could utilize to more easily load in and out all of these belongings. My hesitation resides with worrying about how I would be interpreted checking in at the hotels front desk with two giant duffels. I kind of fit the profile; a paunchy, middle age white guy, who frequently emotes his societal frustrations on social media. I’d feel absolutely humiliated if the FBI came knocking on my hotel door. I’d be at a disadvantage, sitting on a saggy hotel room sofa, in my white t-shirt and boxers, while they stood dignified, wearing well fit slim suits, with even slimmer black ties, and stylish black rimmed glasses. I’d initially assume I was being busted for cooking underneath the bathroom exhaust fan on my George Forman Grill. I’d find myself screaming, it’s salmon, it’s only salmon, while hogtied, with my nose buried in a tacky hotel room carpet that under ultraviolet light would likely reveal, if not blood, all sorts of unspeakable impurities. As is often the case, the next time I stay in a hotel I’ll help myself to extra breakfast items that I can take to the office for an afternoon snack, and I won’t be be questioned for doing so. I’ll request a late checkout, and it will be granted with an “our pleasure, Mr. Krushenick,” I’ll ask for a real glass to use rather than the plastic cup supplied to my room, and it will be handed over without an eyeroll. I’ll request new batteries to speed up the sluggishness of my TV’s remote control, and instead of being asked to come down to the front desk to retrieve them, a  male staff member will promptly bring them to me,  and will then change the batteries himself rather than handing them over to me to make the switch. While in my room,  I won’t fear for one moment that he might assault me. However, It may be the case that checking into a hotel room with duffel bags, might very well be the singular scenario where being white and male is a disadvantage; one inviting profiling and prejudice. Maybe I’ll do it as a case study of sorts. I can write a book about the experience, I’ll title  it “White Like Me.” I'll become an instant celebrity, the champion of suffering middle class, employed, white men everywhere. Patagonia will design baby blue duffels that both men and women of all creeds and ethnicities will carry into hotels as a show of solidarity with all of the disadvantaged people who look like me.

[kilo1118]

As I commuted home from Buffalo NY on Friday, the song “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart”, by Elton John came on the radio. I defy anyone born between the end of the second world war and the end of the Vietnam “conflict”, to feel anything but a sense of joyous bliss when they hear this little ditty. Additionally, there is a unique specialness to travel and music and how they compliment each other. I’m sure of this.  As I achieved cruising speed on route 90, I contemplated the ethereal sunshine pouring through the window of my Subaru Impreza, the decade of the 1970′s, and who in the hell Kiki Dee was. For those not born between 1946 and 1974, Dee sang the duet “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart,” with John. When I awoke this morning I decided to do a little looking into and It turns out that Kiki Dee was born on this very day, March 6th, 1947. She was a Brit and was known for her blue eyed soul vocal stylings. I am old enough to remember much of Elton John’s heyday, but too young to remember a time before he was a pop music icon. Elton John, simply always was.  Elton John was called bisexual, which seemed exotic to my preteen imagination. In the 1970′s, it was exclusively famous creatives who were entitled to nonconforming sexual identities. Today we have “gay marriage” in fifty states, and an inclusive military; neither of which it seems has corrupted the moral fabric of our society.  Born mid century, the child of an artist father, and a Jewish intellectual mother,  into a Greenwich Village brownstone, non conformity was not only embraced in my family of origin, it was as encouraged. I personally identify as heterosexual, but have been blessed to have had strong gay role models in my life. The man I long thought of as an older brother was a fabulous, gorgeous man, who modeled for me that men could be both masculine and graceful, both nurturing and assertive. I wouldn’t resemble the man I am today without his influence.  I often have gay crushes: I was recently having a well crafted cocktail in an Albany restaurant, called Nichol’s. The bartender was a stunning young woman who was the curator of the cocktail menu. Lesbian women like to tease me, and I appreciate the intimacy that banter endows. There is something profound as a man to converse with a woman who hasn’t bought into the confines of male/female gender interaction There’s a subtlety to it. I find it infinitely refreshing to speak to a woman I find attractive, yet without sexual tension, and more importantly, without being treated as an other. I find lesbian women are often more confident than their heterosexual counterparts when expressing humor or beliefs, but still do so with a clear feminine voice. I often feel blessed after such encounters.   I canvassed houses in Hew Hampshire just prior to the 2016 Presidential election. I rang the doorbells of the homes of what are often referred to as “regular Americans.” I remember coming across a household of  two gay men. They were not fabulous design majors, as evidenced by their pedestrian décor and downscale style of dress. Yet the man at the door still flirted with me, and that felt good. I have never understood the rejection of sensual admiration. I was flattered, I’ll take it anywhere I can get it.  Elton John and Kiki Dee finished their song. The radio station faded out of range, soon after. I switched over to my Pandora “Cigarettes' after Sex station,” that I have been diggin recently. Barely into the second Pandora song I switched back to terrestrial radio. I didn’t want each song to sound like the one before it. I didn’t want each song to sound like something I already knew that I liked. Sometimes I don’t want to choose the path. Sometimes I want to be affected by influences I’m less accustomed to. The sun was clearly at my back now, as it was late afternoon and I was heading east. Still, it warmed my neck. I could see all of the dust particles on my dashboard, I’d clean it when I arrived home, I thought. Lou Reed came on my new found station. I smiled as the song came on:  “Holly came from Miami, F.L.A. Hitch-hiked her way across the U.S.A. Plucked her eyebrows on the way Shaved her legs and then he was a she, She says, "Hey, babe Take a walk on the wild side" Said, "Hey, honey Take a walk on the wild side"

[kilo1118]

I went to sleep on the night of August 16th, 2019, as a 54 year old man. I woke up the next morning in my 20′s. Having had two relationships of length in my life spanning 31 consecutive years, with barely a breath taken between, I was for the first time since the age of 23, alone. I had to learn to navigate in a world where I wasn’t cherished, loved, or even considered. I had to do all of this with a broken heart. The greatest challenge of a broken heart, I soon learned, was that the very person I would have previously gone to for comfort during this trying time, was the same one who was no longer available for care. Alone.  As I navigate through my twenties, I am experiencing a world that moves back and forth on life's pendulum between infinitely exciting and universally terrifying. This all experienced without proper notice, as these tectonic shifts are occurring. My exponential growth is palpable, as are my failings. Early on I made the decision that I would try dating. I had never really dated before, and I was determined to do so with integrity. I knew I couldn’t avoid hurt or hurting, but I did have control over how I would treat others as it related to honesty, respect, and gentleness of heart. Yet again, even here, I have stumbled.  The dating site is an outlandish world of sensual culture. The construct itself  announces intention before connection. The dating site I have learned, is simply a microcosm of our greater culture. There are liars and bullies, the broken and the bold, sweet gentle souls, and the perpetually cynical. I have come to learn that certain universal truths exist: All people hike, everyone loves to travel, and an amazing number of us are avid kayakers. If I were to believe what I read, I should drop off of the dating sites altogether and buy a kayak. If my math is correct, every lake, every river, and every tributary, should be jam-packed with single people in kayaks. I envision the amusement park kiddie rides, where you sit in a small paddle boat and can’t avoid bumping into the other boats as they are all so tightly packed together. A resourceful entrepreneur would be wise to create “kayak speed dating.” Once again, I flash back to the bumper boats of my young parenting days. Just as with those bumper boats, kayak speed dating  would involve banging up against other kayaks. There would be the aggressive boaters, those seeking out random collisions. Others, who would smile broadly and apologize profusely each time their boat makes contact with yours. Others, who paddle in circles, who’s seeming intention is to avoid making any contact altogether. There would be those who appear effortless in there grace, riding the finest of boats. They would invite the gaze of the rough-colliders who would appear to be searching out conquest and intimidation above human connection.  I can see my thirties approaching. While this frenetic rodent-like way of being is stimulating, it is equally exhausting. I’ll pull my kayak onto the shore, I can feel the need to get out of the water and set my feet on firm ground in my near future as I am getting too old fort these kiddie rides. I’ll look past the colliders, the constant apologizers, and the boaters cruising in circles looking to avoid contact. I bet when I do, I’ll see her. She’ll be slightly hidden amongst the lilies. Not avoiding, just not looking. The lily girl will be content with her place in the pond, and I bet if I don’t disturb her serenity, when she’s ready to pull her kayak ashore, she’ll see me too. 

[kilo1118]

Being single and interacting in the dating world has been an enlightening experience for me. As the dating website has become the norm as a way for people to meet, I have embraced the lifestyle, not always enthusiastically, but with resolve.  It struck me recently that as a heterosexual man I see only the dating profiles of hetero women. As to male profiles I have heard much about the ubiquity of the “fish picture,” from female friends and dates. Apparently, a lot of men fish! Displaying the catch of the day on ones profile is standard fare. Many men post pics in sun glasses leaning up against the side of their truck. As someone who neither fishes nor owns a truck, and is always losing his sunglasses, I feel as though I can’t compete on level ground in this league of hyper masculinity.  I have become quite familiar with female profiles: Woman I have learned, have several likes that they place above all others; They tend to favor chocolate, wine, and stainless steel appliances. I’m quite sure that if a wine maker would design a stainless steel bottle for a Petite Sirah, he or she would dominate the market. Woman seem to favor sarcasm, which is beyond my understanding. In countless profiles women will describe themselves as being sarcastic, or suggesting that as a man, if you are sarcastic yourself, that is highly valued. Who knew that sarcasm was such a desirable and elusive trait? I’ll need to work on that.  I think that every heterosexual contemplating a dating site should seek out a platonic friend of the opposite gender to assist him or her in composing a profile. I can say as a man that I get that your children are “your world,” let’s all assume that is the case and leave it off of your self description. I get that you love your dogs. Along with wine, chocolate, and stainless steel, women love their dogs, and love posting pictures of their dogs. It’s sort of the female equivalent of the fish picture. I know you’re not looking for a hook-up, that’s why you’re on a dating site, after all. Women commonly write about looking to be friends first, and then seeing what develops. Just once I’d like to read a woman’s profile where she states, “Let’s have sex right away, and see if a friendship develops.” I actually think that might be a more conducive way to find a compatible life partner.  I have taken up proposing first-date kissing. I used to be very reserved, always wanting to be a “good guy,” and with that never wanting a woman to feel hurried. However, I  have decided that women like kissing as much as men do, and that it works well as a proxy for sexual compatibility, or what the chocolate lovers frequently refer to as “chemistry.” Kissing is nice, it doesn’t come with all of the politics of sex. That is not to suggest that kissing is casual, I think it’s quite intimate, it’s just that it hasn’t been stigmatized the way that sex has been stigmatized. My suggestion - make out early, often, and fiercely.    Once in a relationship I suggest that people have more sex. With the exceptions of abuse, or disdain, there is no reason I can think of to not be having sex all  time. There are few, if any other things in life, that are healthy for you, contain no calories, effect brain chemistry in a positive way, improve immune response, and don’t require an Amazon Prime membership to get before the weekend, as does aggressive cuddling. It would be as if a human biologist informed us that cocaine was healthy, would be an effective treatment for mild to moderate depression, and would now be made free of charge for all Americans. We’d all be snorting coke like the front man of a nineteen nineties hair-metal band.  I have a date this weekend. I like dating. It takes a lot of work and time, but it’s fun. It forces me to check-in with myself and to be on top of my game. Like going on an interview, I have to be self aware. The mental stimulation of presenting myself in a  positive but authentic way, while simultaneously evaluating how I feel about the person sitting across from me, or in the age of COVID, the person walking next to me, is highly stimulating.  I’m hardly a good advice giver as I am a novice to all of this, but if asked my suggestions would be to not have your current date or partner pay the debt of their previous date or partners transgressions, and to not assume that all members of a gender are the same as all others members of that gender. After all there are women who prefer bourbon to wine, vanilla to chocolate, and cats over dogs. I just have to find her.