The Alaskan Hotel and Bar

Dear Esquire Magazine,

I recently took your suggestions on two issues and found myself meeting exciting new people and experiencing richly different cultures. However I narrowly escaped from this adventure with my life.

Ive seen trouble before. I've traveled solo on a motorcycle across the deserts of Baja, dodging AK-toting banditos after an all-nighter in San Filepe. I've been thrown out of Sturgis after a city "dignatary" gained some semi-unfounded knowledge about me and his girlfriend. And I've crashed a Mormon high school reunion where I happened to be the most sober one there.

But a recent article about America's Top 20 Bars was paired with Tips on Drinking Alone, so I thought I take your advice and kill two birds with one stone and head to the Alaskan Hotel and Bar in Juneau for some Solo Drinking.

Like the article recommended, I brought a book, sat at the bar, sipped whiskey on the rocks, and kept an eye out for interesting people. By the third chapter, I had struck up a conversation with a few locals. Thirty minutes later we were doing shots. And an hour later--my memory became hazy--but I remembered being worried I wasn't going to be able to keep representing the Lower 48 proudly, but I was determined to keep trying.

I remember an invitation to go shooting. And I remember watching some extreme skier video on the guy's laptop. I remembered something about how the Lower 48 is full of pussies. Then something like, "No we're not. You are." Moments later, the liquor had caught up to me, and frankly, I don't remember much after that last shot.

The next morning, I woke up several miles outside Juneau, freezing my ass of in the back of a pick-up, with a massive hangover and a sore right shoulder, cradling a 50-calibre Hawkins with no one in sight. I admit I was a little nervous. I've been in trouble before, but for some reason, this felt different. I just couldn't put my finger on it.

I tried the truck, but it was stuck in the mud and wasn't moving. So I tossed the rifle in the cab and hoofed it down the mountain for a ten-hour hike into town.

My time in Juneau ended quickly. Crime was suddenly becoming a big issue while I was there...some sort of unexplained disappearances were going on, and I didn't want to risk being a victim so far from home. As it turns out EVERY ONE of my new drinking buddies had gone missing. I don't know what they were involved in, but I thought it would be a good idea to leave before the killer could find me. So I snuck out of Juneau without anyone knowing I had even been there.

So thanks, Esquire. I appreciate the research your staff endures so guys like me can have an adventure.

ODM

Good Friends, Old Loves, and Hidden Tattoos

As a Celebrity Divemaster, I often have the good fortune of being a simple thread woven into the complex tapestry of many lives. But the term Celebrity Divemaster has always been an uncomfortable role for me. Yet over time and with a lot of trepidation, I have reluctantly accepted the burden.

Being a Celebrity Divemaster is tough work. I’m constantly away from home, diving all over the world with people I’ve never met. Yet over the years, I have become close friends with people from all various media outlets.

I’ve been lucky enough to have flown from Dallas to Telluride in the right seat next to Dennis Quaid in his Citation; I’ve played 36 holes in one day with LL Cool J while filming Deep Blue Sea, and spent a week in the Caribbean with Keith and Kenny, back when Kenny was married to Renee and Keith was just introduced to Nicole. So when I got the call that an old friend had a Gulfstream waiting at Pensacola Aviation to fly me to Nice, I couldn’t say no.

I’ve known Brad since I was his stunt double in True Romance. With good wine as a common interest, we hit it off and became great friends. Then on the set of Mr. and Mrs. Smith, I was the Chief Dive Director and had the awkward pleasure in introducing him to someone I used to love. So on this particular morning, Brad showed up alone, and he and I began to bullshit with each other, catching up on some of the stuff we had done over the years since we had last seen each other.

So we were laughing and cutting up when the door opened and Angelina strolled through wearing nothing but a black Scubapro 3mil wetsuit.

“Eric! My favorite Divemaster!” she cried, with a little too much enthusiasm I thought. “Oh my God it’s so good to see you. How’s Sophie?” She gave me a huge hug and a small kiss. She’s always been a great hugger.

“She’s doing great,” I said, holding Angelina by the shoulders at arms length. “And you look incredible.” I spun her around, admiring the equipment. “That’s the new Everflex prototype, isn’t?” I asked. Her hair was thick with volume and thicker with the fragrance of fresh roses.

Sadness emerged from my heart like a bubble from the deep. The roses took me back to upstate New York where I was hired to help her research a role she had. Though we had never met before, the closeness we shared was intense, and we quickly became something more than a professional relationship.

While testing the boundaries, we did a few things that are hard to explain. But when you're falling in love with Angelina, and she says, “Let’s get a tattoo!” You just kind of go along with it. So we each had a tatoo of the other's name put in some place only someone extremely close would see it.

Although we had a great time, we never became romatic. I totally fell in love with her, but I kept telling myself it wouldn't work out because of her celebrity and my travel schedule. But I often think what might have happened if I let myself run with my feelings for her and reciprocated the love she had for me.

“Any new ink?” I asked.

“Not since New York,” she said. Her smile had become more intense. “How about you? Were you able to get me morphed into something else?”

“No. You’re permanent,” I said, and patted the spot where the tattoo lay. “I think it’s going to be easier just dating girls named 'Angelina' than it would be to remove it.”

She pointed just below her bikini line and said, “I know. Not too many guys named Eric out there either,” she said, giving a quick nervous laugh. And although she looked directly at me, I could tell something stole her attention.

“Brad, this is Angelina. Angelina; Brad.”

That bubble of sadness in my heart was rapidly approaching the surface. I’ve never seen love at first sight until that moment. The energy enveloped me as if I was on a safety stop fifteen feet under the the circuit of a Formula Boat Race. And suddenly the gravity of what I had just done overcame me.

Because long before I met Angelina, I was working as a Lead Safety Diver on the production of Office Space, and had met Jennifer Aniston. She was at the production pool one day going over her lines, and as I approached her, she threw down her script in frustration. “Twenty pieces of joy? Twenty pieces of joy? What the fuck are pieces of joy?” she said. “That’s so fucking stupid.”

“What’s up, Jen?” I dropped my backpack on the lounge chair.

“This stupid fucking script,” she replied. “You’re a writer, can’t you fix this?”

I sat down next to her and leaned over to eye the script. “Let me see what I can do.”

“It sounds so stupid,” she said, tossing the script on the foot of her lounge chair. “Twenty pieces of joy…what the hell?”

I gently took it from her hands, took my red pen from my backpack and made a few changes. Then after an hour or two, and a few Appleton Estates, I handed it back, each page marked in red, with seven additional handwritten pages.

She looked it over. She smiled. “What’s this red stapler?” She continued to read, then looked up from the script, “And who’s Milton Waddams?”

“Trust me,” I replied. “I think it will work.” I leaned back in my chair, contented with my work and sipped from the remaining rum.

“Twenty one pieces of flair,” she said. “Twenty one…,” and she trailed off. “I love that!”

“If it’s a comedy,” I said. “You can’t have round numbers. Twenty’s not funny. Twenty one…Now that will get a laugh.” I said. “But I’m not in the guild, so I can’t take credit for it,” I said. “So suggest it to Mike. He might go for it.”

Jenn sat up straight in her chair with a new energy. “Let’s celebrate,” she said. “How about dinner?”

I didn't want to lead her on with hopes of dinner and what might come later. She was a sweet kid, but I just didn't see it working out. “I can’t tonight. A buddy of mine is coming into town, and I promised to meet him for dinner.”

“Oh,” she said, looking towards the deep end of the pool. “I just thought maybe we could hang out.”

Maybe it was the way she said it. Maybe it was the fact that she looked so good in her bikini that I was willing to bend my self-imposed vow against hanging out with anyone from the cast of Friends, or maybe it was just because she thought my work was brilliant, but whatever the reason, I agreed she could come to dinner tonight.

She raised her glass, and I clinked it. “To new friends,” she offered, but then caught herself. "That sounded lame," she said, and suddenly her stock went up a few points.

We clinked again, and drank the aged rum down. She set her glass on the pool deck and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Who’s your friend, anyway?” she asked as she poured another drink.

“Brad Pitt,” I replied.

“Oh,” she gasped. “I love his work.”

And that night at dinner, Jennifer forgot all about me while talking with Brad. I don’t blame her. He's a really great guy. Nor do I blame him. She's a great kid. Besides, there was nothing between Jenn and me. Angelina and me, though…that was a different story.

So when the Gulfstream landed in France, and Brad’s assistant, Ginger, met me and led me to the limo. As I settled in, I found a note from Angelina.

Eric,

Great to have you here to experience the beauty of our family. If it hadn’t had been for you, our family would’ve never been complete.

Enclosed, please find a digital video camera for your use in France. But your first assignment is to make sure you capture the beautiful birth of the newest members of our family—a family which considers you a member.

Ginger will take you to our room once you get settled. But get to the hospital as soon as possible so we can induce labor once we know you’re here.

And you're right...we like the names Knox and Vivienne. Thanks!

All our love,

Brad and Angelina.

Then, written in Brad’s hand:

“Brangelina”

Then in Angelina’s hand:

“He’s such an idiot! Hurry. We can’t wait to see you.”

So I can’t go into too much detail about the birth, but to say that they were two healthy babies and I caught it all on digital video.

I can say, however, that the birthing experience was a beautiful. I knew the moment that I introduced them to each other that it was true love, and I was proud that in some small way I contributed to these two beautiful children.

Somehow, some way, I played a small role—an extra, if you will—in the connection of two wonderful people. I was the precursor, the foreshadowing of what was to come later.

That night long ago when Angelina and I got tattoos of the other’s name, I knew we had a life-long bond. But that night while filming the twins being delivered I realized how much of a precursor I really was. Because when I had the camera trained on delivery, I didn’t see my name tattooed at the bikini line. But I did see how—with just the right touch—one could turn

E r i c into B r a d.

My bubble of sadness surfaced and exploded--gone forever. Because as much as I wanted to believe I didn’t love her—as much as I talked myself into believing that we weren’t right for each other, I did love her.

A few days after I introduced them, I had my tatoo covered over for a couple of reasons. First, after seeing their connection, I knew my chances were gone. And secondly, out of respect for my friend, Brad. Eventally I may get another's name inked into my skin, but in the meantime, I know that true love doesn’t necessarily mean spending lives together. To me it means making sure the one you love is living her best life. But that is my sacrifice as a Celebrity Divemaster.

Meeks Liberty Ship

We have hundreds of sites off the white sands of Pensacola and so many times people as me how they all found their final resting place. I've been busy doing some research and have uncovered some pretty interesting answers. This is the first in a series to help shed light on how Pensacola came to be one of the best dive secrets in the world.

Maynard Meeks was picked on by bullies as a child. He grew up on the poor side of town, under Final on 18 at a busy Nebraska airport. And every day the planes roared over his head as he tried to play he imagined where all those rich people were flying off to. And every evening the noise of the airplanes distracted him from his studies, and every night the constant operations of the airport kept him awake. With all the noise, and with every passing airplane carrying rich people to some far off place, the bitterness in Meeks grew. He swore to himself that one day he’d fly his own airplane, something most rich people never get to do.

Years later, Meeks, an uncoordinated, yet excellent student graduated from the University of Nebraska on an ROTC scholarship and was commissioned an Ensign in the US Navy. He was immediately sent to Pensacola to fulfill his lifelong dream of being an aviator.

For the next few months, Meeks excelled at the academic portions of flight school, but failed miserably when it came to stick and rudder, and, consequently was recycled several times.

Finally, two days before water survival—the furthest point in training he’d ever reached, he washed out for good and was reassigned.

During that time, Carrier Qualification operations were conducted out here in the Gulf of Mexico, 30 miles off shore from Pensacola. For weeks at a time, aviators were sent aboard the ship, and learned everything about carrier ops. And every Friday and Saturday night, the aviators would climb aboard a small ship that would take them into town for liberty.

As cruel fate would have it, Meeks was reassigned as a liberty ship Captain in Pensacola. Having washed out of flight training, it was now his job to ferry these hot-shot pilots into town so they could meet the prettiest women, drink the best beer, and live the life Meeks had dreamed of his entire life.

It wasn’t long before the bitterness grew inside and his resentment was more than he could handle and he began to hate the men he taxied into town.

Then one Friday, Meeks snapped. That morning, he lined the keel with explosives. And on that early spring night, with a load of 200 hot-shots with their after-shaves and colognes and their crisp uniforms on board, Meeks bitterness caught up with him. He reasoned the with the loss of 200 students, the Navy would be desperate enough that he would be given another chance to fly So about eight miles off Pensacola beach, ignited the charges, sending the Liberty ship to the bottom.

But as cruel, cruel fate would have it, there was only one person on board that liberty ship that night who had not gone through water survival training. And while all 200 aviators were rescued, only Meeks perished in that chilly night.

That was many years ago. And some say that in early spring when the moon is right--much like it is on this early spring night—Meeks haunts the Liberty ship, hoping to claim the souls of lost aviators, pilots, and if he’s desperate enough--NFOs and navigators. So if you hear the roar of an airplane, or are rocked by an unseen explosion while diving on the Liberty Ship in Pensacola, watch out. Meeks may be lurking about.

Zodiacs, Tequila and Captain C

Back in the late 90s I had a house across the street from the Gulf of Mexico, and on the other side of the street was an old salt who called himself Captain C. He had a 12ft Zodiac inflatable. We would push this red thing into the surf, then he'd fire up the 20 hp engine, circle back around in the surf and scoop me up while I was careful not to catch my legs in the prop.

We'd bounce over the incoming waves and finally smooth out to calm water about 3 mile off shore. As we hovered over our dive site, we'd talk, and he'd tell me things about life while he downed a minature Jose Cuervo. I remember life was good at the time.

I was a rep for a medical company and I tried to duck out of work as much as possible. And with no fear of being caught, I spent my afternoons with Captain C. He was one of most intersting people I'd ever met.

Captain C was an older man with salty hair and skin wrinkled from too much time in the sun. He told me of his days as an Arizona contractor and his youth as a navy man. He taught me that diving rules are merely guidelines, and that drinking tequila is easier if you sip it.

I remember after diving, we'd run the Zodiac onto the beach, then drag it to the driveway. Then we'd go inside his cinderblock house and sit at the bar, surrounded by ribbons of his races in the past, the trophies of a middle-aged man of fitness, a tribute to his dedication.

Still, we'd sip tequila. And we'd talk about life. And we'd talk about why I'm dodging so much work. And I realized that work--the work I was doing--was not for me.

So Captain C and I hung out whenever we could I was always happy to take the brundt of the load of the Zodiac when we were pulling it up across the sand. We sipped Tequila without the lime and the salt. He taught me how to dive on my own and a million other things.

So, a while ago a hurricane came across our island. And after the wind stopped, and things died down, I ambled out to see what the damage was. Two houses down, across the street, I came across Captain C sifting through the sand. Behind him where his house once stood was nothing than white sand--flat, white sand. I asked him what he was doing.

"I'm looking for tools," he said.

"Tools?" I responded. "What for?"

"I think I can put it back together," he said. And as he dug in the sand, I saw a tear escape from this stoic man's eye. Even when his entire material life was gone, he was still digging through the sand, trying to rebuild the simple life he once had.

I haven't run into the Captain since we all moved to the mainland while the rebuilding began. But I'm still thankful of all the things I've learned from him. I hope he's doing well and that he's still running, still diving, and still sipping tequilia.

Middle Seats, Monkey Eyes, and Mile High Clubs

According to Men's Health, there's less than a one percent chance of sitting next to a hot girl while on a commercial airliner. And as much traveling as I do, I'll have to add that you're more likely to get struck by lightening on your birthday as you're climbing into the limo while your dethroned ex-televanagalist/limo driver sits behind the wheel waiting to get a hold of some of your new found lotto money you just scored, than you are to sit next to not only a hot girl, but anyone--ANYONE who is remotely conversational and/or interesting.

So last Friday night I caught a Southwest flight from San Antonio to Nashville. I'd never flown Southwest before, but the flight was non-stop and the ticket was only $153. My brother has flown several times with them, so he gave me a few pointers on flying Southwest.

First, don't wait in line. It turns out that no seats are assigned, so those who go on first get their choice of seats while those who go on last get their choice of seat mates. So caring more about who I'm going to sit next to rather than the location of the seat, I waited until the last minute.

The plane held two columns of seats, each three to a row. Not surprisingly it seemed that the middle seats were the only ones left, leaving me with a addendum to the Mens Health theory. If you go on last, your chances of sitting next to a hot girl automatically double.

So with no one behind me, I slowly strolled down the aisle scanning for women. Immediately I spotted a beautiful blonde wearing a little white tank top sitting next to an open seat. But when she spotted me spotting her, she gave me the Monkey Eye and I knew it was a lost cause. Hell, it had been a long week for me too, so I didn't want to sit next anyone who gives handsome strangers the Monkey Eye. So I kept moving slowly.

But as I moved, it became apparent that the Monkey Eye was contagious. Everyone I passed seemed to have a raging case of it. As I passed a few more rows, I began to aquire a case of it myself. One guy in a blue tie gave it to me through his designer glasses as he placed his briefcase in the seat as a signal. A woman in high hair and higher heels shot me the Monkey Eye with both barrels, and a drugged up hippy gave a half-ass attempt to get me through barely opened, Visine-needin' Monkey Eyes.

So much for my brother's theory, unless you're willing to sit next to the infected. And I walked myself to the back of the plane still looking for a warm welcome. But there was none. Everyone became so territorial about their middle seat it began to get funny. I started to consider the absurtity of it all--just like in school where no one wants the new kid sitting at the cool kids table. I walked to the end of the aisle and was about to sit in the last seat right next to the head when it suddenly occurred to me that I could sit anywhere I wanted and no one was going to throw their applesauce at me (again.) So I turned and was headed up the aisle to seek my revenge.

Until, "Ladies and gentlemen, the cabin door has been shut and we'll taxiing, so I need everyone in their seats."

I took one small step forward.

"Even you, new guy," she said, looking right at me.

So I took the first available seat. It was right in front of the head and wouldn't lean back. So I sat there wedged in between a heavier couple traveling together who apparently didn't want to sit next to each other. I was bummed. I wanted to exact my revenge, but instead I was stuck by the john. And while I sat there I imagined what I might say if the same thing occured on a future flight.

I sat lost in my own thoughts for a few minutes. And then a slow rumble of discontent brought me out into the present. The rumble of discontent was followed by an announcement that the flight had been delayed for a little while.

Ding Ding Ding...

So up I jumped and dashed up the aisle looking for a seat away from the unhappy heavy couple. I was almost up to the front when I saw the woman with the high hair and the high heels. She must've felt me coming because just as I was about to sit down she stuck her purse in the middle seat.

But I sat down anyway. And when I did, she gave me the Monkey Eye. so I moved my ass back and forth on the purse as if to nest.

She tried pulling on the handles, and I offered no assistance whatsoever. I just sat atop the purse deciding on whether or not I should let one rip. Finally, just before I was going to let one go, she managed to get the purse out. She was pissed. She was so pissed, she grit her teeth, leaned into my ear and spoke to me in a way an abusive mother would use on a kid--hushed tones, violent whispers.

When she was finished, I stood up and declared for all the plane to hear, "No ma'am. I will not join the Mile High Club with you." And I slid from my row and began looking for another.

I found the Designer Glasses Guy a few rows back. He tried to put his paper on the seat just as I got there, but it was too late. I'd sat on a purse, so a newspaper was nothing. When I did land on the middle seat, he just gave me the Monkey Eye and said, "You're really going to sit here?"

I thought for a minute on how to best handle this...

"How could I resist," I said, and he looked at me oddly. So I continued, "Ever heard of the Mile High Club?" I asked.

He thought for a minute and his Monkey Eye dissappeared. "I'm Todd," he said and offered his delicate hand.

I was in the aisle in less than a second making my way toward the hippy, and as I approached him, he was already passed out. I was planning on having a little fun with the guy, but as I sat down, all I could smell was the overwhelming stench of Petuli Oil. "WTF?" There was no way I was sitting next to him. That shit wreaks.

So I'd given up on pissing off the Monkey Eye'd people and headed back to my seat between the unhappy heavy couple when I suddenly recalled the blond in the little white tank top who I had apparently angered. She was behind me and to the right, so I turned and looked over my shoulder, and I caught her turn away from staring at me.

Slowly I turned, step by step making my way up the aisle. I caught her glaring at me several times as I made my way up. She would stand halfway, look over her seat, see me and quickly turn away. She did this several times as I approached. I wasn't quite sure what I had done to her, but she had it out for me. This was going to be fun.

As I sat down, she just kept staring at me, curiously appraising me as if deciding where she might punch me for maximum impact. I wasn't sure how to start out the torment. I thought about farting, or reaching for the barf bag for a pretend hurl, or just rambling on in Klingon. But before I could decide, she shrieked, "You're the Oriskany Divemaster, aren't you? You are! You are!"

I was caught totally off guard. "Uh....yes I am."

"Oh my God!," she continued. "I've been staring at you the whole time you've been moving around. I've read everything on your website. Including both your novels," she said. "They were brilliant."

"Thanks," I said. Inside my intestines were churning, and I was straining to hold it in.

"I loved that character 'Coop'," she said. "He's probably a lot like you." And then for the next hour, she continued talking about subplots, characters, and how wonderful I was. And to be honest, I didn't mind that a bit.

But just like all conversations, this one ended. She sat adrift, looking out the window out on the clouds. A small smile blessed her face and her eyes seemed like she was hiding a secret. I was not at ease not talking about me, so I was about to extend the conversation to discuss my latest work, but before I could, she turned from the window, her smile had grown exponentially and she leaned over and whispered, "Ever heard of the Mile High Club?"

And as we walked down the aisle passing all people who wouldn't let me sit with them, I let that fart quietly rip, cropdusting all those Monkey Eyed Bastards as I went to join the Mile High Club with the hottest girl on the plane.

At least that's the way I remember it.

Oriskany Divemaster
Mile High Member since 2007

The Art of the Drunk Dial

Drunk Dialing (DD) is one of those minefields you're eventually forced to cross in a relationship. If used properly, it can bring two people closer or bring us to the realization of incompatability. If used wrecklessly it can lead to an abrubt, unnessecary break-up or worse; a lingering, unfullfilled relationship. So I've come up with my own rules I try to live by in the DD arena.

1. Make sure you're drunk. Sober DDs don't help anyone--they sound too much like phone calls.

2. The puprose of the DD is to express your true feelings. So if it feels right, don't hold back.

3. Keep the DD positive. Remember it's a valve to release the pressure of how you're feeling about her without having a serious conversation.

3. When the other person answers, realizes and accepts all the parameters of the DD, don't be bashful. This is the Litmus test of compatibility. They're either going to fall madly for you, or cut you loose. Either way you win.

4. Be who you are. Somtimes we become who we think the other person wants us to be, instead of who we really are. Without honesty, the DD is just another line at the bar. So let the magic of the DD work for you.

5. Never DD from a church pew. Things tends to echo in there.

6. Never get drunk for the sole purpose of the DD. It becomes a forced issue and loses it's playfullness, and instead of reaching a new level in the relationship, you're left with a headache and an upset stomach..

7. Always remember to tell the DD recipient how much you wish they were there.

8. Don't make the DD while out with another girl. But never hesitate to DD her when you know she's out with another guy.

9. Never DD anyone while they're at work. Transpose your extension numbers and you may just end up telling Gladys in Accounting how smoking hot she totally is.

10. Most importantly, keep in mind that no matter what's said during DD, it can't be held against you. Since you were, after all, drunk.

Sample Chapter

It's been awhile. I've been working on a new book. So here's a sample from my latest novel, Air, Depth and Time. Check it out. I hope you enjoy it. Let me know your comments.

Chapter:

Lightening woke me up the next morning around two and I couldn’t get back to sleep. I sometimes wake up right at two and for what ever reason can’t go back to sleep. It’s not like I worry. It’s not like I’ve got some huge master plan off track. It’s not like I’m concerned about money—my insurance covers that. It’s not even that I awake thinking about Jenn or my parents, or any of the--what seems like hundreds--of others that have died around me. I just can’t sleep. So then I have to lie or lay—whatever the hell—in bed and then I think about all that shit. But here’s the messed-up part: none of that shit bothers me. I’m totally cool with everything. I just get pissed that I can’t sleep.

I got out of bed, opened the curtains and watched the storm over the ocean. I was back in Florida, and even though it’s not even the same body of water as the Gulf, I felt at home. I sat in the cold leather chair and stretched my feet on the ottoman.

Like I was saying, I’m totally cool with everything.

Well, almost everything. Jenn’s death has really impacted me—as you well know. And I know I haven’t talked about my parents except but in the beginning, but that was a long time ago. I don’t think I ever mentioned how they died, did I?

My dad was the vigilant FBI agent; my mom the alcoholic artist. My mom loved my dad more than she should have. When my dad was supposed to return from the field, as he called it, my mom would make me dress up in a little suit with a little tie. She’d call me her little G-man. She would spend all day in the kitchen making baked ziti, a pork roast, fresh bread. Then once the table was set, we would sit on the couch waiting for my father to come through the door any minute.

“Baked ziti is your father’s favorite,” she would say. “Your father loves baked Ziti.”

“Yes, ma’am,” I’d say.

“Do you think he can smell it from where he is?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I think he can smell from where he is,” she’d say. “Your father loves baked ziti.”

That part always stayed the same. As time went on the rest of the responses grew as I did from, "I love ziti too, Mommy” to “Yes, ma’am. It’s my favorite too” to “When is dad getting home? I hate this tie.” To “Come on, Mom. Enough with the fricking ziti. Jesus Christ.”

It was in the days before cellular phones, so if there was a time he was delayed, it took a while for us to get the word. But we’d sit on the sofa, music on, TV off, waiting for Dad, glancing out the window from time to time. After an hour or two, I’d get restless and convince my mother to let me go outside and play. More often than not he’d be home by the next day or so, usually with some exciting reason why he was late.

Appearances were important to my mom. As I was dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and a power tie, as she liked to call them, she would wear a new dress, almost all her jewelry, and have her hair fixed just right. She’d spray on so much perfume, that on some occasions I had to sit on the far side of the couch. That’s as far as I was aloud to move. “I want your father to see his family together,” she’d say, preventing me from breathing the clean air across the room.
I remember a specific time when she was in her white dress with blue trim, wearing her pearls and a new hair style. She fretted about a small red splash of gravy that jumped out at her while she was stirring.

“Can you see it from there?” she asked.

“No.”

“Come closer,” she said. “How about now?”

Even though I was only eight, I think, I knew better than to tell the truth. “I can’t see a thing.”

“Closer,” she said and held my face against her breasts. “How about now?”

“Mmm mmmph,” I mumbled.

“That’s my little G-man,” she said, smoothing out her dress as she sat.

I could usually hang for an hour or two before I could convince her to set me free, but Mom wouldn’t quit. No matter what, once she sat down on that blue flowered sofa in the living room, she would not move until he returned. A hurricane could be pounding the beach and it wouldn’t have phased her. She never even left to use the bathroom—she just somehow held it in. Because of this, I was accustomed to brushing my teeth and putting myself to bed by the time I was five, I think. Later, I would look forward to it so I could stay up late and watch Letterman on a school night.

But the night my mom and dad died, my dad wasn’t expected home. So I was outside on the beach playing volleyball, pissed at my mom because she wouldn’t let me go surfing. She was in her studio painting, dealing with her own anger. The past few months she had been working on twelve different canvases at once, all at various stages of completion. I’d watch as she would walk around the room with her palette, visiting each piece adding just the right amount of color and texture.

She was in her studio with her hair in a blue bandana, wearing one of my dad’s white shirts when the phone rang. I wasn’t in the house, but I did hear the phone ring. Before cordless phones became so big, my dad had installed an outside ringer so we could hear the phone if we were on the beach. I was just about to serve when I heard that goddamn metallic ringer go off. It rang three times before my mom picked it up, and I could serve again.

Bo and I were working on our set-and-spike with a couple of other kids from the beach, trying to be like the guys on ESPN, though none of us were big enough to even jump and touch the top of the net. We had a pretty good exchange going when I faded to the back to save one from hitting in the corner. I dove, going away from the net and somehow managed to dig it out and pop it up where Bo could put it over. But he instead chose to set me up for a spike. So I scrambled up to my feet, dashed toward the net and leaped in the air as high as I could, all the while watching the ball slowly fall down to me. Then just as I had the feeling of weightlessness at the top of my arc, I made contact with the ball and slammed that fucker in the sand across the net. God, that was beautiful. I felt twenty-feet tall. Okay, so maybe it was more like six-feet tall.

I was about to serve again, when another noise stopped me. This time it wasn’t the phone. I recognized it as the small thirty-eight my dad had given my mom for protection. We had taken it to the range a thousand times, so the sound was familiar. All I remember was running through the sand, feeling like my feet were sliding backwards, like I was running on ice. I was getting nowhere. When I finally reached the steps, I tripped and fell trying to get up. I was on my stomach, the bridge of my nose creased by the step, and I couldn’t move. I remember someone lifting me up by the waist of by bathing suit and helping me to my feet, pushing me along.

Bo beat me to the sliding glass door. “Wait here,” he said, pulling it open. “I’ll check it out.”
“Fuck that,” I said and burst through the door.

We darted inside. “Mom!” I screamed. “Mom! You all right?”

“Mrs. Z? Where are you?”

Bo bounded upstairs toward the studio. “You check downstairs,” he said.

The downstairs was empty. The garage was clear. No one was here. I bolted upstairs. I was just making the turn on the stairs when I saw Bo coming out of my mom’s studio. He wasn’t upset. He wasn’t…anything.

“Don’t go in there,” he told me.

“What?” I said. “What’s wrong? Where is—,”

He opened his arms and put them around me and drew me in tight. I began to cry like I was two. I knew what had happened.

“Don’t go in there,” he whispered.

He walked me to the blue flowered couch and sat me down. “Sit here,” he said. “I have to call the police.”

“I have to call my dad,” I said.

“I’ll take care of that,” Bo said.

Bo called the police. While we waited for the police to arrive, I gave him the number my father had left in case of emergencies. He left the room to make the call.

Ten minutes later the police arrived and Bo led them upstairs. Five minutes later a woman social worker arrived and sat next to me on the couch.

I asked if they had gotten in touch with my dad.

They had.

Then she started lying to me. There was no way my father was dead too. He was still alive. She was mistaken. It was my mom that had died. Not my father. There’s no fucking way they could both be dead. It just couldn’t happen. They’ve got to be mistaken, or lying or something, because there’s no way they could both be dead. My dad was going to be home tomorrow. My mom had already bought the ziti and pork roast. She had even gone to the farmer’s market and picked up the tomatoes for the gravy. I pointed to them in the windowsill. “Look.” He had to be coming home. My mom had just died. He had to be there. He had to come through that door. I was on the couch. He had to show up. He had to come home. I was only eleven. Who was going to take care of me? What happened to my dad? Why my mom? This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real. I never got to say goodbye to them. I never got to give them one last hug. I was mad at my mom an hour ago because she told me I couldn’t go surfing at the pier. Maybe if I hadn’t have yelled at her, she wouldn’t have felt compelled to paint. Maybe if she hadn’t have painted, she might not have shot herself. What if I had answered the phone? I could’ve spared her. I could’ve broken it to her. I could’ve been with her. If could’ve saved her.

For the next few weeks I stayed with Bo and his dad. I never did go into that room where my mom lay. But I did hear what exactly had happened. After she received the call about my dad, she set down her palette, got a clean brush and dipped it into red paint. On the bottom of a fresh canvas, in four inch letters, she wrote LOVE. While that was drying, she got the gun from the nightstand and returned to her studio. She put her ear against the center of her new canvas, put the gun to her head and pulled the trigger.

A couple of months later, I returned to the house for the last time for what would be twelve years. Bo’s father had everything cleaned, leaving no trace of what had happened. I never saw the LOVE canvas, nor was it ever mentioned again. But Bo’s dad did store the twelve pieces my mom was working on, and when I moved back into the house after college, I took them out and looked at them.

Something was interesting about them. Something that I had never seen before, but I couldn’t quite figure out what it was. I examined each one. Each piece looked like just a blob of colors with no pattern, no definition, no subject. As I was setting one down, I noticed it was numbered on the back. I checked the others, and they were numbered too.

Since moving back into the house, I had no furniture, so I lay the paintings on the floor in order from left to right.

Nothing.

Top to bottom.

Nothing.

Three rows of four across.

Nope.

Finally, four rows of three.

Nothing.

I gave up and walked upstairs to my new room—my parents old room. I was trying to decide where to put what. The only piece of furniture I had was a lamp and I wanted to find the right spot for it.

Then as I was walking back toward the stairs, I looked down at the living room floor at the paintings. And that’s when I saw it. I began to tear up. I sat on the top step and began to weep uncontrollably. It was the first time I had really cried since that night.

Through my tears, I could see the image my mom had been working on every day for the last three months of her life. Hopefully it was the image she last saw.

From afar, the twelve paintings blended together to form the blurred image of the three of us sitting on the flowered blue couch as if it’s the moment after my father had returned from the field.

Those pictures still hang over my mantle. Every time I look at it, I can smell the ziti baking in the oven, I can smell my mom’s perfume. I can hear the sound of the door opening, and I can hear love in my mom’s voice as she races to the door.

New CDs and Best Co-Pilots

For me listening to a new CD for the first time is something of a event. Whenever I buy one, I try to make everything just right to maximize the experience. I try to get the mood just right for the music. I try to make sure I'm in a position to repeat the CD over and over, since sometimes you listen to one and it doesn't make any sense until the fifth time you hear it.

Maybe the best experience I've had happened because a friend of mine gave me one just before I left after spending the day with her. The whole way home I listened to the CD, and for what ever reason, I kept thinking about the girl who gave it to me. The more I listened to it, the more I hoped to see her again. But I knew it probably wouldn't happen, but that didnt' keep me from being hopeful. Then just as the last song began, my cell phone rang, and it was her.

But this week I had another great experience flying back from Daytona Beach. I'd been down there since Sunday playing golf with my best co-pilot. She joined me on this trip, tagging along under the guise of being my assistant. We spent the mornings in meetings, the afternoons on the golf course, and the evenings in the restaurants. And in between that we managed to get a little shopping in as well. She wanted a few new outfits, and I was happy to buy them for her.

She was checking out the sales in the Monday's paper and came across something she knew I'd like. "Jimmy Buffett has a new CD ," she said. "It's on sale tomorrow. Can I buy it for your birthday present?"

"That would be a great present," I replied.

The next day, after all the meetings were finished, we ducked into a Target and picked up the CD. Outside, I wanted to pop in in to the rental's player, but my wise co-pilot talked me out of it. "You wanted to wait until the time was just right," she reminded me. So I waited...

An hour later we were cleared to take off of Runway 7L of Daytona Beach International. As I climbed into the blue sky, the tower handed me off to approach who kept me heading East over the Atlantic for a while as they dealt with all the training traffic.

"You fly," I said it her. "I want to get the CD ready."

She looked at me through her sunglasses, "We're headed the wrong way," she protested. I had to agree with her. She liked to fly, but only if we're on course.

A few minutes later, approach handed me off to someone else who cleared me on a heading that would take us home. So I turned smoothly and climbed freely. I climbed above the thin layer of clouds around 6000 feet, and as I flew further away from the busy skies over Daytona, the radio quieted. Then as I eased above the clouds and leveled out at 8500, I trimmed the plane out. Everything was just right, so I grabbed a drink and a snack.

"We're on course," I said to my co-pilot.

"Autopilot on?" she asked.

I activated the autopilot with a switch. "Check."

"Okay," she said and rested her hands on the yoke, while I dug the CD player from my flight bag and plugged us both in.

And for the next three hours, I was near heaven. The sun was setting, the skies had just enough clouds to catch the evening light. I was plugged my new favorite CD and was traveling with with my favorite girl in the world. Everything was better than I deserved.

It's one thing to listen to a CD on the highway, coming home from seeing someone you want to see again. And it's pretty cool to listen to a new CD while flying in the plane, being at peace so high above the earth. But to listen to a new Jimmy Buffett CD with your best co-pilot--your 8 year old daughter, smiling at you with two new front teeth, while she "flew" over the Gulf of Mexico into a magnificent sunset is one of those incredible memories you keep forever.

Beer Samplers, Gay Zombies, and Being Kissed on the Mouth While Everyone Watches

I’m not sure how the whole trip started, but I do remember drinking beer samplers with Dave and Jeremy on Saturday night and the next thing I knew we were in the plane headed for Chattanooga the following morning.

We landed in time for lunch and a beer sampler at the Big River Grille, and like the unpredictability of the previous night’s sampler, we had no idea where the day or night was going to lead, so we just meandered through, keeping our minds open to what’s out there.

When the sampler ended, Jeremy ordered us Long Island Ice Teas. “It’s hot out there,” he said. “We need to rehydrate.” So we downed the Teas effortlessly, all in the name of rehydration.

"Where to now?" I asked the waitress.

"Big Chill," she said. "Get the Sangria."

But first we decided to walk across the bridge spanning the Tennessee River in search of hydration on the other side. It was hot, steamy, and long, but we kept going. Then finally, across the street from the bridge, there the universal Cocktail symbol (neon martini glass.) We stepped in from the heat.

The place was empty except for two guys--one polishing glasses, who looked up long enough to make eye contact with Jeremy and smile in an odd shy kind of way--and another behind the bar who suddenly lost his focus when he saw Dave.

"Well, hi, there, boys. What can I get you?" He looked right at Dave and suggested, "A tall drink of water?"

The tone of his voice and the way he said "boys," made me look around at the restaurant. Instrumental music I couldn't quite identify was playing above, tapas was being prepared, and there were sculptured images of animals on the wall.

I returned to the guy behind the bar just in time to see the glass polisher smile at Jeremy. Jeremy tried to look away, but was a little too late. "Flaming Blue Hawaiian," I said. "With an extra umbrella."

"Silly, I don't know how to make that," he said, putting his hands on his hips. "I've never even heard of it." He laughed towards Dave, as if he was having fun at my expense and trying to get Dave in on the joke.

"I'll take a Red Stripe then," I said.

"The Wizard of Oz," Jeremy said.

Dave and I looked at Jeremy, not quite sure what he was ordering.

"The Wizard of Oz," he repeated. "It's the music from the Wizard or Oz."

And as we listened to it, we realized he was on the money. We placed our order, and by the look on the bartender's face, I got the feeling that we upset him because we didn't order Martinis, or Manhattans, or Cosmos, or whatever hip drink was in fashion that day. Perhaps we should have paid a little more TV-attention to Carry when she ordered drinks with Charlotte, Amanda, and that lawyer-chick with the kid.

I took another look around as the bartender grabbed the beers from the cooler. The shy smiling Glass Polishers; the tapas; the hands on hips with the elbows pointed just a little too far back...being called "Silly."...And then it dawned on us that we were in the middle of a gay bar. Not that there's anything wrong with that. But three guys who are not gay do not belong in a gay bar unless accompanied by at least one woman. Time to go.

"So soon?" the glass polisher asked as we asked for the check. He looked right at Jeremy and said, "But you just got here." I'd heard that tone before when I've left my parents house after spending three days helping them unpack from moving. "Chuck's has karaoke tonight," he called as we passed through the door.

Outside, I glanced back through the window just in time to see the two boys waving. Glass Polisher blew a kiss and pointed at Jeremy as if it were for him. And I, playing along, caught it in the air and planted it on Jeremy's back with the slap of my hand. "So where to?" I asked.

"Big Chill," they both said.

The Big Chill is in downtown Chattanooga and is famous for the slurpee machines behind the counter. We ordered Sangrias made with PGA.

"What the hell is PGA?" I asked.

"Pure grain alchohol," the bartender said.

In the corner, sipping our drinks we sat across the aisle from three older guys also out for a Guys Day Out. But as we exchanged conversation across the aisle, I noticed that they were sitting a little closer together than we were, and I could almost smell the Axe body spray from where I sat.

"You guys need to check out Chucks," one said. "Tonight's karaoke."

"Sure," I said. "We'll see you there." And to me, that sounded like fun until we went back to the room and Googled "Chucks" "Chattanooga."

I've got nothing against going to alternative bars, but again, it's best to have a female present--not because I fear for my life, or I'd care if anyone saw me there, but because I guess I think I'm so damn handsome that I'm not sure if I could handle all the advances, and the female would run interference for me. Or perhaps it's just the opposite...what if even the balding, overweight 70 year old doesn't buy me a drink? Where does that leave me? Imagine what that would do to my self esteem.

After dinner, we ended back at Big River for drinks where we ran into a newlywed couple who was just married that day, so I opend up a tab and bought them a round drinks. Everyone was having a great time. Drinks were flowing and everybody was getting loose...even the newlyweds.
She said they were on their wedding night, and they couldn't be happier. "Really. We couldn't be happier....Really....couldn't be hap-pee-yer." She drank the shot I bought them. "Really....Happy."

Then she looked at me quickly while her husband was looking away, and something didn't seem right. The husband turned just in time to hear her whisper, "So you wanna come back to our room and party?"

I declined, but wished them well, and bought them another round of drinks.

I joined Dave and Jeremy, drinking with new friends and truly enjoying the whole new-city-with-great-friends experience. Everyone was getting along, telling funny stories, laughing at all the right parts. Dave was sitting close to the gorgeous blonde, looking like he had found a new dive buddy. The whole world seemed at peace...until...

...until the older guys from The Big Chill arrived. And just behind them was the glass polisher and the bartender from the Tapas place. It seemed they had all met at Chuck's, and had come looking for us when we didn't show up for karaoke. The bartender started in, "We've been looking everywhere for you boys." They all gathered around, seriously putting a damper on the Mojo Dave had working.

The bartender held up his hand, "Cosmo, please."

"Manhattan," Glass Polisher added.

"Fuzzy navel," Older Guy Number 1 ordered.

With his hands on his hips and elbows pointed back, he sauntered closer to Dave. His tone was different...not so welcoming. "Who this?" he said, nodding toward Dave's blonde. And just as Dave was about to respond, the fresh drinks arrived.

"Cocktails!" Glass Polisher cried. He took his from the waitresses tray and clinked Jeremy's beer. "To new friends."

I picked up on the fact that Jeremy was becoming agitated--not just because some guy clinked his glass, but because Dave was seriously interested in the blonde, and if these guys hung around much longer, she might get the wrong impression, and thereby blow his opportunity. But they began to slowly move closer and closer, closing in on us like three well-dressed zombies.

They were all around us, and I could see the horror on the blonde's face. The whole night she spent talking with Dave, and by the conversation I heard, she really liked him and was truly interested in him. But now all her hopes were being dashed because she was beginning to think he had other interests. She was growing more distant with each inch of progress the gay zombies made.

Usually, I'm full of ideas, but this time there was nothing I could think of to help my buddy Dave and save us from the boys. They were moving closer and closer, and we were as far against the table as we could get without climbing on top of it. The poor blonde, feeling misled and unappreciated was now looking at the Bartender, Glass Polisher and Older Guy Number 1 moving into territory she thought was hers.

Then, like a miracle my newlywed couple burst through the line of zombies, grabbed my hand and blurted out, "We're going. If you change your mind we're in room 612." She didn't even try to be discrete about the key, she just put it on the table, then leaned over and planted an open-mouth kiss on me while everyone watched.

It was a while before she came up for air, and when she did, it took a few moments for me to collect myself. But when I did, I saw the blonde scoot her chair closer to Dave's just as the boys were walking away. But when I looked for Jeremy, he was nowhere to be found. My buddy Jeremy was missing. And you know what else, friends and neighbors...so was that key.

At least that's the way I remember it.

Sir Harry Bowen

When you travel alone, you never know who you're going to meet. You have to leave yourself open to new experiences even it it happens to find you while sitting on a barstool.

I was in Mobile, AL the other night for a Lyle Lovett concert. He was playing at the Saenger downtown, so I went over early that afternoon hoping for something exciting to come my way. I thought it would be great to work my way backstage and meet some of the band, the back up singers or even Lyle. I'm not a big fan of celebrity. People are people. But like a kid I'm more curious about the whole process of what goes on before a concert, how does the soundcheck work, who's doing what, are there really no Red M&Ms in the bowl. And there's also something covert about being somewhere others aren't supposed to go. It wasn't like I was going to try to bust through security, but if I could find a sympathetic ear, I may be able to talk my way past the guys with the tight shirts.

But outside the theater I bumped into the manager. He was taking down the ad poster from the outside case, telling me he was going to try to get Lyle to sign it so he could hang it in the Green Room.

"Is he signing autographs now?" I asked. I didn't want one, but I just wanted to see if he was around and what was going on back stage.

"He's not even here yet," the guy said.

"No sound check?"

"I think that's later," he said. "No one's in there except for the guys setting up the equipment."

It was only 4, so they had three more hours to get things right, and not wanting to be some kind of backstage rat, I headed for a place I knew would welcome me: Hero's sports bar. I decided to give up on any adventure for that day, and spend the next few hours nursing a beer or seven.

I was on my second beer, watching Richard Simmons crying about New Orleans on TV. On the other TV, the Simpsons were on. By the time the third beer came, I began to notice that if you were to shave off Richard Simmon's hair, leaving a little on the sides and a couple of strands on the top, he'd look just like Homer Simpson. Sure you'd have to keep Richard out of the Dermasurgeon for a while so his five o'clock shadow could return, but otherwise, he's a dead ringer for Homer.

So I'm sitting at the bar killing time watching three or four TVs, when this guy pulls up a stool next to me. He's a large black man wearing a black cap, sweat shorts and a T-shirt. He takes a look at the beer menu and gets excited when he sees Carona.

"Carona!" he exclaimed. "They have Carona."

I wasn't sure who he was talking to, but I offered, "A buddy of mine swears by Carona light."

He turns to me. "That's the best stuff. But they don't have that here."

So he orders his beer, and it was time for another Dos Equis so I ordered my next beer.

"You from Mobile?" he asked.

"Pensacola. You?"

"L.A."

The bartender brought his beer over, and we began to talk. The guy was a great conversationalist. We discussed things like Karma, keeping an open mind, learning from others, and exposing yourself to new situations. We talked about the excitement of running into someone interesting and actually having an intelligent conversation. The guy was one of those choice people you hope to run into, just to gleen a little insight in to another's perspective. We both shared the same philosphy that says you're responsible for your own happiness, we both agreed on the Golden Rule way of life, and we agreed that no matter what you have to put yourself out there in a place where you'll have the greatest odds of success.

He had moved from Detroit to L.A. because his work was drying up in Michigan. Unless he wanted to work in the auto industry, there was nothing left. So he took a risk and moved to L.A. He didn't know anyone, but because of his outlook, he quickly made friends, and those friends led to more friends, and he was able to find work in his profession.

So here I was talking with this guy who I suddenly admire, perhaps because he reminds me of me, but more so because he's just a great guy. Sitting there on that barstool, I realized I had made the right decision to come to Hero's, and not try and scam some backstage pass just because I've never been back stage before. I didn't need the thrill of meeting some singer or band member. I truly enjoyed my time with Harry, and I was looking forward to my next beer with him.

An hour passed and we finished our dinner and beers, and he said he had to go. He said he had to shine his shoes.

"What's going on in Mobile tonight?" I asked.

"I don't know," he said. "I'm in town for the Lyle Lovett show."

"Hey, me too," I replied. "Where are you sitting?"

"Oh, I don't have tickets," he said. He looked at his watch as if he was searching for the best way to say it. "I'm singing with him."

"No way."

"Yeah. I've been with him for nine years."

"You're pulling my leg."

"No. Before that I was with the O'Jays, and Was, Not Was--you know 'Everybody walk the dinosaur.'"

He didn't have time for another beer. As the professional, he wanted to be prepared. Though before he left, he did tell me he give me a sign to let me know he feels me. So he raised up his fist the way a boxer would if protecting the side of his face.

That night from my seat, I had a clear shot of Harry. I was watching a man do exactly what he enjoys doing, and getting paid to do it. I was watching the faces that fill the corners of my home with their voices. And one of those voice would've never been heard had he not had the courage to take a risk and leave Detroit.

So, Cheers to Sir Harry Bowen, singer with Lyle Lovett. The next Carona's on me.