We'll always have Paris.

…. Suddenly, I’m stopped in my tracks. Across the street I catch my first glimpse of the Eiffel Tower, peeking over an apartment building, It’s the most amazing thing I’ve ever seen. I know that sounds like hyperbole but the sight of that structure rising up from behind the classic architecture of Paris absolutely astounds me. If a chunk of the space station fell on me right now I would die a happy man. I wouldn’t be quite so happy if I were being eaten by a shark or staked out on an ant bed covered in honey but somehow space debris and the lasting image of the Eiffel Tower would be eternally satisfying.

Paris. The “City with the big shoulders”. The “Stockyard to the world”. No, wait. That’s Chicago. This is the home of Edith Piaf and Josephine Baker (no matter that she was American). Crepes and berets. The Louvre. A city where even the sewers are considered works of art.

I look around me and take in the rest of the neighborhood. There is a restaurant on the corner that looks nice. It’s almost 5:30 pm and I’m getting awfully hungry. I drag myself and my bag inside. I immediately feel as if I have made a grave mistake. This is no tourist haunt. The staff interacts familiarly with the diners, while at the bar the bartender dispenses drinks and good conversation with equal aplomb. It reminds me of Mistral’s, my favorite restaurant back home. Not knowing what the custom is for securing a table I hold up one finger and manage to stammer out, “Une table pour un, sil vous plait.” (A table for one, please). I expect to be hustled off to some dank corner in the back of the place so that the preferred regular costumers can have the all-important view of the Eiffel Tower. Instead the waiter takes my bag (albeit the smaller one) and leads me to a corner table right up front next to the picture window. I thank him and then add my standard opening apology of “Desolee. Je ne parle pas Francaise.” to which he responds, “Monsieur. Would you prefer German or English?”

“German naturallment. Just kidding. English please.” From then on we are the best of friends. That is how I came to be sitting here in Le Beaupre sipping a wonderful glass of red wine on my first night in Paris.

There are currently 5 or 6 dogs in the restaurant. Say what you will about the French but you’ve got to love a country that will let you bring your dog into a restaurant. Most of them just curl up under the table and go to sleep. There is a Jack Russell terrier two tables from me that is up on his hind legs looking into a stroller at a baby. It makes me think of Sammy, my dog. As I write this, Jennifer, with whom I share custody of Sam, is planning to move to Hong Kong with her new husband. Naturally she wants to take Sam with her. Selfishly, I’m not thrilled with the prospect of him being in China for 15 months. I think that if they had been transferred to Paris I would whole-heartedly give my blessings. They love their doggies here. He’d have a great life and would look good in a beret.

Looking around the restaurant I see couples holding hands, leaning in to kiss each other. Families with babies and dogs. Older people sipping wine and sharing memories among friends. This city reeks of romance. Heck, I love me.


Every time my waiter, Serge, leaves to tend to another customer I sneak a peek at my French phrasebook. When he came to take my order I tried “Qu’est-ce que vous recommandez?” (What do you recommend?) After tasting the fish I responded with “Mes compliments au chef.” (You can figure that one out yourself) and when the crème brulee arrived I threw my hands up and enthusiastically exclaimed “C’est meiller que la cuisine de ma mere!” (This is better than my mother’s cooking) In all fairness to my Mother I don’t think she ever made a crème brulee in her life.

The main course is now finis and I await my crème brulee and espresso. Throughout the meal, Serge has been very helpful. So much so that I brace myself for the moment when Parisian tourism authorities burst in and drag him away for displaying civility and courtesy to an American tourist.

With dinner winding up I needed to find a place to stay for the night. I ask Serge if he knows of a place nearby named the Eiffel Hotel. I had seen it on the Internet. The rooms were reasonably priced and from some of them you could see the top of the Eiffel Tower sticking up in the distance.

“You mean the Hilton?” He asks.

I almost do a spit take with my Bordeaux. I try explaining that I would prefer cheaper accommodations as I turn my empty wallet upside down and shake it. (I actually had plenty of cash inside but I held the bills against the side of the wallet with my fingers so they wouldn’t fall out; just for the joke) Serge and I share a hearty laugh with this.

“You Americans... You are so funny with your visual humor...and that Jerry Lewis...c’est bien.”

He suggests a hotel about 5 blocks away on Avenue Duplex that is called the Duplex. He says it should be between 50 and 60 euros a night. “That would be perfect.” I say, as I once again turn my wallet upside down.

“Oh, monsieur. Stop it. You are killing me.” Cried Serge, grabbing his side as he places a glass of dessert wine in front of me before heading back to the kitchen.

As I sit here nursing my port I can look out the window and watch the late afternoon shadows grow long in the streets. Outside, Parisians of every size, shape and color walk by. Businessmen… students. Women with head scarves, some without. I’ve noticed a refreshing absence of baseball caps being worn, either backwards or forwards. Attractive Africans. Lots of baby strollers. I think the reason that I notice them (and this comes strictly from an L.A. perspective) is that they are being pushed by couples that are obviously the parents of the babies. You would think in a city as large as Paris there would be at least one Mexican housekeeper pushing someone else’s kid down the street. And of course; doggies.

I’ve only been here an hour and a half. Most of my observations come from inside the front window of a corner restaurant. None of these people know who I am or where I’m from. They don’t realize that as they go through the motions of their lives that they are, in fact, auditioning for me: that I am holding them up to some preconceived notions of what a Parisian should be and how they will treat me. I admit that I came with the expectations of people rude and indifferent tucked in the back of my mind. What I was seeing was something else. These were people that loved their children and embraced every opportunity to spend time with them. It was a place where an old couple, married for 50 years, still walked down the street holding hands. Where a black family from Ghana sat at a table and ate and drank and laughed next to a group of business men and women that had stopped in after work to eat and drink and laugh. Where dogs were man’s best friend and treated as if they really were. Where an American in Paris could be witness to such warmth and passion and kindness. I wish that I could have thanked them.

I suddenly realize that it was Feb. 29. It wasn’t the fact that it was Leap Year and Bonnie Sue Vinyl, my old nemesis from Isle of Hope Elementary School in Savannah, Georgia was celebrating her “11th” birthday today. Much more than that...tonight was the 76th Academy Awards. The Kodak Theatre would be in all its splendor and at Tom and Andi’s house in Sherman Oaks, someone other than me would be tabulating the votes of our friendly, yet competitive Oscar™ contest. It was just then that I realized that I not only wanted to be pampered a little after two long weeks on the road but I felt as if I had earned the privilege.

Sacre blu! I was going to do it! I was going to spend the next two nights at the Hilton! Just then Serge returns and I reach into my wallet and produce a handful of multi-colored euros. “Voila” I exclaim, “Tonight I will stay with Paris Hilton!” With that, Serge drops to one knee in a fit of hysterics. “Monsieur. I beg you to stop. I have...how you say...already lost a rib from laughing.” He cries as he pulls my credit card from the edge of the table and crawls to the cash register.

I gather up all my things; as I had taken out my trusty memo pad to write down the events of the train into Paris. I was beginning to develop an unhealthy paranoia (assuming that any paranoia could be healthy) about losing my notes. I have over 50 pages written that I hadn’t emailed yet and know I could never remember all the events of the trip if I left it somewhere. It became more important to me than my passport, which now that I think about it I have no idea where that is. No matter. Anyone can plainly tell that I am an American and that should see me through.

As I stand up Serge rushes over to assist me with my jacket. “Take care mon ami.” He says as he grabs me by the shoulders and plants a masculine kiss on each of my cheeks. With that, the entire kitchen staff and all the waiters come out to bid me adieu and to see me off on my first night in this enchanting city.

Ah, Paris: The “Boll Weevil Capitol of the World”.

The nicest man in New Orleans

Like everyone else I've been following the news coverage, good and bad, of the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina. As a Southerner I feel a kinship with the people in those regions hardest hit. My family, both immediate and extended was affected, though all, I'm happy to report survived. For over a week now I watched the looters, or the survivalists, whatever you want to call them. I've seen a black man in New Orleans tearfully recount the power and terror of the water as it ripped his wife from his arms as she begged him to take care of their children. I've seen a white man standing alone a field of splintered lumber that was once his entire city. Both had just lost everything they had in the world.

The water hasn't fully receded and the blame game has started. On NPR today, politicians were circling the wagons of their respected ideological camps, blaming the other party for deeds and non-deeds that either caused the disaster, exercerbated it or created the nightmarish aftermath. At that point I switched over to the Oldies station.

When I got home tonight I started going through all the photos I had taken when I was in New Orleans just a year ago with my German girlfriend of the time. I wanted to show off the culture and share a little bit of the sights and sounds of my upbringing. There were pictures of us sitting eating beignets in Cafe Du Monde, listening to the jazz band aboard the steamboat Natchez, standing in front of the St. Louis cathedral in Jackson Square, walking down Bourbon Street and eating Lucky Dogs. All the touristy things that you're supposed to do when you you visit the Big Easy. I was trying juxtapose the landmarks in my photos with the pictures on my TV.

And then I saw him. Staring at me from my computer screen was a picture of the streetcar driver on the Charles Street line. We had boarded directly in from of of our hotel in the Garden District. We were just another couple of tourists on our way the French Quarter. He greeted us with a warm smile and welcomed us to his city. "Where are y'all from?", "What have y'all seen?", "Here's what you should do." My girlfriend shook her head in amazement as the driver and I conversed as if we had been long, lost friends. I got up from my seat to stand beside him and get a better look at the mechanics of the streetcar with it's gears and handles and cables. He was fascinated with my digital camera and we talked about photography and the wonderfully photogenic architecture of New Orleans.

As we rolled to a stop on the edge of the French Quarter we gathered our things to exit. Our trip couldn't have lasted longer than 15 minutes. The driver and I shook hands and hoped that we would run into each other another time. My girlfriend and I pushed our way off as a line of other tourist anxiously crowded around the door waiting to get on. As we walked away from the streetcar I turned one last time and snapped a picture just as he looked and gave me a thumbs up. That was the last time I ever saw him or even thought about him for that matter. And now, here I am in Los Angeles, a week safely removed for Hurricane Katrina, wondering what has become of my driver; this unofficial ambassador of New Orleans. Did he get out in time? Did he leave at all? Was he among the throngs of citizens forced to seek refuge in the Super Dome? I look at his confident smile. His friendly thumbs up. We both knew that when we stepped off the streetcar that our paths would never cross again. And yet, on this night, I wish that they would.

off set

the beat of a heart
the blink of an eye
the tick of a clock
the breathe of a sigh

the flap of a wing
the last note of a song
the peal of a bell
in a moment they’re gone

a candle extinguished
the flame flickers out
where once love
was present
there’s now only doubt

how fleeting the seconds
how quickly it goes
a chance at love wasted
before we could know

Meine Damen und Herren... Zee Dancing Monkeys of Dusseldorf

Received another rejection letter for my book. This one came from Simon & Schuster; after they had asked to see the manuscript. I suppose if you're going to be turned down by anyone it might as well be one of the biggest publishing houses in the world. The editor was very nice and supportive when I spoke with her. That, in itself, was a pleasant surprise and it gave me enough confidence to push forward. Where would be the reward and satisfaction if everyone could get published? The shelves are littered with books whose authors were repeatedly turned down and rejected before the right deal came along. Zane Grey, Margaret Mitchell, Harper Lee, C.S. Lewis, Bonnie Sue Vinyl. Alright, so Bonnie Sue isn't a good example since, as far as I know, she has never written a book. She was however my arch nemesis in first grade and I was always mean to her so now I try to atone for my transgressions by mentioning her name whenever I can.

A better example would have been John Kennedy Toole, who wrote "A Confederacy of Dunces." Depressed that he couldn't find a publisher he committed suicide. That should have been the end of the story (literally) had his mother not taken the manuscript, some 7 years after her son's death and pestered Walker Percy; then a teacher at Loyola, into reading it. Fortunately for my mother, my writing isn't in the same league with the afore mentioned authors so I'm not getting that emotionally ripped apart by the rejections. Secondly, her car has a lot of miles on it from driving back and forth to Jackson to look in on my uncle so if I did kill myself, either out of depression or just to see who would come to my funeral and what they would say about me, I wouldn't be leaving this Earth with the full confidence that my mother would physically be able to take my book around to whoever the writer in residence at Ole Miss is. I suppose she could call and ask if he (or she) would mind driving over to her house to look at this wonderfully enchanting and hilarious book that her clever and handsome son had written: God rest his soul. But her house is on the top of a steep hill and in the winter it's almost impossible to make it up without sliding back down into the ditch, and anyway, I'm pretty sure that Mrs. Toole lived on a cul de sac with ample street parking. Still, it would have been nice if her son had lived to see his book published.

As for me and my literary pursuits, I'm wrestling with the idea of going back and reworking the style of my story so that it reads more like a novel and less like a collection of e-mails which, essential it is. I'm also beginning to second guess my earlier decision to omit the chapters detailing my youth spent in a special school for wizards. Regardless of what transpires with this great adventure it has provided me with many new and wonderful experiences and opened my eyes to the world around me. Some people see the glass half empty. Others see it half full. Me? I'm just happy to have a glass. Besides, if things get too desperate I can always sell my signed, 1st edition copy of "A Confederacy of Dunces".

no title

a touch
a word
a kiss
a glance
a look
a sigh
a hug
a chance
a starry night
a moonless drive
and there
within the
darkness I
reach out to her
and feel her soul
and laughter hear
and bodies mold
and knowing
that it's been
so long
yet scared to
take a chance
at love
I fall for her

Grandpa? What was it like to go from the Wright Brothers to a man on the moon?

The other night I went out to dinner with one of my oldest, dearest friends. "Oldest" in this case refers to the length of time I've known her and not her age. The occasion was the chance to get to know her new husband. We had met and spoken several times before but always at various family get togethers so the conversations were of the superficial, hit-and-run, glad-handing, nice to meet you variety. I figured that any guy that my friend would choose as a mate must have something going for him so I was anxious to find out.

The jumping off point to the evening's conversation was a recanting of when and where his new bride and I had met. We began to reel off the years, like the effect of dated pages flying off the face of a wall calendar. In turned out to be 23 years which, to a giant tortoise is walk in the park, but to us seemed half a lifetime ago (which in my case it literally is) and is also the same age a some of my underwear. But rather than dwell on the passing of time in incremental measures we notched the dateline with the passing of technology. Our friendship pre-dates DVDs and CDs. VCRs were the size of suitcases and the remotes were connected to the machine by a long cord. Who was going to win the format war? My money was on the Betamax.

For listening to music I had a Marantz SuperTuner reciever and matching dual cassette recorder. That's right... Two - in the same unit. And a JVC turntable for playing any of my 2000 vinyl albums. (Both 33 1/3 & 45s). Back then, file sharing was recording a cassette tape from an album. If you were good at it there wouldn't be a noticable gap between Side One and Side Two when you had to pause to turn the record over.

My first computer was an IMB pc jr. with a blazing 128KB of memory with a 5 1/4 " floppy disk drive, and that was still two years away. Modem? What's a modem? What's an Internet? And just where did we get our porn from back then? Oh that's right... We had to ask the guy at 7/11 for a magazine that he kept behind the counter. The hottest home console game was the Mattel Intellivision. I couldn't afford it but a few friends had one and we spent hours manipulating pixelated stick figures around the screen. They didn't look like it but they were supposed to be football players.

Forget about cell phones. Those were hard wired to your car if you were a heart surgeon or an L.A. power agent.

A lot of change in a tiny sliver of time. When my friend went off to college I would mail her letters to keep her up to date on what I was doing; or more correctly, what I had done the week before she received the letter. When she had time she would write back. If I really wanted to impress her I would type a letter. On a typewriter. It's like a computer, only the monitor is a sheet of paper. A month would pass in between.

Now, we just leave each other voice mail on one of the three phone numbers we each seem to have or more likely than not just send a quick e-mail. Instantly, and in a half a dozen ways, we can know that the other person is running 5 minutes late for dinner.

Her new husband smiled and nodded and contributed his own remembrances of technology long dead and seldom spoke of. We moved on to other subjects and observations. We laughed and congratulated ourselves on what wonderful people we had turned out to be. The check came and they picked up the tab. I said that I would get it the next time we got together.

Outside on the street we hugged and said our goodbyes and backed away waving; promising to do this again soon. I walked to my car reminding myself to check the calendar in my Palm Pilot when I got home and e-mail my friend regarding another good place we could meet for dinner. In case she's never been there I'll include a MapQuest link.

oh the humanity

Found myself yelling at the TV tonight. Not so much at the box itself but rather the images on it. First at the looters in New Orleans and their attitude of entitlement. Then at my own reflection in the glass for being so judgemental and for the emotional whiplash I sustained as I watched this horror unfold on my wide screen HDTV in the comfort of my dry, air conditioned house. I kept watching; and waiting, for that Anne Frank moment when the pestience of the press would feature the feel-good story of someone arising from the hunkering, hungry, hovel to shine a beacon on some single act of humanity. It never came.

There was still plenty of indignation left for the CNN reporter that started to argue with Mississippi Governor Hailey Barbour because the governor wouldn't answer the reporter's questions in the way that he had wanted to hear them. He had obviously already written and edited his story and now had to interrupt and shout down the governor so that he could present his point. Where is Herb Morrison when we need him?