SoCal and re-branding

The nine of us lounged on the roof-top deck of our friend’s Marina Del Rey house overlooking the vast expanse of the Pacific Ocean.  The sun hung gloriously and approvingly in the sky.  Bathing us in her glory and further illuminating the exquisite aura that surely enveloped our crew.  Two more guys were due to arrive later.  But for now this was the collection.

The ambient air temperature sat perfectly at 81 degrees – or so told the digital thermometer that’s affixed to one wall.  The music of our youth serenaded our lively discussions; discussions that were peppered liberally with scathing digs at individual masculinity, athletic ability or accomplishment, or sexual voracity or proclivity.  The scents of fine cigars and copious amounts of liquors cloaked the festivities.  Such is the usual tenor of our gatherings in the beginning.  As the hands of the clock inevitably spun, and the ready supply of liquor began to diminish, the conversations became invariably more philosophical or intellectual – but in the beginning, it’s all repressed youthful testosterone and insulting humor. 

This was the somewhat ceremonial launch to our weekend filled with forays into more shenanigans than you can shake a proverbial stick at.  And it was typical.  And it contained so much more substance and interest for me than the rest of the expected booze fueled frolic.  It was beautiful; I saw it; we all saw it.  Once again, and thankfully, we all saw it.

Pura vida.

Prior to the sun bidding our gathering her extended leave as she settled comfortably in to the watery horizon, we toasted our fortune at being able to gather once again.  Without formal provocation, we each said a kind and sincere thanks to our host, and then briefly shared some kind words with the group.  I raised a frosty Pacifico and called for group discussion regarding the de-facto name of our quorum, “The Goons”.  I expressed a desire for considering changing the title to “Los Hermanos” – The Brothers for those not up to speed on basic Spanish.  It just seems that at an average age of 41, “The Goons” was not the most appropriate or applicable of terms.  This proposal was met with vociferous and unanimous approval.  The scene quickly was set upon by a din of clinking bottles and glasses and warm brotherly embraces and an uncoordinated chorus of “I love you, bro” shared with each other. 

And so we toasted the end of an era.  And we did so without sadness or remorse, but with an anticipation of the mystery that the future holds.  And secure in the knowledge that with the shedding of the past and all its attachments, comes the promise of new adventures. 

Salud, Los Hermanos.

Inspired.

Recently I’ve read a few blogs, commented on a few others.  Many of them have touched on a repetitious theme or similar philosophy, or, even in some cases deviated from its intended target towards something wholly beautiful unto itself.  And while all of them have collectively served to inspire this little blog; none articulated and gave me the push I needed more than Stacy’s.  Thank you.  I hope that I can appropriately serve justice to your message – or a relative thereof.

As I’ve mentioned from time to time, I have two fantastic older brothers.  They are ten and eleven years older than me respectively.  In my youth, they were unquestionably the greatest big brothers any little boy could have.  And even then, I knew how fortunate I was.  Then, as now, I loved them dearly.

As children are sometimes prone to do, I would have the occasional temper tantrum.  The reason for said tantrum is insignificant because I want to share with you how they helped me in those periods of great emotional upheaval.  Teen-aged boys…..displaying the kind of calm rationale that most adults could only dream of possessing.  Whilst in the throes of those tantrums they would hug me….tight….with loving firmness……they would rock back and forth……”shhhhh”ing repeatedly……occasionally pulling back to look me in the eyes and say, “it’s OK, Christopher, it’s OK” and lovingly wipe my tears away….often, they wouldn’t even bat an eyelash at my runny nose that *hurp* would make a little mess on their shirt.  Only as an adult could I fully realize what they were really doing.

They were wrapping my anger and frustration with a big comforting blanket of love and happiness.  They gave me sanctuary in my moment of despair and effectively reminded me that they loved me; and allowed me to remember how much I loved them.  And that protective and cleansing love provided an avenue for me to release whatever it was that was bothering me.  Again, these were teen-agers that had figured this shit out.

Now, as a father to two little girls, I am occasionally confronted with moments that must appear to be eerily similar to what my dear brothers witnessed in me. 

Last night my oldest daughter ventured in to a dark and forbidding valley of anger and helplessness.  We, her parents, had denied her request to go to a particular friends Halloween party. (we’re not being mean, it’s a case of too many parties and not enough time – that’s all)  Anyway, as she vented her displeasure at our decision and pumped her fists by her little hips to physically display her angst, her crying became uncontrollable.  Complete with the gasping abbreviated breaths that hinder coherent communication because the words are entangled with sincere and desperate sobs.  When I saw my opportunity, I clutched her tight.  I employed the same technique my brothers had shown me.  And, yes, I’ve done this before for each of my little girls.  But last night was different.

Last night was different because it was the second time that I had used that maneuver in the same evening.  Earlier my youngest had something that sent her over the edge, as well.  She, too, got my loving and protective clinch; complete with the rocking and the whispering.

What was amazing about each episode was how similar their calmed response was – once they each regained their composure, they each said, “I’m sorry Daddy.  I’m just upset.”  And with that……they just……..stopped crying.  Literally, word for word, the exact same declarative.

Neither daughter bore witness to the others misadventure.  I mean, they may have heard the crying, but they weren’t privy to the actual conversation.

I can see that although I’ve used this technique before, that there are layers to the gesture that I had not yet considered.  And likely still more to discover, frankly.  Bringing them love and protection during their emotional outburst, wrapping them in that love, reassuring them that “it’s OK”, giving them the forum to just be angry for a minute, and wrapping all of those freedoms and gifts with a big huge bow of acceptance and respect, gives them the comfort to know THEY ARE UNQUESTIONABLY LOVED.

On a slightly humorous and certainly less philosophical note – following my youngest daughter’s little ‘challenge’ we were soon playing “this little piggy” with her toes.  But because she has trouble linguistically spitting out the words ‘roast beef’, she says that the middle piggy has ‘rice pilaf’.  Only in the California.   

peace. love. happiness.

thanks again stacy. and thank you for “bringing love”. 

Strange bedfellows, of sorts.

There is a huge cemetery in the town where I went to high school.  Like most, it has large lush green swatches of land that are currently “unoccupied”.  As a matter of fact, there is so much open green space that we used to use the farthest corner to play 2-on-2 volleyball in days gone by.  This was, of course, by agreement with the cemetery’s operator.  He was always very agreeable with our arrangement, and we understood that we were to be respectful of the given operations of our hidden little gem of a volleyball court.

On one particular occasion we had assembled about 20 guys together on our secret court to have a friendly round-robin style tournament.  The competition was fierce, and the focus was intense.   So much so that during one of the matches we failed to recognize that a service had been set up and that mourners had arrived.  Our little slice of earth was well out of ear-shot of the ceremony, but you could see our little clan from the gathering.  As the crow flies, we were about 150 yards away. 

Respectfully, and once we noticed that a ceremony was underway, we suspended our matches.  Without a sound we all began to march a little closer to the ceremony, while still maintaining a healthy and respectful distance.  We all made our way to a shady spot under a tree and watched as the gathered mourners went through the usual movements of a grave-side memorial.  As the gathering dispersed and made their way to their respective vehicles, we couldn’t help but notice a frail woman being escorted to a black limousine.  Our instincts told us that she was likely the widow.  And we were correct.

The limo oozed its way through the curved roads of the cemetery but instead of heading for the exit gates, it turned down the winding path to where we all sat quite a distance away from the gravesite.  The vehicle stopped and the rear passenger window slid down into the cars door.  The old woman’s face was framed in the void, where she waved and called out, “C’mere boys.”  We all quickly looked at each other, and proceeded to stride toward the car.  Her eyes looked heartbroken, but she smiled bright despite her apparent pain.  She told us that she had just buried her husband of 57 years; a man she’d known since she was 11 – they first met in grade school.  She told us how much her husband loved sports and being active.  She also asked if it would be OK if she watched us play for a while; she said it would help “distract her from her sadness for a spell.”  Naturally, we agreed.

The limo slowly followed us back to our court.  As we approached our destination, the limo driver honked his horn.  I, and my playing partner, trotted over to find out what he needed.  Again, the rear window rolled down and the elderly woman asked that we not let our previous conversation disrupt our games.  And she asked that we make sure to tell the others not to let her life interfere with their joy.  We did as she asked.

We returned to our make-shift tournament and became so engrossed we never even noticed that she’d, at some point, driven away.  I’d like to believe that she was able to temporarily alleviate her sorrow by immersing herself in someone else’s happiness.  And I’d like to believe that I could have that kind of clarity some day.  The clarity to see that despite all that ails us, there is beauty all around.  Beauty that we may have to struggle to see.  But simple beauty.  So simple, in fact… that its very existence is as plain as a game played by kids on a sunny day….. in a cemetery, of all places.

Can I be both?

Can I be both?

 

I recently revealed to some very close friends that I was happy, but I was bored.   One guy said that I couldn’t be both simultaneously.  While another chimed in that my confession amounted to a harbinger for divorce (btw, he’s totally off-base – he just wants me to be single so I’ll have more time for buffoonery and debauchery with him).  Still another opined that “boredom is over-rated” and that happiness was a more substantive measure – therefore, his perspective was that I was mincing words and that being happy basically trumped boredom, rendering the boredom claim moot.   I asserted, again, and still maintain that I can, and am, happy but painfully bored.

We all spoke about this topic at length – and I can’t recall every revelation that conversation produced – but, suffice it to say, there was some soul-searching and some deep philosophizing. 

And here is my oversimplified argument.  I am a very fortunate person in many, many respects.  Those plentiful blessings contribute to a general feeling of “happiness” and certainly a reason to be thankful.  And let’s not get in to a long, agonizingly painful deconstruction of the term “happiness” – let’s just take it at face value, shall we.  But despite those blessings, I find the responsibilities of those elements of happiness contribute to my boredom.  As plainly as I can state it, my head and my heart are satisfied for the most part, but my soul is starving.  My soul wants greater adventure, more intangibles, more respect paid to the belief that LIFE IS FOR LIVING!  Not existence, not enduring, but L-I-V-I-N’, in the immortal words of Matthew McConaughey in the movie Dazed and Confused.

So, dear blogosphere family, I ask you….. can I be both?  Or am I just staring down the barrel of the big 4-0 (first week in December) and unknowingly just kinda…. freakin’ out a little?  Any of you feel this way?  If you do, what are your coping strategies?

Why I’m not participating……..

Some of my fellow bloggers/cyber friends have sent me messages wondering why I haven’t chimed in, via my blog, on the presidential race.  And why I haven’t “lit up” those that reside on the other side of the political fence from me.  And why, with all that is at stake in this election (like there isn’t a shit load at stake in EVERY election), I haven’t used this blogosphere as a forum for “making my case”.

Well…………… I’ll tell you why.  But first a little background is in order.  As many of you may know, I not only have strong and informed opinions about politics, but that I also hold a degree in Political Science bestowed upon me by the Regents of the University of California; which, in most circles, means that when it comes to politics – *snarky tone* I kinda know what the fuck I’m talking about.  So with that unapologetic pat on my own damn back (thank you very much) I’ll tell you why I’ve stayed, and will continue to stay, quiet on the nominees, their running mates, and the election in general.

Simply put, I don’t much fucking care to get in to the discussion.  It has become abundantly clear to me that the blogosphere is simply not the forum for an articulate and civil dialogue on matters of current politics.  The plain and simple truth is that we don’t actually have “discussions”; we have cyber shouting matches – finger pointing, name calling, anger and resentment.  And because of that, the practice of, or at least the attempt of, a rational political discussion is an exercise in futility. 

Furthermore, I don’t care to have the discussion because far too often the discussion descends in to a place I’d rather believe didn’t exist.  A place where we don’t give a shit about our fellow residents of this planet – a place where we wield theocracy like a fucking machete and butcher ideals and people in our savage quest for misguided justification for our blind faith – a place where the words “progressive” or “elite” are bad – a place where charity and compassion don’t exist.  I’d just simply rather believe, and live, in an idyllic place that will help people who have less than noble intentions in order to eventually help those who truly need it – I’d rather believe in a place that behaved with a sense o f humility and dignity in our dealings with our fellow humans – I’d rather believe that love, inclusion, compassion and honor will overcome fear, mistrust, hatred and cynicism – I’d rather believe that greed will not triumph over charity and good-will – I’d rather believe that we have come to our senses and we will craft and employ an updated geo-socio-political-economic model that recognizes the advances and changes in our cultural and technological landscape and cease attaching a geo-socio-political-economic paradigm from the 50’s when it NO LONGER APPLIES!

And now I’ve done that which I said I didn’t want to do.   And I’ll be totally frank with all of you; there is exactly one person I’ve met on this planet who disagrees with me on most things political who I actually feel is coherent in their justifications and their arguments.  The rest………… well, they may not like it, but they’re just wrong.  And I hate to break it down to such brass tacks, but that’s just it for me.  They’re just wrong.

When Rockstars Come Home

As a native San Franciscan I have had the distinct pleasure of attending concerts of some of the greatest musicians, singers and performers to ever grace the stage as they make a visit to “where it all started.”  San Francisco, and the greater Bay Area, has given birth to a wide array of musical artists from The Grateful Dead to Green Day.  And frankly, Northern California in general has served as the launch pad for countless numbers as they rocket to fame and stardom.  And I feel fortunate to call that place my home.

So last night my wife and I went to see Counting Crows in Mountain View (South Bay Area – not far from Stanford University).  And tonight we will see them again; but this time in Concord (in the East Bay area – close to UC Berkeley).  Both shows serve as a homecoming for CC, as they originally hail from Berkeley.  

And man…… there is something about “coming home” that brings out the best in musicians.  The way they reaffirm the matrix of connections we all share communally as residents of a region and the way they empower all of the attendees to be good stewards for the patch of earth we collectively share…. man, it’s just awesome.  The way that so many of those musicians show genuine appreciation and humility at recognizing that the perhaps not so hallowed ground we tread upon that evening gave them direction, purpose, and the opportunity to follow their dreams.  And the way they poetically embrace all of us and take them on the ride with them.  And man…… there is something that stirs way deep in my soul when a musician takes the stage somewhere in Northern California during one of these ‘homecomings’ and says, in various forms, “HELLO SAN FRANCISCO!!”, or “Bay Area”, or “Northern California”, etc…  and they do it with a palpable sense of relief and honor to be home on comfortable soil. 

Or maybe all that shit is made up, ’cause I was stoned-a-bajeezus last night!  Happily and gloriously crushed baked and simultaneously wrapped by, and in, the music and the moment.   HA!

So, share something with me.  Who’s your favorite musical “hometown hero”?  Do you go when they roll through?  What’s it like for you?

peace.  love.  happiness.

An emotional “Island of Misfit Toys”

Sometimes I imagine that there is a veritable “Island of Misfit Toys” that is inhabited by all of those little emotional and physical sensations we lose after the new car smell that permeates a relationship in its infancy wears off.  All those euphoric feelings of anxiety and anticipation that comfortably and casually fall by the wayside as a relationship matures.  The losses aren’t necessarily a tragic byproduct; but rather a simple sign of growth.  Think of them as the worn out pair of “must have” jeans you just HAD TO HAVE when you were younger, but now are discarded and decomposing in a trash heap somewhere or are preserved somewhere in your belongings – but despite their location, the memory of how excited you were when they entered your life can still make you smile.

As I take stock of the realities and responsibilities of my current life; husband, father, provider, etc… I have come to grips with my station in the hierarchy of priorities of my wife.  And, I’ve got to say that although I understand, I miss being firmly grounded at the proverbial top of the pops.  That chart-topping status is something I miss; a memory that certainly resides in my mythical island I described earlier.  Don’t get me wrong – I’m still top 5, for sure (wink).  But that feeling of being the absolutely most critical entity in someone’s universe was intoxicating.   And I creep in to the lead on occasion – for a short time – only to relinquish my spot to someone (more specifically, some ‘people’) who need it far more than me.  And I’m happy to relinquish that assignment.  But I do miss that feeling though……..

So what do you miss from the first throes of “new relationshipdom”?  If you’re not in one, think back to one that mattered.  C’mon, let’s talk about this one.

peace. love. happiness.

 

 

Passing on some “stoke”….

Read this with an open mind.  This is NOT only about surfing.  It doesn’t take much to see that there is quite a bit more to this code.

The Surfers Code
“I will never turn my back on the ocean

I will always paddle back out

I will take the drop with commitment

 

I will know that there will always be another wave

 

I will realize that ALL surfers are joined by ONE ocean

 

I will paddle around the impact zone

 

I will never fight a rip tide

 

I will watch out for other surfers after a big set

 

I will pass on my stoke to a non-surfer

 

I will ride, and not paddle in to shore

 

I will catch a wave every day, even in my mind

 

I will honor the sport of kings”

I rediscovered this little gem not long ago that was written by former pro surfer, Shaun Tomson.  As a matter of fact, I have it up in my office.  And there are two lines in there that I have forgotten to adhere to on a regular basis.  They are: “I will pass on my stoke to a non-surfer”, and “I will catch a wave every day, even in my mind”

The second quotation primarily affects me, and me alone.   So for the primary purposes of this blog I will keep that reflection to myself.  But what bothers me is that I have failed to pass on some stoke.  Yes, I’ll mete out a little here and there, but I’ve not done it with a consistency that I should.  BTW, for purposes of this discussion “stoke” is the present tense, non-action word for “joy” or “happiness”.  “Stoked” is the act of being excited, joyous or happy. 

So, here are some things I’d like to pass on.  Some “stoke”, if you will.

 

·         On FuelTV there is a series called On Surfari, (http://www.onsurfari.com/) and it views like a relaxing and enlightening pull off a freshly packed bowl of the herb.  It chronicles this young married couple who travel the globe in search of adventures, waves and exposure to interesting people and cultures – all that you might otherwise never have the pleasure of learning about or seeing.  It is, in a word, beautiful.  Just these two uncorrupted souls who genuinely thirst to experience the world around them – more specifically, the world that we might never otherwise learn about.  And they do it with their young child, which is just all color of beautiful that I can’t describe.  If you do, and I encourage you to, check out their website, don’t get thrown by the sprinkling of religious quotes – the show is really about enlightenment and not  religious doctrine.

·         If you get a chance to catch the FX Network show “30 Days” where Morgan Spurlock (the host) spends 30 days on a Navajo reservation, you should – it may change your life.  The connection that these native people have to the earth and the seasons and the energy that surrounds us all is absolutely astounding, awe-inspiring and self-affecting.  Morgan learns to take a jog towards the sunrise (just before sunrise, actually) every morning and as the sun rises he holds out his hands to take in the “re-birth” of the sun, then touches his fingertips to his temples and his heart, and, in essence, to drink in the “life of the light”.  It’s just freaking beautiful.

·        

Finally, find some time to truly meditate.  I don’t mean, have a discussion with yourself while you’re driving.  I mean, find somewhere beautiful and peaceful where for a little while you can close your eyes and just…….. think….. in absolute silence.  At around 10 p.m. last night, and well after putting the girls to bed, I decided to go for a little moonlit dip in the pool.  There was a full moon out and it illuminated everything its reflective light touched.  After first quietly and silently swimming the length of the pool underwater and getting enveloped by the silence, I decided to lounge on the pool mat (y’know those foamy raft type things that are unsinkable).  I lay there silently and watched the moon bob and weave behind the swaying palm fronds of the palm trees.  And then I just…… thought.  All kinds of topics – too many to list, really.  And after a while, I slowly paddled over to the pool steps and exited feeling immensely cleansed.  And I realized how helpful the silence had been.  And how much perspective I was able to attain.

 

And, of course, I would encourage you all to “catch a wave every day, even in (your) mind.”  Find a place where you and your soul and the energy around you synch up in a way that validates our existence here on this orb.  Just for a moment, capture that feeling of connectedness and ……. breathe it in. 

So, what “stoke” do you want to share with the people?

An homage……….

“An homage”………..

She bounded and bounced more than walked.  And when she did, time slowed to a crawl.  Y’know those moments when the musical accompaniment can permanently define a singular slice in time; well this was one for me, but the song changes now, depending on my mood.  Wayward strands of her silky, radiant blonde hair would obscure her face as she looked down to locate her membership card and retrieve it from her shoulder bag and perform the requisite card display as she entered the health club.  Effortlessly she would lift her head, and with a quick spasm of her neck, fling her hair from her face.  Her emerald eyes, framed by her sun-kissed skin with liberally freckled cheeks, would quickly glance at me and politely smile.  But only briefly.  Never long.  Never with much interest behind them, frankly – just the obligatory courtesy smile that one would give to the guy manning the front desk at the health club.  And that’s all I was to her then.  That would change, however.

Her lithe and muscled body was evident right through her wind suit that she wore.  A physique that would be on full display as she emerged from the women’s locker room.  Her emergence unveiled what lay beneath that wind suit; a neon orange thong-backed leotard over black lace leggings.  She carried the sculpted shoulders and sweeping quads of a gymnast; strong, primed for use, and determined.  Her upper back bore the tell-tale remnants of many hours spent honing her “V” taper for form and function; echoing her history as a competitive collegiate level water-skier.  Her lower back tapering and shrinking to a Lilliputian sized waist; and below that, gave way to a show-stopping and seizure-inducing ass.  It was high, it was round, it was tight, it was firm and it was shaped like a tiny upside-down heart.   In a word, it was breathtaking.  This was the kind of derrière that would cause the restrictive material of a cheerleading skirt to strain on the backside just a little – not too much, but not too little… just right.  This fact, I would discover later, would complete the holy trinity of athletic influences that shaped her shape.  Gymnast, water-skier, cheerleader… talk about a foundation for a physique.

From the upstairs balcony of the facility, I would admire her toils below on the weight room floor.  OK, it more closely resembled spying but who’s arguing.  I would watch her push and pull, strain and struggle, bend and stretch, rest and recover, then do it all over again.  Her strength was both staggering and impressive.  She was all sensuous feminine curves coupled with toned, full, and shapely muscle bellies.  And from my reconnaissance perch I would tell myself that she looked “bendy”.  Not the most eloquent of terms, but, well, she did.  And, she was.

After resuming my appointed post at the entrance to the club, she would eventually return to my domain – aglow and flush, still clad in the leotard and leggings, but the wind suit now stowed in her workout bag.  She would return the club towel to its repository and offer up a polite smile as I awkwardly begged for her attention with a weak, “Thanks.  See ya’ later,” as I would clumsily return her submitted membership card to her possession.  Ugh.  Not my best moments.

And there she would leave me.  With my heart sunk and my hopes for that day dashed.  Foiled by my loss of poise at my moment of truth.  Instinctively I would mentally note the time of day, hoping that my work schedule would once again coincide with her future arrival.  Besides… I needed time to get my act together.  My “Thanks.  See ya’ later” routine was clearly not going to cut it.

And, yes, I would watch that ass walk away.  Despite my momentary “lack of game”, there was no way in hell I was going to miss an opportunity to stare at that thang! 

Pura Vida.

Pura vida.

One of my very tight circles of friends consists of a group of guys that my wife went to high school with.  Yep, read it again; not guys that I went to school with, guys she went to school with.  Some of the cast members are her junior prom date (and short term boyfriend), the BMOC (then and now – all-world athlete, and an even better person – grossly financially successful, charming, etc…), her ex-boyfriend of a year or two (HS then for a time in college, but remained friends after a brief distancing), another hugely successful dude from the same class (sold his invention to Microsoft a few years back, now just rests on a mountain of dinero), a few other “satellite” dudes, etc.  Some people find it strange that this is how our crew has shaped, but, thankfully, all of the players just enjoy each other’s company and we don’t get hypnotized by the uncommon nature of our collective friendship.  There are, I am proud to say, no other spouses of girls they went to school with included in this bunch. 

I feel more than a little honored that this group has accepted me in to their circle; they are tight, they are fiercely loyal and they are not taking applications for new members.  So my inclusion is noteworthy in that regard. 

And that is the setting for why this group of men represent so much of the notion of “Pura Vida”.  For me, and in this context, this is about as friendly and respectful a relationship(s) I have outside of my marriage and the one I share with two brothers.  These dudes are some straight-up beautiful people.  They are comfortable in their skin, they can laugh as effortlessly at themselves as we do one another, they can talk shit and dish on chicks with the best of them, they are refined and polished, they are worldly and educated, they are crass and unapologetic, and they are…. my bros. 

Recently one of their fathers was talking to me at a party/reunion, of sorts.  We discussed many subjects: his native Nicaragua and the political changes he has seen there in his lifetime, the perils, pitfalls and joys of moving his young family to California, the plain yet ethereal finish and palate of ice cold Pacifico beer with the juice of a lime wedge squeezed through the neck (discard the rind people, don’t be gauche), and the intoxicating cacophony of scents produced by the blending of the women’s fragrances in attendance, and…. Pura Vida.  The Pura Vida he reveled in was the clear respect, affection and unadulterated joy we all shared in each other’s company – particularly the guys.  “Men,” he explained “don’t usually behave so free and happy.”  Clearly he wished his words were more eloquent, but his broken English prevented his thoughts from being translated.  He would drift back and forth from Spanish to English to Spanglish and again.  And I understood everything.

And he, at that moment, reminded me that this little turn we get on this earth is not a dress rehearsal – this is the real fucking deal, your time at the plate, clichéd etc, clichéd etc…  And through his Patron induced ramblings he looked at me and said, “Cristobal, just love each other very hard… like your life depends on it…. because it does.”  We then toasted shots of Patron, chased with gulps of Pacifico, and just enjoyed each other’s company for a little while.  Mostly I listened.  I listened to stories of his native country, his wife’s crazy and voracious sexual appetite (I know….), how much he loved his sons, why salsa dancing is so important, etc…

I bid his leave after a few minutes, as that is the nature of interactions at parties.  As I gave him a hug and told him how nice it was to talk to him, he looked at me and repeated, “Remember, love each other very hard.” 

Pura Vida.