Salsa Without the “Chips”

Ladies and Gentleman, the Salsa “king” has left the building. 

Yes, the Salsa lessons are over.  As one friend said, “Salsa’s no good without the chips.”   In other words, you’ve got to have a “hunk a burning love” to practice with, to make it worth your while.  (Ok, enough with the Elvis references.)  

So, I ended that experiment with a promise to the dance instructor that I would be back, and who knows, that could be sooner rather than later.  But it looks like I won’t be dancing at the South Street Seaport this summer, although I gave it my best effort, learned a lot and have a feeling there could be more dancing days ahead.   

I owe this all to Ms. Nyack who was born to dance and also sees auras.  Quite a combination and an inspiration to me.    

But the fact is I’ve learned a lot from many people over the past year.

I’ve learned I would like to dance.
I’ve learned that many people believe in me, and believe in my writing.
I’ve re-learned that no matter how much you want something, you can’t force it to happen.  You can only do your best, show up, and let the cards fall where they may.
I’ve been reminded I have two exceptional sons, who have the same human frailties as the rest of us, but who also have incredible talent, fortitude and a drive to be passionate about life.
I’ve learned to move on from the past and embrace today.  (Don’t you just love the concept of embracing?)
I’ve also learned that Scarsdale, NY is only 20 minutes away.

The only thing I didn’t learn was the difficult “1,2,3, double turn and comb her hair” move in the Salsa class.  Oh well, maybe next time.

And now it’s on to other things.  There’s a children’s book series to promote, a new book finally started, an essay to record for radio, a music video of one of my songs, featuring yours truly, which may shoot in April or May, and TV commercials to produce in LA soon after that.

And finally there is the love of my life;  golf, which starts in mid-April, whether I’ve finished rehabilitating this surgically, repaired shoulder or not.

So, there’s a lot to do, leaving less and less time for this blog.  But it’s been fun, and when things pop into my head, I’ll write about them.   And that’s a promise.  Because what I’ve also learned this year, is that me without my blog is now like…

…Salsa without the chips.

The Peking Duck Dudes

There are fortunes I will talk about in this story, but I’ll get to those crazy cookies later.  This is really a story about an old friend who I hadn’t seen in 10 years.

It was in the early 90’s when I had just joined a new firm and found myself way over my head when it came to experience and dealing with the investment banking culture.  For the first month I had no idea how I, this kid from the south side of Chicago, was going to survive in an environment of Ivy Leaguers who came from money, made even bigger money, and exuded power, arrogance and a sense of entitlement that they thought was their birthright.

(Right now 92% of the women on Match.com are having orgasms just thinking about being with those type of men.  And the men know it.)

It was during that first month when a communications consultant walked into a meeting I was at.  He stood about 6’3”, was thin, and was wearing a double-breasted grey suit that looked like it cost more than I made in two months.   But let me tell you, just because he was a communications guy, he was no empty suit.  He could walk the walk, and talk the talk, and he held his own with every partner of the firm that was in that meeting.  He was impressive, to say the least.

Almost 18 years later, we are still friends and tonight he and I had dinner.

Life is funny.  You never know who you’re going to connect with, or why you’re going to  stay connected to them.  In this case, the reason was a creative one.  You see, not only was this man smart, he was, and still is, one of most creative people I know.   And it’s been that mutual appreciation of each other’s creative efforts that has kept us in touch.  We don’t hang out together, we’re not in regular communication with each other, and we haven’t even done business together.  But we stay in touch.

You see, with my friend and I, it’s not about success, or stardom, or financial rewards, it’s all about the creativity.  That’s our connection.

And after 10 years, and many delays, we finally got together for dinner tonight at the Peking Duck House on 53rd Street in New York City.  Between noodles and ribs, and  assorted other Chinese dishes, we reminisced, and chatted about our current business situations.  But mainly we talked about our creative work.  Through email over the years, I’ve kept abreast of his work while he’s kept abreast of mine.  I’ve even seen his most recent paintings which inspired me to write poetic captions below each and every one of them, while he keeps up with my life through this blog.

At one point he told me how he had recently spent some time at his cabin in the country, unsuccessfully trying to grow radishes.  “Thank god he was unsuccessful,” I thought, otherwise he would have carved those poor suckers into some sort of artwork and sent them to me.  And while I’ve kept every creative work he has ever bestowed upon me, I’m not sure I could have done the same with radishes.  But knowing my friend, they would have amazed me, and I probably would have stored them in my fridge forever.

I write about this night because it’s connections like these that make life wonderful for me.  They are special enough that they don’t need daily nourishing.  They are deep enough that years can go by, you can meet at the Peking Duck House on a random Wednesday night in New York City, and pick up right where you left off 10 years before.

Now for those of you who could care less about this little creative love fest I’ve been describing and simply want me to get to the fortune cookie part, your time has arrived.

As we sipped the last of our coffee and tea, we each grabbed a fortune cookie.  My friend opened his first, and didn’t say a word. “Unusual I thought,” as he usually has something interesting to say about most anything.  But he remained quiet.

I opened mine, which had its usual agnostic philosophical saying that can apply to most anyone.  Still my friend just sat there, and after reading mine he seemed a little stunned, and a bit disappointed.

“What does yours say,” I asked him, sincerely wanting to know what profound message had subdued him into silence.  And he read it out loud.

“You are going to have some new clothes.”

“What?   You are going to have some new clothes?”  And I started laughing.  I always laugh when something odd, from out of the blue, makes its way into my life.

“This was clearly made for some ‘chick’,” he said.  “This is the first time in my life where a fortune has clearly been written for a specific gender.  What man hopes his fortune reads ‘You are going to have some new clothes?’”  And I laughed again.

For the remaining minutes he stayed somewhat quiet, and obviously deep in though.  He paid the bill, we gathered our things, tipped the “coat check” girl, and began to head out into the cold, dark but bustling New York City streets at 7:30pm on a week day night, when he looked at me and thoughtfully said,

“You know, I could use some new clothes.”

I just smiled as we parted ways, thinking about the day he walked into my life 18 years earlier dressed in that beautiful grey suit.  And now here he was trying to grow radishes and realizing that his fortune cookie might be correct, and that he was going “to have some new clothes.”

We made our usual promises of seeing each other more often, and hopefully doing some work together.  I really hope that happens.  Because all of us need to be with people like my friend more often.

As he headed off to Brooklyn Heights, and I made my way to Grand Central Station and Westchester County, I felt blessed.  Blessed because of this enduring connection.  And blessed that it’s creativity that has kept it alive.

Salsa 5 – All Shook Up

I’m slow.  Very slow.

I have learned two things from my Salsa experience and neither have to do with learning the dance.  One is that I’m a slow learner, and the second is that I’m a damned slow learner.

Last week, I finished my Salsa class lessons and learned a lot, but nothing I can replicate on the dance floor.  I have even learned a lot from my private dance instructor, but again, nothing I can put into action.  And here’s the reason, and here’s what took me a month to learn.  If you’re going to learn how to do a dance that requires a partner, guess what you have to have?  You got it!

A partner!

God, what an idiot.  I’ve subjected myself to a month of paid Salsa classes, and just finished my third private lesson, and “Einstein” finally figures out that he needs a partner.

“That’s why we have dances on Fridays and Saturdays,” the head of the dance studio informed me.  ”So you can practice the steps with other people who are just learning.”

That’s great advice.  But there’s one problem that people like her (excellent dancers) just don’t understand.  If I had the confidence or the experience to step foot on a dance floor, I wouldn’t be taking these stupid, friggin’ dance lessons in the first place, now would I.  Does she honestly think I’m going to go to a party with a hundred octogenarians and make an ass out of myself trying to do steps that I forgot five days earlier?

I don’t think so.

Does she really expect that I’m going to walk up to Mary and say “Mary could I please have the pleasure of the next salsa dance?  Of course I’ll be glad to park your walker by the wall.  Of course I know you have Osteoporosis.  Mary, of course I promise not to step on your feet or break your ribs or neck.  Come on Mary, this will be fun.  Let’s just get you to your feet old girl, and get out there on the dance floor!”

I don’t think so.

Well, much to the chagrin of my naysayers, I told myself I wouldn’t quit, that I’d see this through, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do.  Lucretia and I had our third lesson tonight, and that leaves two to go. Tonight she backed off her commands of last week when she implored me to “Leeeed!”   Tonight she said,

“Don’t worry.  You won’t be “leeeeeeding” for another 3 or 4 weeks.”

I just smiled, because she forgot that I’ve only got two more lessons left.  I won’t be “leeeeeding” in three or four weeks because I won’t be there in three or four weeks.

Does that mean I quit.  No.  I’m going to finish this out.  And guess what?  I may even sign up for more lessons if I can trick someone – I mean convince someone – to join me so I have someone to practice with.

Until then, my friends said they’re willing to buy me a blow up doll to practice with.   Nice.  And those are my friends.

I don’t sound very pleased tonight, do I?  Well, I’m not.  While Lucretia keeps saying I’m doing great and keeps pushing me in the chest and saying,

“Looooook atch yoooooou make deeeees mooooves,”  I’m really not very happy, and mainly because no matter what I do in life, I’m always such a damned slow learner.  Tonight it’s just got me …

… all shook up.

Salsa 4 – A Big Wide Grin

This was a big night for me, in more ways than one.

Tonight, I got my first big belly laugh, I saw other students who, like me, weren’t on Medicare and Medicaid, and I finally pissed off one of the other dancers, which I TOLD you was bound to happen sooner or later.  Well, it happened sooner.  But more on that later.

Most importantly, on my second private lesson I finally relaxed.  It only took four trips to the Dance Center and half my paycheck, but the concrete shoes finally broke away and my nibble feet began to float in the air.

Well, maybe they weren’t floating.  In fact my teacher, Lucretia, told me to “stop bouncing.”   But hey, I was having fun.  And I wasn’t “bouncing.”  I was “bopping.”  Which didn’t matter because she still told me to stop doing it.

But before the night was over, I had the basic Salsa steps down well enough that I wasn’t even counting anymore.  (I’ll miss my old friends “one, two, three, and five, six, seven and”)

Unfortunately however, not only wasn’t I counting, I wasn’t leading either, and that was a problem.

You see in Salsa dancing the woman gets all the attention, but the man has to lead her into all the steps, turns and spins.   I’m not great at leading, which is one reason I’m taking these lessons.  I want to lead someone, in something, just once in my friggin’ life.

My dance instructor, with her Eastern European accent, kept saying, “You must leeeeed!  You must leeeeed!”

“I’ll leeeed!  I’ll leeeed!” I yelled backed at her.  But of course I forgot and she just stared at me.  Which is when the belly laugh part of the lesson began, because being my playful, irreverent self, I asked her,

“When do we get to the part where I get to drag you across the floor by the hair?”

And with a tone of complete exasperation she said,

“Oh God, help me”

I started laughing.  Then she started laughing.  Then, as we both stood there arm in arm, laughing, waiting to being the dance,  she noticed one of the “Medicare” students leaving the studio and she called out to him,

“Herb!  Don’t forget your cane!”

And I lost it.

I’m sorry, but I simply lost it.  I wasn’t just laughing.  I was now leaning against the wall crying one of those hysterical laughs that takes on a life of it’s own, that you just can’t stop.

Now, let me say right here, that anyone who knows me, knows I’m not a mean person, and if anyone should be laughed at in this class, it’s me.  It’s just that I find odd things funny, and when you combine two or three odd things together at once, well, I just don’t have much control.

Which of course Herb didn’t appreciate.

“It’s not a cane for walking” (you idiot!) he must have thought, or worse.  “It’s for a dance I’m working on.”

Leaning against the wall, with tears running down my cheeks, and choking back my laughter, I was barely able to speak, but I said,

“You mean like a vaudeville dance?”

And then I lost it again.

I couldn’t even stand up and started sliding down the wall, laughing, crying and calling out to Herb,

“Herb, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s not you. It’s not you.”

Thankfully, Herb and I had hit it off in the group classes we had taken together in the past weeks, and he finally started laughing as well.  And the three of us, Herb, Lucretia and I,  just stood there and had a moment of simple unabashed fun.   It was great.

As Herb left, and we finished the rest of my lesson, Lucretia said to me,

“Well, that was some lesson.”  I just smiled as she continued.  “Same time next week.  And be ready, because next week I’m going to start on your style, and trust me, you won’t be laughing then.”

Uh oh.  Now I have to learn style?

“And no more ‘bopping,’ she scolded “and you have to leeeeed!” she shouted back at me, as she walked out of the room with nothing on her face but …

a big wide grin.

Salsa Three: The Come Back

This doesn’t count as a post.  It’s an update, because it’s late, I’m tired, starved, physical therapy’d out and I can barely think.  Now that I’ve made enough excuses to last at least a few more days, let me tell you that it’s Wednesday, and tonight was a make or break night for my Salsa lessons.

For those of you who are detailed oriented and remember that my Salsa lessons are on Tuesday nights and wonder why I wasn’t at my normal class, you all get an A for being attentive and you get extra cookies and milk for lunch tomorrow.

The fact is, I had a business event to go to on Tuesday and sometimes business comes before pleasure, or in this case, before the torture of Salsa lessons for white boys.

And since I had forgotten all the steps we’d learned from last Tuesday, not being there yesterday was not the worst thing in the world, as I was discouraged and not anxious to be shown up again by 90-year-old Manny with the replacement hips.  (Damn, I hate modern technology.)

“Ahhhhh,” I hear all my naysayers….well….saying…”we knew he’d quit. That guy just can’t finish anything!”

“Not so fast!” the Salsa wannabe exclaimed.

Yes, I knew I was in trouble.  But did I quit?  No.  (Although it did cross my mind.  About six times.)   Instead, I closed my eyes and jumped into “the deep end” of the Salsa pool, and signed up for private lessons.  I’m determined (at least for now) and tonight was my first one.

With a woman.  Who can really move her hips.  (Guys. I mean “really” move her hips.) Who is from Hungary.  And who sounds like Lucretia Borgia when she’s counting out my steps.  It was the most bizarre experience I’ve had in at least a week.   Salsa music and Hungarian accents “live on stage in Westchester County, New York.”

Everybody sing……”I like to be in America, Okay by me in America!”

Yes, tonight was kind of a strange blend that sounded like something between West Side Story and The Sound of Music.  And of course I was in the middle of it.

But guess what?

I survived.  And actually, I think I got better.

In fact, (and I don’t want to sound over optimistic) now I feel “the Mambo” in my future!

“One, two, three, pause, five, six, seven, pause.

Move over Manny!  I’m making a come back!”

The Commuter

The conductor announced his stop, like he did every night of the year
and the man stepped off the train, from the same car, with the same people
and followed the same route home, in the same town, on the same streets, that he’d traveled for too many years to count.   

It was dark, and snowing, and as usual the man felt alone
in his suit, and his overcoat and his briefcase. 

And he simply couldn’t bear the routine for one minute longer.

And as he walked from the station, he turned onto an unused path 
and laid on his back in 4 inches of the newly fallen snow 
which continued to fall
and watched as the flakes got heavier
and danced in front of a solitary streetlight
down to his face where they floated to his mouth and his eyes 
and caressed his face, like the fingers of a past lover. 

And he wanted to cry.

But the undisturbed snow had muffled the approaching steps of a man,
who watching him lie there said,  

“Mister, you Okay?”

And only moving his mouth, never taking his eyes from the flakes that darted down to rescue him, the man responded,

“I’m just livin’ man,” as he closed his lips to kiss the snow and to simply savor life.  

And when the man left, he continued to lie there
snow covering his body, the flakes cleansing his soul.   

Tonight he had taken a different route
away from adulthood
where long past memories of riding down the hill on his fathers back
on the wooden sled with steel runners
brought a brief smile that for this one moment held back the tears

As he softly whispered to himself,   

“I’m livin’ man.  I’m just livin’.”

And he stared up at the memories
and at the snow
which continued to fall.

Salsa – The Sequel

Tuesday’s are rough.

I’m up at 5 a.m. to write, then a full day of work followed by physical therapy until 8:30 p.m., and then an hour Salsa lesson.

It’s a full day and I’m happy to report that I didn’t hurt anyone tonight. (Well at least they claim I didn’t)

Again, I’m the only beginner in the class and it’s a lesson in humility.  I thought I was humble before.  You don’t know “humble” until you’ve seen this white boy try to do the Salsa.

But at least I showed up.

Manny and Chuck were also there, but Bill from Connecticut dropped out.  (Those damned Connecticut people) But there was a new guy to take his place, who also had some experience, and God I hate those people with experience.   Mary, Franny and Tammy with her “breasts” were also there, but Geraldine didn’t make it.   It was cold out and I think the wheels on her walker must have frozen up.

During the week, of course I practiced….one, two, three, pause, five, six, seven pause…  until I actually felt like I might be able to do this dance someday, although this summer at the South Street Sea Port is starting to feel a wee bit optimistic on my part.  It might be more like the summer of 2012….maybe.

And this “practicing” I’m doing during the week, on a lumpy rug in my postage stamp-sized “living” room, is all happening in between writing, shoulder exercises at home, physical therapy, chores, community commitments, oh, and on occasion, eating.

And I’ve started dating again.  (Picture sitting across from a hooker for two hours.) That’s all I’ll say about that, because that’s another story for another time.

Anyway, does anyone have a shoe horn?  Maybe I can squeeze something else into my life.  Oh and did I mention that …. I had been practicing the Salsa steps incorrectly all week and had to basically start the “basics” all over again tonight.

Let me tell you, it’s not a pretty sight when a 57-year-old man is sweating so much that it begins to trickle down the sides of his scrawny face.  That would be me.  And since we were a woman short, the woman who owns the dance studio came to dance with me, which made me look even worse, (yes I stepped on her foot once, but she claimed I didn’t), and even Manny, who’s 90, moves his replaced hips better than I do.

And, I danced with Enrico the male dance instructor.

I’ll let you imagine that scene.  (one, two, three, pause….four, five, six..”no that’s the wrong foot!”)  It wasn’t something you’d want to experience and if someone is secretly video taping these lessons to black mail me, I will unfortunately have to kill them.  I’ll slowly torture them to death by making them watch me do the “basic” steps over and over and over, never getting them right, and they will deserve every agonizing, punishing moment they get …. just like I do.

But tonight we did review the “basic” steps, the “ladies underarm” turn (I inadvertently choked Franny with my forearm once), the “hello” turn (though it seemed I was always on the wrong side saying “goodbye”), the “crossovers” (I did those with Enrico and I have to admit, the man can lead) and finally the “cross body lead” which I actually did okay at, except when I did them with Tammy’s breasts and couldn’t concentrate.  But at least by that time, the sweat had cleared from my eyes.  Timing is everything.

So now I’m home, writing this quick little recap, then it’s on to other writing, followed by a couple of exercises I didn’t get to at physical therapy.  Whew!  Let me tell you…

….Tuesdays are rough.

I Have A Pulse

Well, they said it couldn’t be done.  They said I would never follow through.  They said this would be just like the banjo I was going to learn how to play and didn’t, or the workout equipment that got sold to a neighbor, or the yoga mat and video I swore I was going to use and is now up in the attic, stored next to a dozen other pipe dreams.

But I started my Salsa lessons, as I swore I would.

Me, Chuck, Bill, Manny, Mary, Geraldine, Franny and Tammy.  At my age, it seems like I’m still the youngest, and all the women kept telling me I was doing just fine.  Women are such great liars.

But being the honest man I am, I will tell you that the Salsa lessons may not have happened if I hadn’t been aggressively recruited by the head of the dance studio after my first call.  After trading several voice mails,  we finally made contact and she admitted,

“We’d really like to have you join us.  We have more women than men, and we sure could use another man.”

Wow.  What a compliment.  They could use another male with a pulse.  I hadn’t felt that good about myself since I was told by an old girlfriend that she hoped I would,

“burn in Hell for eternity.”

Being younger and faster with my wit back then, I told her,

“For eternity?  No problem.  I just spent a year with you.” and finished by saying, “Oh, and if you die first, save a seat for me.”

I just love relationships when two people can still be friends after it’s over.

But back to dancing.

As far as matching up talent wise, I am clearly the beginner of the group.   You know the old song, “the ankle bone’s connected to the..leg bone … etc.”

My legs didn’t seem connected to anything, and especially not my brain.  While I have lost a fair amount of weight, for 60 minutes my feet felt like two concrete blocks being heaved from one place on the floor to another.

I’d clomp those stone appendages around for 5 minutes and the instructor would yell, “rotate,” we’d all get new partners and the concrete shoes would get heavier and heavier.

But if I thought I couldn’t dance before, it was confirmed tonight.  The instructor, Enrico, actually made me move to the latin beat blasting out of the boom box just to prove that I couldn’t move in rhythm to any music if my life depended on it.    He kept smiling as I tried my best, and I would have given anything to read his mind as I stumbled here, and then stumbled there.  He and I really bonded.  Not.

And the great thing about America?  I paid good money for this pleasure!

At one point, as we were rotating partners, I could have sworn the women were jostling each other just to avoid dancing with me.  Even to dance with Manny, who is about 90.

That is, everyone but Tammy, who seemed to “rotate” to me a little too often.

Tammy who is, shall we say, a little enhanced on top, seemed more than willing to be my partner, and something about her smile told me that the dance steps weren’t the only “moves” she’d like to make with me.   And between my nerves, concrete feet, no experience, and Tammy’s “curves,” I was not what you might call “focused.”

Still I made it through the entire class, and even felt like I made some progress.  As I signed up for a full month of lessons, Enrico called out to me with great encouragement,

“You did great!  See you next week!”

“Hey, why not” I thought to myself.  I proved the naysayers wrong, and I have at least one of the requirements needed for this class.

I have a pulse.

A Kiss

6:00 a.m.  New Years Eve, 2009

It’s snowing now, a heartfelt snow
as light begins to dimly glow
and candles burn their sweet perfume
and fill this sanctuary room
will midnight bring my ‘passioned kiss
or will the one I love, be missed.
Into The Night

Kissing is the most intimate act two people can perform.

For this last post of the year,  here are just a few examples of the different types of kisses we all may have experienced, and may experience tonight;  from those of sheer obligation, to the greatest one possible.  Which will you relate to on this last New Years Eve of the decade?

First, there is…

The Tolerant kiss:

I never once saw my parents kiss, except on their 50th wedding anniversary.  Now, I’m sure they did, and probably with great passion when they were younger.  But in the  years I knew them, it was a relationship of tolerance and companionship more than a relationship of love and passion.  People tell me that’s what happens when you get older, and it’s just a normal occurrence.  That sounds like an excuse to me; when two people let love’s light burn out before its time.  I’ve seen many older people kiss like teenagers.

But my parent’s kiss on that day was unemotional, and it perfectly communicated the lack of intimacy I’d witnessed between them.  It couldn’t have been closer to a tolerant peck on the cheek, than if they had actually done that.

In fact, the tolerant kiss is the kiss that takes place when two people have simply given up on each other, but stay together.  It’s also the kiss of two people who are together for the sake of convenience; being together to fulfill other needs, which are greater than their need for intimacy.  These people often find themselves being fulfilled “on the cheatin’ side of town” as the Eagles so perfectly wrote in their song “Lyin’ Eyes.”

And their kids usually end up in therapy.

Then there is…

The In-between Kiss:

This is just what it sounds like, and it’s the most frustrating kiss of all.

It usually takes place when one person wants the relationship more than the other. They’re both still trying, but one has a lingering doubt, while the other has no doubt at all. They’ve been together for a while, so there is some intimacy in the kiss, but without full conviction from one of them.  There is also some passion in the kiss because, at one time or another, there was some level of passion in the relationship.

But this kiss is like a tug-of-war, and almost always contains some level of stress and lack of fulfillment.  One person is “over-kissing,” trying to draw the other person in, while the other person is “under-kissing,” trying to maintain some distance and ultimately keeping the other person out.

These people must avoid alcohol at all times. If they don’t, they will revert back to the lustful kiss they’ve shared on occasion, which only complicates and extends the relationship.  Ultimately that ends them right back where they started, with the in-between, and frustrating, kiss.   They should especially avoid tequila.  This could land them in Vegas, and married, resulting inevitably in the tolerant/companionship-like kiss, and with their kids in therapy.

Then there is….

The Lustful kiss:

Hopefully we’ve all had these.  It’s purely sexual in nature.  There’s no intimacy involved, at least at that moment, and it’s usually just a hungry kiss by two people who are sexually attracted to one another.  Tongues are flying, bodies are writhing, and hands are roaming.  These kisses almost always lead to sex, which also isn’t intimate at that moment.  It’s just the pure animal urge “to fuck” that we all have.  But both the kiss and the sexual act feel pretty damned good.   (At least that’s what I’ve been told.)  This doesn’t mean that the two people aren’t intimate.   It’s just at that moment, intimacy is not what it’s all about.

No matter what age I am, I hope my tongue is still flying and my body is still writhing.

Then there is….

The Passionate Kiss (which I wish for all of you this New Years Eve)

The friends and family of these two people aren’t quite sure if these two are suited for each other, or will make it as a couple, but these two don’t care what anyone else thinks.  Their kisses are romantic and hot, tender and loving, and through them, they are finding the intimacy in their relationship.  When they’re not kissing, they talk about kissing, email each other about kissing and can’t wait to kiss again.  They may have issues and incompatibilities, but the kisses are so loving and passionate that they believe they can overcome anything.  These are also the “we fell in love” kisses which encourage hope and an “anything is possible” approach to life.

These are great kisses.  However, friends and family are sometimes right, so have “protection” very close by if you haven’t had “the operation.”  You want to avoid having kids in therapy, if you possibly can.

Finally, there is the best kiss of all.  It’s called the….

“Let me find your kiss” kiss:

Ms. Nyack taught it to me. Or at least she tried to.  One night she said “let me find your kiss.”  And I let her.

This is a kiss that seeks the core intimacy that resides in all of us.  It brings the relief of relaxing enough to allow one spirit to connect with another.   This kiss replaces the excitement of a new kiss, and allows the inner spirits of both people to be set free from inhibitions and restrictions.  The process is like having a ring full of keys, where every one fits the door lock, but only one opens it.   Ms. Nyack was experienced with this type of kiss, and she patiently tried “key after key,” voicing simple instructions for me to follow, until I was relaxed enough for her to find “the” key to my most intimate feelings. And still going slow, the “door” opened, and everything in my heart and soul slowly poured from my lips to hers.  Those kisses were the most powerful and meaningful kisses I have ever experienced.

The ability to bring out the core intimacy of a person through a simple kiss is truly a gift; both given and received.   I’m not sure how many people have actually experienced something as powerful as those kisses, but trust me, it’s a goal everyone should strive to achieve and experience in their lives.

So, on this New Years Eve, I wish the following for all of you at the stroke of midnight (in this order):

That you receive a “Passionate Kiss” where the kiss is romantic and loving and makes everything good in life seem possible.

That if you give or receive a “Lustful kiss,” that your motives are clear, you’re not being manipulated or manipulating, and that there is a private room available nearby if needed.

That if you receive the “In-Between” kiss, that you be patient and respectful as each person tries to find their way, or the rest of the night could be a long and “cold” one.

That if you only receive a “Tolerant or companionship-like” kiss, that you’ve already anticipated and accepted it, so you’re not disappointed.

The “Let me find your kiss” kiss is not suitable for situations that require exact timing, so don’t even try to go there.  (However, I am currently available for private instruction throughout the year.)

And now I leave you with a famous quote, and an appropriate poem.

You should be kissed, and often
And by someone who knows how.
Rhett Butler, Gone With the Wind

And finally,

Kisses kept are wasted;
Love is to be tasted.
There are some you love, I know;
Be not loathe to tell them so.
Lips go dry and eyes grow wet
Waiting to be warmly met.
Keep them not in waiting yet;
Kisses kept are wasted.
Edmund Vance Cooke

Don’t let your kisses be wasted.

Happy New Year everybody!

The Final Oz: The Tin Man

All the Tin Man ever wanted was a heart, and he was my favorite.

As I laid on my living room floor as a young boy in patched blue jeans and white t-shirt, I always felt bad for the Tin Man at the end of the movie, when the Wizard brought out his bag of goodies.  It wasn’t until I was older, that I understood why I felt that way.

The Wizard gave the Scarecrow a fancy diploma and a degree to acknowledge his brain and later made him the new Wizard.

“Oh Joy! Rapture!  I’ve got a brain!” the Scarecrow exclaimed.

Oh Joy??? Rapture???”  Was the Scarecrow being sarcastic?  Who talks like that?   I think he was definitely “dissing” the Wizard.

He gave the Cowardly Lion a big medal – the Triple Cross – and made him a member of the Legion of Courage to acknowledge his bravery.

“Aw shucks, folks, I’m speechless,” the Lion blushed.

You should be speechless, you jerk.  Those things were both fake, just like the diploma and degree he gave to the Scarecrow.  Pinning a medal on you was like pinning the title “Esquire” after the name of a Shyster lawyer.

But it certainly didn’t take long for the Lion to read the word “Courage” on the medal, and start bragging,

“Courage, ain’t it the truth, ain’t it the truth.”

If I remember correctly Mr. Lion, when he gave you the medal you pushed your knees together like you were protecting your testicles.  I don’t think that’s courage, and ain’t THAT the truth.

Then he came to the Tin Man, and all he could say was,

“I want to give you a small token of our esteem and affection.”

Whoa!  Hold on a sec.  Wait-just-one-minute.

“A small token of our esteem and affection???”

If I remember correctly, the Tin Man saved the Scarecrow’s life by putting out the fireball the Witch had tried to kill him with.  He tried to wake up the Lion who, with Dorothy, had overdosed on the poppies.   He used his axe to break open the door to help Dorothy escape from the Witch’s castle.  And he signed up like the rest of them to go on this hazard-filled trip in the first place.  Without the Tin Man they never would have made it to Oz.

And all he gets is “a small token of our esteem and affection?”

And do you remember what that small “token” was?

A friggin watch!

What did the Wizard think the Tin Man was doing?  Retiring?   A watch???

You could almost see the Scarecrow and Lion rolling their eyes when the Tin Man made them listen to the ticking of that degrading heart-shaped clock that seemed to hang from a chain made out of cheap dice.  It almost made me throw up the buttered popcorn I had made for the second half of the movie.

Let’s be honest.  The Tin Man got screwed.

To me, he was the most important character in the movie because he was the only one who TRULY had courage, brains – and most importantly – a heart.

He was a triple threat.  He was a “three-peat.”  He was the real deal because he was all three of the characters rolled up into one.

First, we all know the Tin Man had heart.  He cared more about Dorothy and the others than he cared about himself.  He cried.  He admitted he was vulnerable.   And even when the Wizard insulted him in the end by giving him some fake Rolex, he was modest and didn’t complain.  The Tin Man had heart.  No doubt about it.

However, he also had a brain.   He was smart enough to know that his heart was so sensitive and loving that he needed to wear a suit of galvanized steel to protect it.   And he was also smart enough to know that a heart is no good unless you share it with others.   Yes, the Tin Man was one smart commodity.

And lastly, he had courage.

I’m not taking about the “brave deeds” the Wizard rewarded the Lion for, although he certainly had those as well, as I so deftly detailed above.  No, his real courage was shown when he opened up his heart to become vulnerable again.

He had rusted to a standstill in the forest by the Yellow Brick Road – and he was safe, where his heart was protected by his suit of tin, and nothing could make him cry ever again.

Do you hear me?  SAFE.  A place we all strive to be.  Whether it’s from bullies, or to have job security, or have enough money and status to feel good about ourselves.

We all want to feel safe.

But playing it safe usually stops you from being courageous, and the Tin Man, being smarter than the Scarecrow, was smart enough to know that.

So what did he do?

He left his “safety zone” and courageously cried out for help.  He could barely move his mouth, and his cries were small and quiet.  But he cried out.

How many of us have the courage to cry out for help?  How many of us refuse to ask for help because we think it will make us look weak, or stupid?  How many men cry out, or cry at all.

But the Tin Man did exactly that.

Thankfully that ditz Dorothy and the screwball Scarecrow heard him, otherwise the Scarecrow would have been nothing more than an empty bag of ashes, and Dorothy would never had made it back to Kansas.

Let’s face the facts.  A brain alone can get you a job as CEO, and a dose of testosterone can give you some courage.  But a heart shares its love, and is courageous in the most selfless way, and is thoughtful enough to be open and vulnerable, when it’s easier to remain safe.

But that’s not real life, is it.

What happened near the very end of the movie is what is reflected in real life.

When she said goodbye to the Tin Man, Dorothy said,

“Goodbye, Tin Man.  Oh, don’t cry.  You’ll rust so dreadfully.  Here — here’s your oil-can.”

Here’s your oil can???  Come on Dorothy.  You could have done better than that.

But she couldn’t.  Because in real life, people aren’t impressed by “heart.”  They are impressed with power and money.   In real life, everyone looks up to the Scarecrow because he’s acknowledged as the smartest, even when he isn’t.   He’s promoted to CEO, where he’s more likely to harm the company than help it.  He holds the power, and abuses it often. And he is the one who gets the biggest bonus at the end of the year for laying off the most people and ruining families forever.   But Dorothy was no fool. She dramatically saved him for last and said,

“I think I’ll miss you most of all.”

Talk about sucking up to the boss!

And of course the Tin Man’s heart was broken.  He’d become vulnerable again, he’d come all this way, he’d done everything possible to help them get to Oz, and all Dorothy could say was  “Here’s your oil can.”   Why didn’t she just slap him in the face while she was at it.

Wouldn’t it have been nice if Dorothy had said to the Scarecrow,

“I’m going to miss how smart you were, you cagey fox.”

And to the Lion,

“I’m going to miss you too because you were funny as hell.”

And if she had turned to the Tin Man last and said,

“Tin Man, I think I’m going to miss you most of all.  I’ve never known a man with a heart as big as yours.”

But she didn’t.  Just like in real life it’s all about the testosterone, machismo, brains and power.  And like the beginning and end of the movie, those things are simply black and white and transparent for what they stand for.

Instead, Dorothy blew it, because she didn’t recognize, that in his own way, the Tin Man had those things, but he also had a great heart.  A heart, like the middle of the movie, which was warm and rich and full of color.

He was the real deal, I understood him, and I should know, because ….

…. I am the Tin Man.