Ep. 35: The man who has everything, has Nothing to complain about

At least, I have Milo - who makes me smile every time he calls me "Papa"

Friday, May 17

I woke up this morning hoping it was Saturday. Alas, or rather, thank God, it's Friday. I'm confused.

By 6:40 the haze had lifted and I was in the shower scrubbing, soaking, simply trying to wash away my earlier disappointment, so that I may readily embrace responsibility.

As I've told my colleagues a couple of times this week, I may be disappointed by how my work morphs into a homogeneous blah of boringness after all the edits, rewrites and approvals, but, at least, I have a job, and moreover, it's a job I love to do.

So, at least, I have a warm bed to pull away from; at least, I have a beautiful home, Dominguez Manor ; ), which I can home to and call my own; at least, I have a great bunch of boys that I am looking forward to playing basketball and watching Iron Man III with this weekend; at least, I have a little baby boy who looks up to me, scoots to meet me upon my return home and makes me smile with every garbled "Papa"; at least, I have a beautiful wife who I am deeply in love with and who is carrying our little princess, Olivia; at least, the sun still shines every morning I have to get out of bed to go to work.

At least, I'm alive and well and can write, because I love to write.

Okay, I feel better now.

Caffeine is kicking in, the two guys incessantly chatting about their boring lives have faded with the focus upon this composition, and we're almost at Grand Central Station, spoke-and-hub for the greatest city in the world.

I have really have nothing to complain about.

At least, I have this gorgeous view on my commute home

Ep 34: Splurge a little; purge a lot

Sometimes, you've just got to splurge to purge.

Thursday, May 16

Once, maybe twice, a week I relent my quest for purity and get a Goose Island Honker's Ale before boarding the 5:32 train home.

It is a small indulgence that eases me into the ride northward bound, one that costs me a little less than four bills and a willingness to concede to a catnap if I have to.

That said, for the last 34 years I've often beat myself up over the long term costs of this, mostly, innocuous inebriation.

Beleaguered by the guilt of not being more willing and able to give up this poison for a longer, healthier life, I simply mediate with binges of abstinence. The usual attempt at detoxification lasts no longer than three days; most of the time these desperate measures are the result of a bout with a stomach virus, food poisoning or a very rare hangover.

Alas, on average, every couple of years I must endure these nights of terror; of bone-gnawing chills, body aches, gut-wrenching, and incessant expulsion of bodily fluids, all usually coupled by a few hours of fever, than a flood of perspiration.

Hence the vows of "never again" and over-confident pledges of purity. Needless to say, this renewed commitment does not last very long.

I think I know why.

Sipping the last quarter of my beer as we rolled past Morris Heights my contemplation led to the same elucidation that compels me to jump off the wagon over and over again.

Life would simply be too frickin boring and intolerable if it were all about always doing what is seemingly best for you.

Because it is not always best for you.

An occasional indulgence in what's bad for you, can be good for you in the long run. The benefits run the gamut of stress relief, loss of inhibition, expression of emotion, a willingness to talk with strangers, self-satisfaction, unfettered glee, genuine happiness and the compulsion to live and enjoy the moment.

Granted, drugs and alcohol and other vices are not prerequisites for experiencing this menu of benefits, but they sure as hell often help. Especially if you're a stressed out father four-cum-five, corporate drone, manor-owner, hour-long commuter, middle-aged, only somewhat-accomplished and always-yearning to-accomplish-more guy like me.

So go ahead, indulge. I'm giving you permission - live a little , as they say. You just don't know when it will all catch up to you. So, you might as well enjoy it while you can.

Ep 32: Running down Requa; the wrong side of the mountain

God bless America! We're slated to hit 77 in NYC today.

Friday, May 10

Running down Requa I caught a glimpse of the majestic mist hanging over the Hudson.

I wanted to soak it in, but I was running, late for the train.

My lament lasted only a few minutes because five minutes after our first stop the entire river was swallowed up by a magical blanket of fog and for a moment it felt like we were either on a vintage amusement park ride or in some scene from the Shanghai Express.

Alas, there was no Marlene nor any exciting episodes with Chinese warlords, and the thrill promptly ended once we rolled into Croton-Harmon.

Speaking too soon, we slipped back under cover as soon as we left the last stop before Grand Central and the dissipating heat of flanking thoroughfares fueled by exhaust and anxiety.

The beauty of the blur lasted for many miles, past the veiled prison-town of Ossining (i.e. home to Sing Sing), past the legendary Sleepy Hollow and its headless henchman, and past the Governor Malcolm Wilson Tappan Zee Bridge*, until we came into the clear between the Palisades and Croton-on-the-Hudson.

Once we sunk into the Bronx and then Harlem all hope was lost; the swaths of red brick and pale concrete reminded me that my joy ride was over.

Back to work, back to worrying about mediating teenage angst and self-interest with parental duty and the bigger picture; back to banging my head against the wall of ex-spousal indifferences; back to the aggravating concern of absent-minded and perilous childcare; back to being the stripped screw at the office; back to being a greying grown-up at the top of the mountain of my life.

The view into nothingness looked good until it cleared; perhaps I'm looking down the wrong side of the mountain.


*Spanning almost three miles it is the longest bridge in the state of New York. It was named for an American Indian tribe from the area called "Tappan"; and zee being the Dutch word for "sea".

It is right to give thanks and praise to pace of the snail;
seen running with me down Requa