NOTE: As I mentally deconstruct the demise of my marriage, I am publishing a series of short essays about things that happened, the way I felt, and so on. It's intended to illustrate my mental state at the time, and provide a kind of chronicle of my emotional state, hopefully helping me not make the same mistakes in future relationships.

5/26/03 3 AM: It started today.

The chances of me being in Pasadena are pretty freakin' low. I really work rather hard to never be north of Wilshire if I can avoid it (a fact that Mel's Diner's late night karaoke has now messed up, but that's a digression for another time). However, the Playboy Jazz Festival was in Pasadena, helping sponsor their Summer Fest, and two publicists (Regina Davis and Nina Gordon) were both being insanely nice to me in order to get my somewhat crappy newspaper to cover the event. Having a circulation of thirty-five thousand has its benefits.

So there I am, behind the "VIP" divider near the stage, grooving to the sounds of the Louie Cruz Beltran Latin Jazz Orchestra (somewhat interesting side note, Robert Beltran of Star Trek: Voyager fame seems to be related to Louie Cruz Beltran, and showed up to watch the jam), when I saw her. She was about five foot six, thick in all the right ways, dark skin like smoke and satin, in skin tight leggings and a zebra-striped top that cut off just below her breasts, hanging on for dear life. She was amazing.

More amazing was that she was smiling at me.

I'd been walking around taking pictures of Black people enjoying themselves. My paper serves a predominately Black demographic, and it's both a mandate from the publisher and my own personal preference that tailors almost all the content towards Black people. So I'd noticed her dancing, and figured I'd get a shot.

However, noticing my attention as she shook her money maker, she smiled and winked. I think she even licked her lips at me, at one point. After the song ended, she took a breather and made her way to a blanket with what looked like sisters and a nephew. So I waited.

Sure enough, when the next jamming song popped up, so did she. I manuevered myself between her and the open area where people were dancing, dropped my voice into its smoothest octave, and said, "Can I have this dance?"

That smile leapt out at me again, pristine white teeth and sweet mischief. She took my hand and led me out front.

We danced together for most of the song, her swinging my way and brushing her prodigious assets against me a time or six. Her sister (I assume they were sisters, maybe friends ... it really doesn't matter) had drawn the fancy of a gold-toothed brother in a Playboy baseball cap, and they danced nearby. The brother tried to "bust some moves" which inspired my partner and her sister/friend to "show' 'em what we got," grinding the air and lowering themselves towards the ground. No slouch, I was able to stick with them, and my partner actually got stuck, requiring my shoulder to help her pull all that back upright. She then tossed her leg into my hand, and continued gyrating, laughing all the way.

For a guy who's been virtually abandoned physically, this was ... good.

She said her name was Lanise, and she said she looked forward to talking to me again. We cracked some jokes, and she seemed to enjoy my sense of humor. I didn't get her number, but of course I had another business card on hand, so I left it with her, unconcerned whether or not she called me, happy to feel attractive and vital again.

After a few hours at home, I ended up going to Boardwalk 11, a karaoke bar that I normally visit every Monday. It was Sunday, however, and the KJ, my homeboy Mikey de Lara was working all weekend against his will, hoping I'd come through and be a relatively sane presence amidst two huge birthday parties.

When I got there, I noticed four Black women amongst the predominately white crowd. Two were sitting next to a brother named Monty, an occassional regular who could belt out a mean soul classic. Both of them started watching me, which I found very pleasing. A third sat, conversating at a table nearby. A fourth flitted around the room, flirting with everybody, her tight red shirt continually riding up above her midriff.

An order of seasoned fries and a virgin Madras kept me company at the end of the bar, every table dominated by revelers celebrating birthdays I never bothered to notice. The two sisters with Monty stopped gazing my way as he plied them with drinks. I always considered that a sucker's way of moving in, and an expensive one as well. The red shirt smiled at me a time or two, but never long enough for me to beckon her closer. I'd written off the last one, as she was too far and too surrounded to get a good look at.

A little while later, another unnoticed sister was on stage, belting out Christina Aguilera's "Dirrty." The heretofore unseen sister emerged, a skimpy fringed top and clinging gray tights showing off a body that could stop traffic in Saigon, even if she was standing on Crenshaw. She danced mere feet in front of me, shaking it and putting on an unintentional show. Monty cruised up on her, making a play, which was rebuffed in a vehement and very funny way -- I wish I had taped it, it was a classic moment in game commentary.

Soon the gray-panted sister was called to the stage, and I heard that her name was Carmen. Like the songstress of lore, she had a voice the size of Kansas, and belted out the original version of "Lady Marmalade" with talent and improvisation. As she left the stage, I was called up, and I shook her hand, telling her she did a great job. Her ear being bent back by some anonymous jackass, she squeezed my hand in a way that seemed ... more than just "thanks," but I had a somewhat challenging song to sing, one I'd only done once before, so I had to table the discussion.

"When I'm Gone" is the first song I've ever heard from 3 Doors Down, and it's on the "white" stations so much I was starting to get sick of it, until I tried it one boring night at Boardwalk. Now it's in my repetoire, near the top of the rotation. A group of sisters -- some "beefier" than others -- sat near the front and cheered me on vigorously as I hit every note flawlessly. One of the reasons I sing so many alt-rock songs at karaoke is because they're vocally less challenging than your average R&B song, from today or yesteryear.

Carmen had seen and enjoyed, I found out. A few songs later, after she'd danced in front of Boardwalk's small but very forgiving stage, she was walking back towards the bar, and I called to her. We chatted, traded some relevant details, and agreed to sing "Summer Nights" two Mondays hence. We traded numbers next, and she smiled at me, and it illuminated every point of me that had been left dark by the end of my marriage.

I drove home, fast and rowdy, howling lyrics at the top of my lungs, weaving in and out of lanes. I felt like I was beautiful. I felt like I was alive after being buried under my own fear. For the first time, I felt the blessing of this change, the happier life I could one day claim on the other side of this experience.

I think I've finally made it past anger, conveyed on the curves of sensual smiles.