3/26/04 4:50 AM: "... and then I remember to relax, and stop trying to hold on to it, and then it flows through me like rain and I can't feel anything but gratitude for every single moment of my stupid little life ..." This is a quote from Lester Burnham, a character in the film American Beauty played by Kevin Spacey.

I dropped off my homeboy Jon Lawson (see the light skinned cowboy below) at about 4AM, and started to drive home, feeling pretty good about myself. Feeling pretty good about virtually everything, really. I thought about the events of the night -- a fun night all around -- and thought about stuff I need to do in the afternoon (as I'lll surely sleep through the morning, on purpose). My life has so few stresses, even through this very challenging month of March 2004, one of the most challenging times I've had in almost a year.

Normally I work on Thursday nights. This Thursday, I didn't because my co-worker and friend (more on that in a bit) Dana needed to go to her ex-husband's wedding (only in California ...), so she switched with me, working Thursday night at Mel's Drive In, whereas I will do her shorter and more profitable shift at Prince of Whales in Playa del Rey on Sunday. That's all fine.

So I left late, finishing up my Comic Reel column for CBR and then thinking about calling Jon. Oddly enough he was home -- his car has been kaput for a number of months, so he's been bumming rides, and I've been a regular for him since he lives just a bit north of me. I head out to pick him up, lugging a freshly purchased Atari 2600 for Spencer, the security guard (more on him later as well). I checked myself -- I had my karaoke disks, forty strong now, and my personalized songbook, iPod, keys, wallet, camera bag, cell phone ... ready to rock.

Jon and I made the drive north, chatting about the basics of dating and basketball, male patter we normally engage in to avoid speaking about anything more complex. Ninety percent of my conversations with other males run that way, because it's the comfort zone of the western male. Plus, really, who cares? I mean, I have a group of really true friends I've known for more than a decade, from my rites of passage, and I can discuss deep matters with them if I feel the need. I've been missing their company, but they're all laden with children (which cancels any chance of them hanging out on my vampire schedule) and two of the three are married (which cancels out the chances of carousing, which is almost all I do when I go out). But these are the waves of my life, and the tides take me away from these dear friends right now.

Mel's is a bit different when I'm not working -- I'm able to come in, sit down, give hugs or handshakes all around, smile, scan the room, and relax. When I work, I show up early, I scramble to set up the equipment, I check supplies and debate songs I'll sing while waiting for the list to pick up. Much more relaxing to just show up ... but money is nice too. I sit down, picked "Hard to Handle" by the Black Crowes, and waited for my turn to sing.

I'm not the sort to really look a gift horse in the mouth, but Mel's is a kind of strange place to have karaoke. The singers do their shtick from behind the counter, with waitstaff reaching for tobasco and malt vinegar on occassion. If you're not fairly close, it's hard to see the singer. Still, it's a lot of fun, and best of all for me, it goes late, as I am often bored in Los Angeles after 2AM.

I'd done "Hard to Handle" (which pepped up several diners, always a plus) and was chatting with a big blond guy named Steven (who I remember largely because I know another big blond guy named Stephen at another bar called Britannia ... I remember things with strange mental tricks), who was hilarious, and Jon. Soon, Peter Porn (who we call that because, honest to god, he's starred in porno films, there's a picture of him to the right somewhere here ...) shows up with a friend of his (Jonathan? Hard to recall ...), and we all start cracking jokes. It's a good time.

Soon Justin, a very talented guy who sings very close to my register, showed up, but there was no room for him at the counter as there was a crowd of aimless but joyful young white people dominating half of the area. He hangs out over in a small booth until they finally wandered off. Shortly after that the waitress Rachel (who was off duty and is cute for a skinny white girl, I suppose, since Eliot -- more on him in a bit -- drools over her endlessly) and her friend Kimmy show up (I only remember Kimmy because Jon remarked about the herculean size of her breasts and because everyone shouted "Kimmay!" in a kind of hoarse voice whenever her name was mentioned). More jokes, making room for them at the counter. By now we've got a good crowd, with a "karaoke mafia" core (maybe more on that in a bit), and we're singing fairly often, and having fun.

Right as the rowdy young white people were leaving, an attractive sister and her less-than-attractive friend walked in and took a small booth table near the back. Now, I have to stop and explain several things before I go into how they intersect with the story, because a wide variety of people read this stuff (not a large number, just different kinds) and clarity is necessary to keep me from hearing about this stuff later on when, say, I don't care.

Okay. Now, I'm dating someone on a fairly regular basis. This is not really a secret, but it's also not a committed relationship. I'm deadly serious about committed relationships, when I'm in them. When I'm not, my main goal is to have as much fun as possible and not make any promises that I could break. It also helps me not get all caught up and have self-imposed expectations, which that other person could likewise easily screw up. So while I am dating this person, I regularly go out and talk to other people.

Why? A variety of reasons. First of all, virtually every person I've dated has been from a "perimeter shot" or a "slam dunk." Either I met them through laborious and long winded machinations (via websites, mostly) or I was in the right place at the right time and almost tumbled into them, managing to not make an idiot out of myself. I have, since high school, dated some amazing, intelligent, gorgeous women using these methods. Proposed to two, married one. I have no complaints about that.

However, I have a really crappy "jump shot." If I see a strange woman, I'm not very good at walking up, striking up a conversation, and converting that into something romantic. It's one of my few weaknesses. So, lots of time, I'll just hit on random women just to "practice" my "jump shot." Most of them I never hear from again, and that's OK. I'm getting the kinks out of something I've never been too good at. It has nothing to do with who I'm dating -- under different circumstances, I would have committed to them a long time ago, and they do a great deal to validate my sense of attractiveness as well as being an amazing catch that has a huge profit line. However, I'm really crappy at committment, partially because I wanna keep hitting on people in order to fix one of the few remaining problems in my head, partially because there's a small list of issues with said "dater" that are considerably costlier than I can handle right now, and partially because making decisions is like thinking -- I try to avoid it unless absolutely necessary.

I have a sick feeling I'm gonna have pieces of that last paragraph quoted back at me in strange arrangements, but oh well. Damn my brutal honesty. I'm never willing to shortchange the writing.

So these two are in the corner, and I don't have a "play." This is fairly common. Oh, I should mention I use a lot of basketball metaphors for dating things, because ... well, I think they're apt, and I enjoy them. Anyway, I'm scanning them, and the "big" friend reads like "defense," i.e. if I try to talk to one, the other may block my attempts. That's not good. I'm also sans wingmen -- I don't hang out with anybody I can take into a crowd of women and trust to handle themselves while keeping my target clear (I also use military metaphors, sorry if you're mixed up by 'em).

Regardless, I'm determined to make a play. Lots of times in my life, I talked myself out of going up to talking to somebody because, "well, maybe they're stupid" or "well, she's not that cute" or what have you. If I've learned anything from seeing Jermaine Dupri's cockroach looking ass kissing Janet Jackson, it's that I've never tried hard enough. Everybody is attainable, if you've got yourself together. So I already had "Hey Ya" by Outkast in the song rotation (which I can sing virtually note perfect, with inflections and all, which I call "singing in character"), and when I got done singing it, the cute one made a point to cheer at me, which I greeted with a smile and a wave. Sitting down, I glance over and she's looking, so I smile. I figure that's signal enough. I wait until Steven is singing, and wander over.

"Since we're among the very few Black people in here," I start without preamble or introduction, "there's a committed effort to peer pressure us all into singing, since of course all of us darkies can sing." I then adopt the sound and visage of what I feel a nosy white lady would be like, and aim it at the "defense." "So, you're gonna sing some Destiny's Child, right?" I joke.

They both laugh. This is a good sign. We chat for a moment, and I find they're journalists working for the new Rap Pages. This causes me to laugh a lot, because that means they work for the third iteration of the magazine, whereas I worked for the first. This leaps out to me as an opening, and I take it. Sure enough, we're soon trading stories, the cute one is very responsive and the "defense" gracefully begins to fade. They beg off singing, claiming to be tired, and I remind them the show is there every week, as am I. The cute one trades cards with me, and I make some cockamamie excuse about finishing my soup to make a graceful exit.

I was singing Maxwell's "Sumpthin' Sumpthin'" when they left, which normally gets a very good response from all brands of Black people. Dana got me up with it fairly quickly, which was good, as I could sense they wouldn't be around long. They stuck around to hear me (another good sign) and I walked them to their car (yet another good sign). I went back in with a wide grin.

I've found that not getting shot down, all by itself, can make my day.

Back inside we're making more jokes, talking more. Justin and I talk about the challenges of marketing yourself as a musician, especially when you don't "fit" certain formats. Justin, near as I can tell, is of South Pacific Islander descent (I've never asked), and he sings rock and roll. A challenging sell for many unimaginative people. But his voice is like warm maple syrup and he's a charming bastard as well. If I was Eliot (more on that in a sec), I'd probably be jealous.

Lemme stop here and talk about Dana (seen here). Without Dana, I'd never have gotten my job as a karaoke host -- she thought my personality and temperment would be good for it, and she was right. My superiors love my work, and with my design and marketing skill, they wanna have be come on board to do more and more. I'm happy to do so. But Dana has turned out to be something I never really expected -- a friend.

That's weird because, mostly, I don't have female friends. There's females I know and will associate with because they're around, or because I one day would like to sleep with them or what have you. Dana is none of those. She's attractive for a white girl, but my type is more like Gabrielle Union. Likewise, Dana's ideal guy looks like Colin Farrell, and the last four or five guys she's dated were close physical matches. So there's no real romantic tension between us. We flirt now and then, but it's all talk. "If you were even close to my type," she told me once, "we'd have slept together instantly. But you're not, and I'm not yours, and neither of us has ever or would ever try." I had to agree with that. I like Dana, but I can't see myself naked with her. Plus, now she relates me to her brother due to my "flag on the play" joke, which he apparently does as well.

Also, we've got a lot in common -- writers who want to do more with their talent, singers who know a decent amount (her more than me, she has a degree in it) about the technicals of music. We both like Creed, both adore Bic Runga, both can't get enough eighties music. We're both divorced, and it scarred us horribly. We're both whimsically bitter (again thanks to Bronwyn Jones for that term), adrift in a sea of dating and solitude, prone to melancholy. We've traded "depressed" mix CDs. We've stayed up all night dissecting the crazy behaviors of paramours. We've hooked each other up with music and opportunity, carried each other's equipment, and comforted each other in bad times where people we would have wanted that from simply injected their own agendas. Dana is my dawg, and that's a surprise to be able to say, but a really pleasant one. I never thought I'd have any use for a female friend, but she's surely proven that wrong. Having Dana as my friend is one of the real blessings of the last really dangerous year, spring 2003 until now.

So anyway, while we're dissecting people, there's Eliot. I've very often had people with similar personalities in my life. Smart, interesting, but terrified and broken. Eliot would probably have a hard time renting a girl, much less getting one on his own. He's prone to quitting too soon (in a variety of applications), he whines a great deal, he makes wholly unattractive overtures at unattainable women in front of viable prospects, shooting himself in the foot. He'd rather talk about "why is that not happening for me?" than just try the same things for himself. He also chases the most impossible white women you can imagine, and my metaphor was that he always wants to play in the Staples Center. Scrimmages, practices, intra-squad drills, all of it. Eliot, sadly, should be playing at a community college intramural rec facility. He lacks the confidence, the skill and the will to compete at the levels he dreams of. This has left him virtually untouched for the better part of a year and a half.

Yes, I've said all of this to him. Whenever he says something envious of my progress, I am able to stop him cold with a Yoda line: "Always with you it cannot be done."

So El was there, making an ass of himself, and even Justin had to crack up at it (because, well, Justin is a deeply suave cat). Even Jon (who's a complex, slow-moving person now looking for "one" despite several behaviors to the contrary) has a field day at El's expense. It's never meant maliciously -- we want Eliot to succeed. He just doesn't know how to get over himself to do it. I once said, "If I looked like you, and liked white women, I'd cut a swath through this town with my penis like it was a freakin' chainsaw." He stared dumbly at me. He is gripped by an existential fear that can only be gained by nerds too smart to be popular in school. Poor bastard. One of the reasons I like him -- and one of the reasons I keep drawing this type of person to myself -- is a constant fear that I'll return to being like that, and they see how far I've come. Regardless, El remains one of my favorite people in the world, and Jon keeps joking that he has a "man-crush" on me, as he often bases his appearances at places on whether or not I'm there, so intense is his Samwise-esque admiration of me.

But back to my good mood. So I'd hit on somebody and it went well. That made me feel good. Later Spencer (ah, here's a chance to talk about him) gave me some plays for another trio of girls who came in, one who's an event planner who wants to email me about listing her events in my newspaper. Spencer asked me, some time ago, to go on eBay and get an Atari 2600 for him, with Bowling and Baseball. As insane as this sounds, I went on and did it. Now he wants me to order custom NFL jerseys for him and his son. I'm cool with that. Spencer hooked me up with the lawyers who are handling my auto accident from earlier this month. He's a brother who's seen and done some things, and I'm definitely smart enough to learn from the lessons of elders. So Spencer and I talked, which was also cool, because I like having smart older Black men in my life to continue to show me the way.

So now I'm home, eating chicken soup (I've been eating a lot more soup now), awake two hours later than I wanted to be ... and that's fine. I'll wake up, handle business, make my appointments, and it'll be okay. I don't stress lateness anymore, I don't make things fit schedules that are uncomfortable to me, and I am happy a lot more of the time than I feel my writing has indicated.

I'll go to bed alone tonight, which isn't the best thing in the world, but I have a curvy dream that I can keep in mind that will be here in the flesh soon enough. I can feel attractive almost any day of the week, which is a plus for a skinny guy with a big head and glasses. Yes, I don't have the house and the gate and a lot of things I wanted, but I have freedom and I have friendship and I have a comfortable space of my own where I need fear no censure. I am living such a wonderful life that I need to devise existential depression from my sense of loss over things I could never have hung on to anyway. If that's the worst thing I have to worry about (my outstanding gas and insurance bills notwithstanding), I have to admit, I can't complain.

I am blessed, and I really feel that tonight. So, for a change, I decided to write that down, so I can remember these spinning glories of everyday life, surrounding me like a waterfall of fireflies, dancing together.