Coming home

It's not easy to experience the confusing emotions of sacrifice, joy and relief in the same moment. But that's exactly what videos like this make me feel.

I go down a lot of rabbit holes on YouTube—Springsteen, Taylor Swift (yes I'm a Swiftie), standup comedians, German Shepherd videos, versions of Stand By Me and Tracks of My Tears—but the ones that affect me to the core are of soldiers returning from overseas, surprising their families and relatives.

These joyful, tearful reunions remind me of the sacrifice, real sacrifice, our soldiers and their families make everyday. Even during an awful period of time when a bone-spur addled, dementia-ridden, brainless, spineless, morally and financially bankrupt, rapist, convicted felon and overall cowardly piece of shit who thought of them (and still does) as "suckers" and "losers" was elected for reasons I'll never understand.

Anyway, the minute these families realize what's happening, you can see and practically feel the fear and uncertainty lift from them as they run to hug their loved ones who've done the one thing they hoped and prayed for: they came home.

They fight wars they didn't start. They're at the whims of politicians who have no idea what it means to sacrifice or defend honor. And they go back time and time again because it's their duty. It makes me realize I need to stop complaining about tough days at the office.

It doesn't matter what side of the aisle you're on, or what color your state is. If you have a beating heart, you can't help but be moved by videos like this.

God bless all our soldiers.

And just for the record, I'm not crying. You're crying.

Gathering of spirits

I was in an odd mood today. It wasn't because I didn’t feel like working (and if you know me at all you know there's nothing odd about that.) I was thinking about loss. Not superficial loss like money at the craps tables, car keys or the other sock. All things I’ve experienced numerous times—especially that craps tables part.

I was thinking about all the people I’ve loved and lost in my life. The ones who’ve departed too soon on the way to their next stop, be it a seat at the table, the waiting room or someplace they’ll need short sleeves and hand fans.

Can't you just feel what a fun post this is going to be?

I’ve written about this subject before in a five-year old post called The Grandstands of Heaven. And while it’s not a mood that strikes me often, it’s profound and powerful when it does. I’m past trying to figure out why it hits me now and then, but today I believe I got a signal that these were exactly the thoughts and people I needed to be thinking about.

It came to me in the form of a song called The Gathering of Spirits by Carrie Newcomer.

I was perusing Spotify today while (instead of) working, and almost instantly this beautiful, rich, optimistic song about the dearly departed came up on my list. It may be sappy to you, but it slayed me. I sat at my beautiful wooden desk in my comfy home office and just wept. I couldn't tell if they were tears of joy or sadness, but either way they were flowing. To me the song is so powerful, so poignant, it would’ve done that regardless of my mood.

Anyway, enough talking. Head back to the top of the post, have a listen and see if you aren't moved by it.

There’s a gathering of spirits
There’s a festival of friends
And we’ll take up where we left off
When we all meet again

My pal Jayne

I know what you're thinking. Italian movie star? International fashionista? VP of Marketing for Ray-Ban? None of the above.

This is my beautiful friend Jayne.

I've known Jayne ever since junior high school, but we've only been friends for the last two or three years. I know what you're saying: how could you have possibly known her that long and yet only been friends for such a short time?

Easy. I thought she hated me.

Jayne and I ran around in different groups in high school. But high school being what it is, there was some cross-pollination of the people in those groups and we knew of each other. In fact sometimes I'd actually be right there in a group with her, but we never spoke.

I thought she hated me.

Fast forward to one of our high school reunions. I don't remember who spoke to who first, but we wound up talking a little bit. Then we became Facebook friends. Jayne would often make funny, sarcastic and intelligent comments on things I posted. And as you may or may not know, I'm a sucker for attention, and a pushover for funny, sarcastic and intelligent people I think hate me.

So Jayne and I wound up having lunch and catching up. Here's the first thing I said to her: "I always thought you hated me."

Much to my relief it wasn't the case. Come to find out Jayne was painfully shy, and had a tough time talking to new people, even though technically I was a long way from new.

Anyway, we talked about our lives, our spouses, our jobs, the fact neither of us had aged a day (true fact) and a certain friend who always posts in all caps (seriously, you just have to press one key).

I'm happy to say we really are friends now. We speak often, mostly online. Her wit, wisdom and sarcasm are on serious par with mine (I know what you're thinking - what wisdom?). If I ever write a book (I'll wait until the laughter dies down), I'm pretty sure Jayne will be my go to editor to read it, be brutally honest, ask me what the hell I was thinking and then make it better.

But since I won't have a book finished anytime soon, I hope we manage to speak in person before the next reunion. When we do, I know there's at least one question I won't have to ask.

State of the reunion

For as much of a social butterfly I like to think I am - and don't get me wrong, I can light up a room - I've somehow managed never to go to any of the reunions at the many agencies I've worked at. Sometimes it was intentional, other times circumstantial. The circumstances were I didn't want to go.

Anyway, a couple Saturdays ago, at the last minute, I noticed an invitation had been sent to me. So for once, I decided to get over myself and make the effort. I'm pleased to report it was well worth it.

For a little over two years, I worked at an agency called DBC in downtown L.A. It was during the time the city was blasting the subway tunnels under 7th Street, and they'd ripped up the asphalt and replaced it with wood planks during construction. One of the owners, Brad Ball, had a great line about it. He said, "L.A. is such a classy city it has hardwood streets." Still cracks me up.

Anyway, I know a few get togethers have happened in the many years since I was there, even one at a park extremely close to my house. But despite my polite refusals in the past, this time I decided to take the dive.

I'm glad I did.

I'd spent so long focusing on a few people there I didn't like - really didn't like - that I neglected to devote any brain space to the ones I actually liked and enjoyed, but had forgotten how much. I was happy to see all the faces there, and genuinely missed many of the ones who weren't able to make it.

As conversation usually goes at these things, we caught up on our current lives, as well as past ones. That's the beauty of reunions: they're moments out of time. Suddenly, you're with a roomful of people who can fill in the blanks about who you were, and what you did way back when (not always a good thing, but always amusing).

So, this is my personal thank you to all my friends who were there and made me feel so damn welcome.

And even though I can already feel my loner, anti-social, too-cool-for-reunion ways creeping back in, before they take over completely let me say I can't wait for the next time we all get together.

For starters, with any luck, I'll be a lot thinner.

On our Mark

For many people, this time of year kicks off a certain kind of joy. It’s the exciting and festive start of the holiday season, with at least one major celebration a month from now until the end of the year. The air is thick with anticipation.

But for me, October brings something a little darker now – a little more Woody Allen in attitude.

It's a reminder the year is running out of time. The days get shorter, the night comes earlier, the chill lasts longer. Also, every October is one more year my lifelong friend Mark Geldman has been gone.

Mark died of cancer in October 2007, but not before living a wild, full and adventurous life. Not only was he one of my very best friends, he was also an artist, a poet, a writer, an activist, an entrepreneur and a ladies man. He was married four times. Some people just never learn.

In high school, there were three of us: me, Mark and Sandy Frey. We were inseparable and unstoppable. Together, we stole our parents cars before we could legally drive (note to my kids: don’t even think it). We organized a political demonstration that shut down our junior high school for a few days. At the time, Mark was a member of the Young Socialist Alliance, and his parents belonged to the Socialist Workers Party. If I heard one lecture about Eugene Debs I heard a hundred. (As a side note, years later when I asked Mark if he was still a socialist, he told me he worked in Hollywood, where everyone including him was a devout capitalist).

Anyway, like friendships that have been so close for so long sometimes do, we went our different ways after high school.

About 14 years ago, I was reading the Calendar section of the L.A. Times. It was some article about Mickey Rourke and how impossible he was being (I know, I was as shocked as you are) with a project he was involved in. The article listed the screenwriter as Mark Geldman. I hadn’t seen or heard Mark’s name in a very long time, and wondered whether it was the same one. So I called 411, asked for his number, and got it. Then I called him.

I think our first conversation was two hours – two wonderful hours catching up on the years that’d gone by.

I wound up reconnecting for a short time with Mark. My wife and I had dinner at his house. We met his wife and kids. They came to our house. It was a great time. The thing about knowing someone so long and well is they can fill in the blanks for you. Among other things, Mark reminded me of a dinner we'd had years earlier at an Indian restaurant in New York called Nirvana (I didn't even remember being in New York). And of the Tribeca apartment he could've signed a 20-year lease on for $300 a month.

It’s easy for me to recall the last time I saw Mark because I have a good milestone to remember it. It was the night before my daughter was born. Together with our wives, we had dinner at L’Opera in downtown Long Beach. It was a drizzly Sunday night, and we were sitting by the large windows looking out at the Metro Blue Line as it came and went. It was all very east coast, and it felt right.

And then he was gone. I never spoke to him again.

Fast forward to the end of September, beginning of October 2007. I got a call from Mark’s high school girlfriend and fourth wife, Jodi. When I answered, in tears she said, “We lost Mark.” When I told my wife Mark had died, the first words out of her mouth were, “You have to tell Sandy.”

I couldn’t even remember the last time I talked to Sandy, so I took to the interwebs and Googled him. Turns out Sandy was a partner in a prestigious law firm in downtown L.A. Come to find out in what I now refer to as the lost years, he done good.

I emailed him about Mark passing away, and I now know when he got the email he was in a client meeting and had to step outside because of the tears in his eyes.

When Jodi let me know the date of the memorial service, Sandy and I got together beforehand for a reunion of our own. Even though Mark wasn’t there, he couldn’t have been more present. As Mark and I had done, Sandy and I spent the time we had before the service filling in the blanks for each other, rekindling both memories and a friendship that had never really been gone, just dormant.

At the service, although we didn’t speak, we were spoken about. People talked about Mark’s friends Sandy and Jeff because they’d heard about us from Mark.

While a lot of that day is a blur, the thing I remember most is after the service and get together at his cousins house, Sandy and I were walking to our cars with Ron Yanover, Mark’s writing partner. He told us how often Mark had spoken of us over the years. Then, he stopped for a minute and said, “We had the best of him.”

What brought all this on is now, every year since Mark's service, Sandy and I get together around October 8th, Mark’s birthday, to have dinner at Blair’s in Silverlake and raise a glass to Mark. Then we have dessert at Pazzo Gelato, the shop Mark opened with his neice and nephew.

I think it’s strange yet comforting Mark managed to bring Sandy and I back together. The three of us were always, and I mean always, together. When Sandy and I are together, it feels like we still are. We both have a fierce determination never to let the years slip away again. At least we know we’ll always see each other one night a year.

Next Wednesday night, you’ll find Sandy and me at Blair’s, talking about ourselves, our work, our lives and Mark.

And remembering we had the best of him.