#15daysinNYC      12.1.14

I should have known our move to New York City would be fraught with an extra dose of the usual challenges when we woke up with a flat after our 1st night on the road. My co-pilot Chris and I didn’t even get out of Austin until 2 a.m. the night before. I put in a solid 2 hours behind the wheel before we called it a night at the Motel 6 in Hillsboro.

The next morning, I let the land of Instagram know we started our day with a flat tire. Our early morning departure turned into a 2 p.m. lift off. We’ve been a step slow and a day behind—figuratively—ever since. Or maybe it just seems that way.

It’s late at night—nearly 3 a.m on a Saturday night—and I really should be in bed with my new wife. But I promised myself that I was going to record the happenings of our new life in New York. And if I couldn’t even get this thing started by this, our 13th day in Brooklyn, well that didn’t bode well for the future.

So as far as I’m concerned, the worst is behind us. And really, in the grand scheme of things, it hasn’t been thaaaat bad. But there have definitely been…frustrations.

For instance, we’ve recently taken to calling our new home Casa Limón. Let’s just say it’s no Casa Verde, the house we lived in and loved back in Austin. We’ve gone from just over 3,200 sq. ft. to just under 800 sq. ft. Our 5/3 has shrunk to a Tamale-sized 1/1. And our quirky, colorful home—the product of Brother Will’s architectural genius and Tamale’s eye for design—is an urban white shoebox not unlike the other 60 units in our brand new building.

In 13 short days:

—Our brand new washing machine didn’t work.

—We noticed the paint on the living room window sill is bubbling from condensation.

—The brand new dishwasher didn’t drain the 1st time we used it. It still doesn’t work. (At least “the super” fixed the washing machine.)

—We found our big, ugly space heaters to be loud and unreliable. Unless you prefer cool air heating up the room when it’s 30 degrees outside.

—We realized there was a yapping dog across the hall. Despite the fact that the real estate guy told Tamale this was a no pets building. (I saw the “no pets” paragraph in the lease with my own 2 eyes.) “The lease also says you can’t have a washer and dryer, but you got those, right?” the property manager told me when I complained about the barking dog. (What I didn’t see in the lease, according to the property manager, was the Rider on page 54 that allowed for a pet waiver. Damn page 54 Riders!)

—We met a nice gay couple who’ve lived in the building 3 weeks longer than us. They made us feel better when they let us know their washing machine, dishwasher and heater all sucked too. And they’ve seen mice. Possibly due to the dog food they may or may not leave out for their dog. (What do you say to your nice new neighbors whose yapping mutt might possibly drive you insane while you’re trying to work at home during the day?)

To top it all off, our little apartment has been stuffed to the gills with boxes. And boxes. And stuff that, to this day, is still being unearthed, put away, tossed out or gifted to the Salvation Army outlet 5 blocks from our new love pad. As much as our newlywed love is still blooming, this abundance of stuff in our small space has elbowed its way into our new life, leaving us little room for things like patience and a sense of home. It’s like we’re trying to unpack our way out of an over-stuffed hotel room.

The good news is, I finally started feeling like a true New Yorker when my bike got stolen 8 days after I pulled into town. I got the good news when I went downstairs to go for a ride to buy a new lock. So I saved a few bucks on a lock too. (I was not gonna pay $25 bucks a month to store it in the building’s “bicycle room” that still wasn’t finished.)

But if you think I’d change any of it, you’d be wrong.

I love New York City.

I love Brooklyn.

I love my wife.

In fact, maybe I should join her.  Damn. It’s almost 4 in the morning. That’s what I get for moving to the city that never sleeps.

 

A FEW MONTHS BEFORE I HIT THE ROAD, MY NEPHEW JOSH CAME UP FROM ORANGE COUNTY TO SPEND THE DAY WITH HIS UNCLE BOBBY. For some reason, he’s got it in his mind that I know all these famous people and I live a glamourous life. One day the kid will figure it out. Until then, the illusion lives on.

To perpetuate the myth, I took him to breakfast at the Newsroom, a healthy low-key celeb hangout and one of my favorite dining spots back when I was actually sleeping in the same bed every night and paying rent in lovely Beverly Hills Adjacent.

We weren’t at our table more than 2 minutes when Josh noticed a young kid at an outdoor table just outside the window from our indoor spot.

“Omigod,” he said like a ’60s Beatlemaniac, “that’s Hayden Christensen.”

“Who?”

“Hayden Christensen,” Josh said in an excited whisper, as if his teenaged Canadian hero might actually hear him through the thick glass window. “He played Anikin Skywalker in the last Star Wars movie. I can’t believe he’s here!”

Personally, I never would’ve recognized the kid. But Josh is a Star Wars freak. His bedroom is full of the toys, posters and action figures that helped make George Lucas a rich man.

In an attempt to score points with my young nephew—a great, sensitive kid who I see all too little—I walked over and asked Christensen if he’d take a picture with my nephew. We can stop by and say hello on our way out and you make a kid’s day.

And that’s how it played out. Josh got to meet one of his heroes. I got to take a couple more digital pictures. Our waiter got a bigger-than-normal tip. Hayden Christensen got his ego stroked by a 6th grader from Mission Viejo. Everybody was happy.

The reason I’m relating this story is because today is Josh’s birthday. And since I didn’t send him a birthday card, I figured I’d try to make up for it by posting a picture of Josh and the big movie star on my website. Even if it did take me 3 weeks after his birthday to post the damn thing.

Happy birthday, Josh. I’ll get you next year.

“My friends are my estate.” ~Emily Dickinson

1.15.06                                                                                           Placentia, CA

LET’S HEAR IT FOR THE LIQUOR.

No, I’m not advocating we all need to go out and get wasted. But nights like this prove why alcohol can sometimes be a good thing. Sometimes it feels good to get sentimental. To remind the people in your life how much you care about them. To broach subjects that, in the light of sobriety, nobody seems eager to talk about. To confess mutual attractions and act on them. And to just laugh.

Tonight I got drunk with my old friend Sly Mee and a handful of good people I just met. The occasion was a Sunday barbecue in San Dimas. I showed up with Sister Jeni, my brilliant Bro-by-Marriage Warren and their 2 little boys. It started innocently enough. Watching the 2nd half of the Panthers/Bears playoff game while Sly and his dirt bike buddies flipped back and forth between the game and last night’s Supercross race in Phoenix.

We were at the home of Allison, Jeni’s best friend since high school. Last year Allison married Mike, a successful pool technician who’s become buddies with Sly, MY best friend back in high school. In fact, Sly and I started hanging out about the time Sister Jeni was born.

Sly and I were the old farts tonight. But still young enough at heart to party with the young folk. The last time we hung out was on my birthday in Chicago a year and a half ago. I was on my way back to Wisconsin from Detroit, where I’d just seen the Lakers get pummeled by the Pistons in Game 3 of the NBA Finals, my free ticket compliments of Phil Jackson’s girlfriend, Jeanie Buss. Carpet king Sly was in Chicago on business, schmoozing clients, cracking wise and making new friends.

We got drunk that night, too.

But tonight was a different kind of good time. Sly is a non-stop joke machine, the life of every party he goes to. He’d invited some of his dirt bike buddies over, guys that are nearly 20 years younger than us. But we don’t discriminate when it comes to friends. These guys were very cool and they were clearly fond of their old friend, “The Silver Fox,” who told us all about the 2 hot women he and his young buddy hooked up with last night at a crowded desert bar in the middle of nowhere. Sex in the front seat of a twin cab truck. After a day of dirt bike riding.

Dude, you still got it.

* * *

Sly and I have a storied history. A friendship worthy of a movie, no doubt. “Dude, you gotta write a script about this,” he told me tonight. “Dude,” I answered, a 6-pack into my buzz, “tell me about it. I’ve seriously thought about writing that screenplay. One day, man. One day.”

In high school we’d often wake up at 4:30 and make the 45-minute drive from Covina to Huntington Beach for a brief dawn patrol surf session, packing up our boards in time to get back in time for Miss Redmon’s 2nd period typing class. (The most practical, useful class I took at Charter Oak.) He was a wiseass water polo guy who hung out with me and my sarcastic, cheap wine-swilling basketball teammates. Sly never had a shortage of girlfriends and was always willing to talk about all the “poontang” he was getting.

I, on the other hand, didn’t even kiss my first girl until the end of my senior year. Pathetic. 7 months later Sly and I went to a Christmas party in his baby blue VW bus at the Covina home of his ex-girlfriend Monica. When she asked for a Christmas kiss–after much drinking, of course–I gladly obliged. Drunkenly assuming Sly wouldn’t care, seeing as how he had a new girlfriend he liked much better than Monica, who he’d dumped 6 months earlier.

Wrong.

When Sly went in the backyard and caught us making out, he snapped. Grabbing my shoulders and pulling me off the picnic table where I sat kissing his ex-girlfriend, Sly gave me an earful. It was ugly. Then he took off, as pissed as I’ve ever seen him.

A few hours later, I lost my virginity to his ex-girlfriend.

I saw Monica one more time. And before long, things with Sly smoothed over. By the time I graduated from UCLA 4 1/2 years later, we were all set to backpack through Europe together. Then Sly got a job offer from a carpet mill. He decided to be responsible and take the job. 20 years later, he’s practically running the place.

About a decade later, Sly asked me to be his last minute fill-in best man. Sly’s dad was his first choice. But Tom Sr. was dying of cancer, too sick to stand up for his only son. So I got called into duty–and promptly gave one of the worst best man speeches of all-time. I blame it on poor preparation. And way too much alcohol. To this day I regret not letting everyone at the wedding know how I felt about my old friend.

My “date” that night was Sister Tracy, who’d had a crush on him for years. The 2 of them had even had a brief fling when Sly temporarily broke up with the girl he’d eventually marry–then divorce 5 years later.

And that’s when he reconnected with Sister Tracy. Running into her at a Supercross race in Anaheim. Sly was a free man and Sister Tracy was loving it. Almost immediately, they began spending nearly every weekend together.

5 months later, they were riding in the backseat of a Chevy Suburban driven by a guy they’d just met that day at a desert bar near Victorville. When the guy took a turn too fast and rolled the car, Sister Traky–who let the guy know her seatbelt wasn’t working–broke her neck in 7 places. Sly got off with a gash across his forehead and the most horrific memories imaginable.

* * *

“What I wanna know is, did you love my sister?”

Sister Jeni pulled no punches tonight as a group of us sat around the gas fire in the backyard. The beer was making all of us ask the questions we wanted to ask, say the things we wanted to say.

“Yeah, I loved your sister. I wasn’t in love with her. But I loved Tracy. Definitely.”

Sly was getting emotional. We all were.

“If you don’t want to talk about it…” Jeni was willing to spare his feelings and change the subject. I, on the other hand, had another perspective.

“No!” I piped in, peering through my beer goggles. “We SHOULD talk about it. We NEED to keep talking about Tracy. We can’t forget her, we can’t avoid the subject just because it sucks that she’s not here. It bums me out that we don’t talk about her more. This is exactly the kind of night she would’ve loved. Fuck it! I say we should talk about her as often as possible.”

A while later Sly turned to his dirt biking buddies and said “I love this guy,” pointing in my direction. I got up off my ass, went over and hugged him.

“Dude, I love you, too.” And we’ve never been the hugging, touchy-feely types. But like I said, sometimes alcohol is a beautiful thing.

I’m glad it was said. I do love the guy. I’ll always admire how he handled a nightmare situation. I’ll always respect him for how he treated my sister in her darkest days and how he tried to be honest with her when she didn’t want to hear it. I love the guy like a brother.

I just wish I got to spend more time with him. Maybe now that I’m back in SoCal for at least a few months we can hang out once in a while.

I can’t think of many people I’d rather get drunk with.

 

 

7.23.04                                                                                                 Dallas, TX

Getting acquainted with my new friend Russell:

Occupation: “You know when you go to a concert, Bob, and you look up and see all them cables and lights and boxes up there? Well, Bob, my job is to make sure none of that stuff falls down, knocks you on the head and kills you.”

Former occupations: Oil and lub specialist at Jiffy Lube; number cruncher/cash counter for Texas coke dealers.

Knew it was time to get out when… “I got a phone call from someone —to this day I don’t know who it was —literally telling me to get out, like, NOW. It’s over. And that was it. I never went back.” Russell’s been responsible and straight up ever since.

Fun Russell fact: He’s color blind.

What the hell’s that got to do with Ozzy Osbourne? Russell once had a job making $10 bucks an hour working backstage at a Dallas Ozzy show. His job was to take out all the red and green M&Ms because Ozzy didn’t like those colors. “It was the perfect job for me,” Russell was saying minutes after I met him. “I can’t see green OR red. They’re both gray to me. So I just took out all the gray M&Ms.”

2 Degrees of Bob connection #1: When I did that reality TV pilot for David Duchovny, the director we worked with had just come off the first season of The Osbournes.

2 Degrees of Bob connection #2: After I graduated from UCLA I drove a limo for a couple months. One of my regular customers was Melinda Iommi. Ex-wife of Black Sabbath lead guitarist, Ozzy’s old bandmate and party pal, Tony Iommi.

Number of guitars Russell owns: 4

How he acquired the 2 guitars he’s holding in the photo: Found the one in his right hand in a dumpster; the other one he got for $10 bucks and 2 packs of cigarettes.

Composer Russell played for me on his new dumpster ax: Beethoven.

Russell doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who’d be into…: Weird Al Yankovic. But then, who does? Russell is a huge fan. Has all his CDs and DVDs. He even sang me a few bars of the Joan Osbourne-again “What If God Smoked Cannibus.”

Russell put me into the time machine, circa, ’76 when he…: Busted out the same 2 Cheech & Chong albums I had when I was 15, 2 of the first albums I owned (Wedding Album and Los Cochinos).

3rd and final 2 Degrees of Bob connection: A couple years ago I went to Tommy Chong’s house for a meeting about co-writing a book with him. (It was to be modeled on the “Dummies Guide to…” series. Only this was gonna be “The Stoner’s Guide to…” concept. Needless to say, it never happened. Tommy’s in jail, according to Russell.)

Besides adjusting my valves and fixing my brakes, Russell also offerered to…: Give me a brand new mountain bike. I had to politely decline because my friend Rob had already given me his back in LA.

Russell quote that’s been haunting me: “Y’know Bob, what you end up writin’ about me will probably be the only thing anyone ever ends up writin’ about me that’s for public consumption.” Like I said the day I heard this, dude, that’s too much pressure.

Russell quote that reminds me things are still okay in the world: “I may not be the best lookin’ guy in the room, Bob. But I do alright. Amazing things happen, Bob, when you’ve got that backstage pass hangin’ around your neck.”

The highest praise for Russell: He’s the kind of guy who’s lived a life worth writing novels and making movies about. But more than anything, from what I can see he’s simply a good guy with a kind heart who’s been through a lot.

Town where Russell’s grandma lives: Fate, Texas.

Off-ramp you take to get there: Bobtown Rd.

“Life’s battles don’t always go to the stronger or faster man. But sooner or later the man who wins is the man who thinks he can.” ~Vince Lombardi

9.18.03                                                                        10 mi. east of akela, nm

OKAY, I ADMIT IT. For the first time during The Greatest Year of My Life, I was feeling just a little bit worried.

An hour ago VanGo had suddenly lost power on I-10. Like an old war horse that had suddenly snapped an ankle, the old boy wheezed and sputtered off the interstate as the red oil light ominously lit up my dashboard. Once we’d somehow managed to roll into the only gas station/souvenir shop in Akela, NM, I jumped out of the car to discover a coat of oil covering the back bumper and the rear hatch that protected my engine from the elements.

Things weren’t looking good.

It was high noon. Hot as hell. And I was still almost 1500 miles from New Orleans, where I was supposed to pick up my friend Ruston at the airport tomorrow.

My first order of business was to call Dick, the mechanic back in Beaumont, CA who’d gladly taken $250 from me yesterday for a tune-up and carburetor repairs. His initial comment after he’d given VanGo the once over was: “You’ll be lucky to make it 100 miles in this car.”

He eventually ended up coming around — sort of — after he was able to successfully replace VanGo’s clogged carb jet, which had been responsible for all the sputtering and stalling at red lights I’d endured the last several days.

“You should be okay now,” Dick told me at the end of the day. Then he added a note of caution. “But this car is hard to get parts for. They don’t even make those carburetors you have on there anymore. Look, I respect what you’re doing. But you’ve got the wrong car to be doing it in.”

Even though the guy had 35 years of experience as a VW mechanic, I refused to buy into Dick’s pessimism. After all, I’d been across America and back 3 times already with VanGo. And what about all those Deadheads and Phish phreaks blissfully cruising around America in their VW buses? Where were they getting THEIR parts?

Somehow, when I pulled out of Dick’s foreign car garage yesterday at around 4 I was feeling pretty confident. VanGo seemed to be running better than ever.

Less that 24 hours later I was calling Dick from a fly-infested pay phone. Demanding to know why the hell my freshly-tuned up ride was now dripping with oil. Dick said it could be a few things: a faulty oil pressure switch, a part that could replaced for about $6 bucks; a defective or loose oil filter, another cheap-to-fix ailment; a blown oil cooler, a diagnosis that would require “dropping the engine,” a prospect that sounded expensive.

“Or it could be a blown piston,” Dick said.

“Which means what?” I asked, swatting away a pair of humping flies. “A new engine?”

“Yep,” Dick said without a whole lot of sympathy. “Hopefully it’s not that. But I can’t really tell you what it is without looking at the engine.”

I told Dick I was about 35 miles outside of Las Cruces, the best bet for finding a mechanic who worked on VW buses. Dick suggested I try to make it to Las Cruces, stopping every 3 or 4 miles to add more oil if need be.

So I took his advice.

I hadn’t gone more than 10 miles when I found myself in THIS predicament. Stranded on an empty stretch of 2-lane highway south of the interstate. I had followed Dick’s suggestion, only to discover that the knock coming from VanGo’s engine was becoming increasingly louder until the thing finally just quit. When I pulled the rear hatch open, faint clouds of smoke drifted from the engine.

I’m no mechanic. But this didn’t look good.

* * *

I decided to brave the scorching heat and try to ride the Huffy mountain bike P.’s brother-in-law had given me into Las Cruces. A few miles in I realized that making the 20-mile ride with no water and no signs of a thirst-quenching gas station/convenience store for as far as the eye could see was asking for a case of heat stroke. At the very least, I was bound to get 3rd degree burns on my exposed forehead.

Then I spotted a big white truck pulled over at the I-10 onramp. I noticed someone sleeping in the driver’s seat and decided to knock on the window. A fat guy with a walrus moustache woke up and timidly rolled down his window 6 inches.

“Sorry to wake you,” I apologized, “but my car just broke down back up the road and I need to get to Las Cruces to call a tow truck. Are you heading that way?”

“When I wake up I am,” the big man told me. He didn’t seem too happy about getting rousted from his nap.

“Really?” I answered eagerly. “Any chance you could give me a lift into town? After you wake up from your nap, of course. Would you be cool with that? I’m gonna start riding that way. But if you wouldn’t mind pulling over once you start heading that way and see me. Like I said, my car just died back there and I could use some good luck right now. Would that be cool?”

“Sure,” the big man said. Then he rolled up his window and went back to sleep. I was sure I’d never see him again.

I hadn’t ridden much farther than 4 or 5 miles when I heard a horn honking behind me. It was Big Man, pulling over in his pristine white rig. I quickly tossed my bike in the back of his truck and climbed into the air conditioned cab, happy as a trucker in a titty bar to be out of the heat.

He soon told me his name was Dave. That was almost all he said. He wasn’t one of those people who picks up a hitchhiker because he wants to talk. Dave picked me up because I had asked. And I only asked because the prospects of getting heat stroke while riding a crappy old Huffy mountain bike to Las Cruces wasn’t how I wanted to end this brutal day in New Mexico.

* * *

By the time Sal the Tow Truck Driver was dropping me and VanGo off at D&D Auto in Las Cruces, it was just after 5. I tried not to dwell on my dire circumstances: My car sounds like shit…I just spent $250 bucks to get it tuned up yesterday…If it’s something major, how the hell am I gonna pay to get it fixed?…It’s looking like I’m never gonna make to to Baton Rouge for the LSU/Georgia game tomorrow.

The guy at D&D Auto — another Dave — confirmed my worst suspicions. Upon hearing me start up VanGo he declared that I had definitely thrown a piston. The prognosis was not good. We don’t just need a little repair work done.

We need a new engine.

To make matters worse, Dave says he’s gonna have to call around to find one. The whole thing could take 2 to 3 weeks and end up costing me $1500 to $2000.

“You have a decision to make,” Dave told me. “Do you want to put that kind of money into a car that’s probably only worth $2000?”

Shit. This was not the prognosis I wanted to hear. Especially less than a week after getting some amazing news: 2 of my friends back in LA had agreed to underwrite my adventure for another year!

Once again, my timing sucked.

But this being The Greatest Year of My Life*, there was no room to wallow in self-pity. I told Dave to go ahead and look for a new engine. And at the urging of my friend Rob—one of my 2 generous benefactors back in LA—I promptly got me a shiny, almost-new rent-a-car.

By nightfall I was back on the road. Only now I was in an electric blue PT Cruiser. Blasting “Exile on Main Street” on the CD player. With the cruise control set at 80 mph as I rolled down Interstate 10. Back on track. On my way to Louisiana. Determined to get to Baton Rouge in time for the LSU/Georgia game Saturday.

Geaux Tigers!

“You can’t look back when you’re movin’ on…You got to go and sing your song.”   ~John Stewart (the musician)

5.4.03                                                                                  san francisco, ca

GEEZ, IT’S TAKEN ME LONG ENOUGH TO POST ANOTHER JOURNAL ENTRY. When I said “quasi-daily,” I was using that term very loosely. My inability to consistently write an hour a day and post regular journal entries has been the only black eye in what otherwise has been a perfect trip so far.

And since this is the Greatest Year of My Life—a chunk of time I’ve vowed to immerse with optimism—I’m gonna avoid my time-worn inclination to dwell on what I DIDN”T do, HAVEN’T accomplished and NEVER got around to completing.

Instead, I will dwell on the steady stream of sublime sights and electric conversations. Sounds hokey, I know. But this is the frame of mind I’m in right now. I am seeing things, hearing things, experiencing things that touch and inspire me. Every single day.

How could I not feel a rush of happiness seeing my friend Phil, who a few years ago was a long shot for fatherhood, holding his 4-month-old baby girl in those big, guitar-playing paws?

* * *

Phil obliterates the stereotype of the rockhead, unsophisticated fraternity guy. Not that Phil is defined by being a frat boy. That’s just the world I met him in 21 1/2 years ago at UCLA.

Phil was the smart guy from San Marino. The high school quarterback with the beautiful girlfriend who followed him to college, where he seemingly knew every cute girl on Hilgard. He had an uncanny memory for sports trivia and reveled in the box score accomplishments of overmatched white guys in the NBA. (“Chris Dudley went 1-for-fucking-18 from the line last night!”)

Phil is also one of the handful of people in my life who’ve exposed me to great music. If it wasn’t for Phil’s aesthetically advanced suggestions, I still might have the Carpenters, ELO and Hall & Oatesin heavy rotation. But thanks to Phil’s guidance I’ve discovered bands like the Pixies, the Replacements and Wilco.

More than the occasional music tip, though, Phil will forever be the lead singer/lead guitar of Johnny Kat & the Rats, the circa ’82 band of high school buddies playing the SAE summer party where I first hooked up with my first long-term girlfriend, Bubbles.

Nearly 21 years later, Johnny Kat is now Phil the Lawyer/Husband/Father of Cecily. But he’s still rockin’ in the free world. In six days—next Saturday—Phil’s band, I Seen Elvis, is playing a gig down in Danville.

“I have no idea what kind of crowd we’re gonna get,” Phil said while barbecuing up some steak in the backyard of his house around the corner from the Glen Park BART station. “Our conga player Tony put it together. I could be a big lesbian turnout.”

Count me in.

* * *

MORE PHIL STORIES: Phil was one of the 20 guys from our fraternity who were hired by Sports Illustrated to be guides and drivers during the 1984 Summer Olympics in LA. A job that required us to live on a luxury ocean liner while eating free shrimp and drinking free beer nearly every night. Oh, and we were given tickets to one or two events every day. AND we got paid to endure this hardship.

A decade later, Phil fell in love and married a seemingly sweet 1st grade teacher who loved the Grateful Dead. I was in the wedding and regretted for months not getting up and giving Phil the glowing toast he deserved at the rehearsal dinner. I was also with Phil the August day—on his two-year anniversary, no less—when he got the news that Ms. First Grade Teacher didn’t want to be married anymore. (It was only later that he learned of the rock climber she’d met while on a weekend hiking trip that turned into a month of rock climbing in Yosemite.)

The whole episode turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to Phil. It left him free to eventually meet Danielle, his pretty wife and the seemingly calm center of his world.

I say “seemingly” because I have stopped assuming that what I see in my abbreviated encounters with the various couples in my life is anything close to the way things are when no one else is around.

I’ve also long since retired the illusion of “the perfect couple.” I know now that there is no such thing as the perfect couple. Even the couples who seem to be glowing with serenity and love. I see that connection with Phil and Danielle. I noticed it in the way Phil rubbed Danielle’s feet as we sat watching “Six Feet Under” in the dark last night.

Maybe in Phil’s mind he was simply rubbing her feet.

Either way, if I was naÔve enough to believe in the perfect couple, I’d put Phil and Danielle right up there. He’s got more integrity, brains, wit and talent than just about anyone I know. And she seems to be every bit his equal. (Maybe when I’ve known her for 22 years I’ll be able to say it with the same certainty I can say it about Phil.)

At the very least, they’ve made a perfect child.