Confessions of A Great Man...

There comes a profound moment in every man's life when he feels compelled to prove to his woman that he is a great man. That he is not a caveman. That he is a sensitive man, a thoughtful man.

That moment is almost always triggered by some hidden unconscious guilt that irritatingly gnaws away at his absolute unadulterated volition to simply have a good time. Maybe he spent too many nights out with the "boys". Maybe he should have called. Maybe he shouldn't have stared too hard at the girl in the black mini dress.

Unable to bear this pestering annoyance, the man reaches into the deep recesses of his neanderthalic soul and brilliantly concocts a plan which in his simple mind will without fail prove his worth to her.

It would be something monumental. It would be something SO HUGE that it will settle once and for all any lingering doubts she may have had about him. It will put an end to those occasional looks of bewilderment he didn't quite get at the time but upon somber reflection seem to subtly suggest "where did I go wrong?".

Alas, he decides, independently and remarkably, that he would, for once (without being asked)...perform the herculean task of washing the dishes.

But before the task is even undertaken, he is immensely pleased with himself. The thought of the delightfully surprised look on her face arouses his sense of humanity. He can't help but to bask in the glory of reaping the benefits of her appreciation. He feels warm and tingly all over as he anticipates her gratitude manifesting into something much much more. He is a smart man.

So at last that moment finally arrives. She comes home after a hard day’s work. There are remnants of lifeless bubbles trickling down the sink in a slow dying descent as if having been annihilated in a battle of epic proportions. There is the disturbing evidence of random water splashes, puddles, and sporadic blotches of unrecognizable food parts that could only have been something that was once edible.

He, the great man that he is, does not want to make a big fuss out of this and nonchalantly exchanges the usual greetings as if nothing extraordinary has taken place. Nevertheless, he can’t help himself but to lurk around the kitchen like a criminal coming back to the scene of the crime curious and anxious to know if he’s going to get caught.

He wants to scream “I did it. It was me. It was me who did it!” But he knows he has to remain cool, calm and collected because he is a patient man. He wants her to make the first move. After all, it’s the very least she can do. So he waits through the exchange of meaningless banter. He waits through her warbled stream of consciousness. Yet he grows anxious by the moment and waits. He waits for that sudden look of surprise, delight, and appreciation. He waits for that look of “how did I get so lucky?”

But it is slowly beginning to dawn upon him that she may not even care. Oh, he is a perceptive man. There is a sudden rush of doubt, desperation and resentment all coiled up in one incomprehensible quagmire of emotions. Feeling he can not allow this moment, this extraordinary moment, to merely pass, he implodes and finds himself declaring with a loud whimper, "I did the dishes".

Yes, he did indeed. He is overcome with an overwhelming sense of obtuse catharsis. It is a lukewarm puddle of a fleeting moment as he immediately and devastatingly feels the slings and arrows of her wrath, disgust, and pathos all wrapped in a tight panini sandwich. It was not the look he had envisioned.

He is a sensitive man. He is a thoughtful man. He is a pathetic man.

How do you know when you're in love? (Love in the Time of Blackout)

It was a darn good thing I wasn't the one driving that day. Justin, my second son, had just turned seventeen so we were on the road practicing for his road test. As we drove around the neighborhood, I guided him with restrained yet constructive criticism as dads would do under the circumstances...

"Holy mother of God, SLOW DOWN!", "you're gonna hit that tree and have us KILLED!", "STOP! STOP! STOP!".

We were on this road adventure for a while when it started to rain. The wind shield wiper on the old Nissan was squeaking and struggling to wipe away the light misty raindrops. It was also getting dark so I decided this would be a good excuse to cut short our driving session for the evening and head back home.

As we were approaching our driveway and just as I was feeling the relief and comfort in the fact that we did not end up at the local ER, Justin mumbled "Dad, can I ask you something?"

"Of course son what is it?" I replied without giving a second thought.

With a casual nonchalance of wanting to know the score of the Nets basketball game, he asked, "Dad…how do you know when you're in love?"

I wasn't sure if I heard him right because I expected something mundane related to driving skills, perhaps something to do with parallel parking, maybe a question about the road test.

But I thought I heard him mention "love" and it instinctively dawned upon me that a defining moment in our father and son relationship may be at hand. As a parent, these are the moments you look back and cherish. It's like coming to bat with the bases loaded in the ninth inning. It's like having the opportunity to take the winning shot with seconds left on the clock.

How can any father be prepared for such a question? This was something more fitting for the gods of love and I found myself searching for the words of Byron, Browning, and Tennyson. I needed some time to provide an answer eloquent and worthy of a teen's new found muse for love.

So with extreme sensitivity, I delicately asked "Run that by me again?"

Justin, looking agitated at having to ask the question again, hesitated a moment as if having second thoughts, then repeated,

"Like…how do you know for sure that you're in love?"

It was clear that the fervency of the topic had imposed upon him a sense of desperate urgency that gave him powers unbeknownst to himself to irrationally seek for answers despite any obstacles of trepidation. The confusion in the voice, the quivering of the body... he exhibited all the symptoms of the reckless delirium of teenage love.

I was suddenly overwhelmed with the ramification my answer would have generations down the road. How did Abraham answer Issac that subsequently led to David's fawning over Bathsheba? I had visions of Justin some twenty years from now telling his son "This is what your grandpa said when I asked him about love...". I was mortified of the possibility that they would chuckle and get a good laugh at the expense of good old Grandpa,"...may he rest in peace", they would add for good measure.

I found myself asking "what is love after all"? It brought back memories to the summer of '77. My first love may have been tender and sweet, but I remember it was also freak'n painful. She was visiting for the summer from Hawaii. Her big brown eyes would look right through you with a vulnerability that would make any young man believe he was in "love". Her dark exotic skin glowed like the silver moon and her long black hair with soft willow locks hung carelessly off her shoulders.

It was the summer of the infamous New York City blackout and Thelma Houston's "Don't Leave Me This Way" was the number one song. My parents' little bodega store on the corner of Boynton Avenue in the South Bronx was annihilated by the scavenging looters and the only thing that remained were the charred shadows of burnt remnants that once was our family's livelihood.

In the midst of it all there was hopeless love that defied even the casualties of war. There were times we talked carelessly into the night about everything and anything. Love only had compassion for love itself and everything else was insignificant. We gazed upon the stars and truly believed that we would be gazing upon the same stars together for eternity. During that magical summer, life without one another seemed like a realm of unfathomable possibility.

As the summer mercilessly came to a close and she went back to Hawaii, my heart wrenched with a physical ache I never thought possible. Nothing seemed to matter anymore and my world as I knew it shattered into a million unrecognizable pieces. As those shattered pieces came back to me, I didn't have the heart to tell my boy that the weak could never enter the kingdom of love.

After haplessly searching for the right words, I found myself only able to utter, "Justin, love is a beautiful thing...".