The Audacity Of Nope

NFL: Miami Dolphins at Dallas Cowboys

If you haven’t watched the Miami Dolphins play football this season, it’s perfectly understandable because well . . . . nobody has. Four games into the 2019 season, they’ve already been mathematically eliminated from postseason play. Their record stands at 0-4, which is bad. They made the plenty good but certainly not great Baltimore Ravens look like Joe Montana’s ring bearing 49ers teams, which is worse. And in their four losses, they’ve been outscored 163-26. Which is history’s way of saying “Are you fucking kidding me?”.

In case you were wondering, and I’m not sure why you would be wondering, but okay . . . the Dolphins point differential through the first four games of the season is the worst in NFL history. If you’re playing along at home, the league was born during the W administration, as in Woodrow. Wilson. Which means that when teams were playing football with cinder-blocks and no helmet whilst their head coaches pointed a gun at ’em for motivation, the worst team was still coming up bigger than these Fins.

So yeah, my boys are a lost cause on the level of a pair of Isotoners gifted to Johnny Cochrane. And you know what? That is plenty fine with me, because as Jimmy Stewart is my witness, lost causes really are the only ones worth fighting for in this world. And don’t take my word for it, here’s Jimmy to provide . . .

Alls I know is, my Dolphins are relevant for the first time since Dick Cheney’s twenty eighth heart attack (That would be 2008). It would be the last time a team from the AFC East not named the New England Patriots won the division. Since then, my team has gone through ten quarterbacks, six head coaches and a handful of uniform changes.

Fast forward to present day and the Dolphins are relevant again. Problem is, it’s in the same way a Trump tweet or Ebola is relevant. Because once the shit gets loosed into our cranium or bloodstream, all manner of zombie apocalypse prevails. And the Dolphins are fifty three dead men walking . . no, marching. Loudly. Right onto the four lane highway those horsemen from the law firm Pestilence, War, Famine and Death are busy crunching their radials on whilst blue-tooth deep in negotiations with God and Lucifer.

Pro football experts are shouting mighty daggers into the Dolphins organization for tanking a season so obviously. Welp, I guess these geniuses didn’t watch the final season of Game of Thrones. Because those fuckers had WAY more talent and money going on than the Dolphins do.

And yes, the results are uglier than Gordon Ramsey in traffic. But it’s not like it ain’t been done before. Once upon a time, teams like the Cubs and Astros gutted their roster and started from the bottom. And it paid off with titles in both instances. In basketball, the 76ers took half a decade off during “The Process” in order to compile high draft picks in the hopes of fielding a winning team and now they’re one of the favorites to win it all. And the Browns transformed losing into the kind of art form that would’ve inspired Andy Warhol to buy them. And while they ain’t won jack yet, their team is interesting as hell with a punchers chance to do some real damage this season.

Optically, the dynamic blows. Because to charge major league money to the fans whilst rolling out a minor league product is certainly not good business practice. Last week’s game at Hard Rock Stadium in Miami was played to a half empty stadium, which shocked the hell out of me because I was wondering what in the hell was wrong with the half that showed up.

So the Dolphins will take a hit- both in the sports columns and in their bottom line. And it’s the latter that will keep this tanking expedition from going on indefinitely, because billionaires like Stephen Ross ain’t made their money by mistake. I figure a year, maybe two of really putrid football will result in enough draft pick sustenance to build a solid foundation. And yes they have to hit on their picks, as well as be smart with the free agent acquisitions, but to my way of thinking, it’s a chance worth taking.

I’ll take breaking bad over plain old mediocre every day of the week and for sixty minutes every Sunday. Because over the last eight seasons, the Dolphins are 66-66 with exactly nothing to show for it. There is nothing worse than mediocrity, and that includes a possible 0-16 campaign.

I’m done with asshats like Jeff Ireland running things into the ground and then skipping town for greener pastures. I’m sick and tired of clowns like Jay Cutler receiving a ten million dollar retirement package to achieve absolutely nothing. And I absolutely cannot stand the country club atmosphere that has held sway over the organization since Dan Marino stopped throwing footballs in anger.

Several weeks ago, when it became clear that the Dolphins mission was to suck balls, several prominent Dolphins players got on the phone with their agents and told them they wanted out. And that’s when I realized something was very different about the current brain trust. Because instead of sweet talking these guys back with drinks at the Clevelander and a cushy bonus . . they traded them. The message was clear as day.

You’re in or you’re out. No more in the middle.

It’s uncomfortable sure, but that signals growth. Change. Difference. And I could kiss Brian Flores and Chris Grier for having the cojones to undertake a strategy that might end up costing them their jobs. I hope it doesn’t, because they’re good football men who give a damn and I want to see them hoisting some hardware for all the shit they’re gonna be put through.

If things work out, the Dolphins’s fortunes should start looking up right around the time Tom Brady and the Patriots are decommissioned by the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. And so I’m rooting for my lost cause of a football team . . to suck mightily. For now. Because I’m done with the middle. In an all or nothing NFL world, I’m willing to take the latter for now. Because it’s a chance, which is something we haven’t had since Bill Clinton was installing a strippers pole in the Oval Office. And if this tanking strategy doesn’t work, the Dolphins can always dial up Pat Riley, who’ll be cooling his heels in retirement down in the Keys by then. And so what if he doesn’t know a lick about football.

He’d be perfect.

Matters of Little Consequence

With the Gorilla dead and buried, I continued keeping her blog warm seeing as how her posts had become sporadic in nature. In the early going of this particular arrangement, I felt really good about it. But as time passed and her posts became less frequent, I felt like I was just getting in the way, so I ceased and desisted. From there, things settled into a predictability that was likely driving us mad. We were passionate people playing out the string, and so it only made sense that the end was a matter of when.

By the time 2009 rolled around, I’d started a new blog and then trashed it in short order. And then I tried another one, figuring out something that looked and felt light years different from before. Rooting for Laundry was the predecessor to Drinks Well With Others. My writing had become crisper, more poigant and poetically honest to my writing bones. The Dame was such a magnificent Goddamn writer, it was a slam dunk proposition that she would push me into these Everest-like discoveries. Her influence provided me with with the muster to quit holding back. She taught me that good writing will comfort your soul but great writing will unleash it.

On a personal level, she resented the fact that I never brought up marriage in our second go round. The truth was, our first breakup had provided me the cautionary tale to which I was in no hurry to return. It may not have been fair to her, but there was the matter of self preservation to think about as far as I was concerned. And with that fresh perspective, it occurred to me on more than one occasion that I was plenty fine being single for the rest of my life if push came to shove off. Being a man of a certain age does indeed have its privileges.

I didn’t want us to go away, mind you. I simply didn’t feel an urgency to plant our feet in concrete boots, what with all the many variables we were both toting around. Not the least of which were our respective battles with depression. She wasn’t a crazy bitch who wanted to murder me in my sleep, even if there were times when I swore it was true. She was just a small town rich girl who’d lost her north star existence to death, domestic abuse and a shattered family tree.

It wasn’t her fault that she couldn’t make me happy. In the end, I left her scavenging for tiny little pieces of me, as if scavenging for clearance bargains. What it comes down to is, when you’re never happy, then you have to find a person who at the very least gives you peace of mind.

She wasn’t that.

We drifted in and out of delirious moments interspersed with insanely provocative scenarios and corruptible silences that only served to push us further apart. We believed in something, but we stopped being so certain as to what that something truly was. We were weighted by the debt of our mistakes, we were constrained by the indifference we wore in order to protect ourselves. As a result, our rhythm listed and our swim became fractured under the strain of it all.

Our love story became a double edged sword in which every precious yin begot a forgettable yang.

For every exhilarating tennis match where she kicked my ass, there was a stone cold shoulder moment that pushed us further into the deep. For every hot date night where we got busy lighting the match fantastic, there were nights when we didn’t talk at all. And for every romantic Italian dinner at a joint we found by accident, there was the return visit where she stormed out before the entrees arrived.

If you were to ask me for a microcosm of our time together, I would tell you it came some time after midnight on Easter morning of our final spring. We’d gone Machiavelli on the friendly drinks and with her kids away till morning, we decided to cook up our feast. We started things late night and finished them sometime after who knows what in the very early morning. Drinking and smoking and dancing to Elvis Costello and Wilco, Neil Diamond and Al Green and Aretha Franklin. Bickering and laughing and kissing in between the smoke and fire and ramble of clinks. And when it was done we had roasted lamb, a museum grooved ham, green beans with pancetta, cornbread stuffing, honeyed carrots, garlic mashed and a divine asparagus/tomato/mozzarella salad. We made ourselves mussels with blue cheese and some crumbled bacon for the trouble and we dug in, toasting our dirty, rolled up sleeves whilst clinking Sams. And then we fucked like mad and fell asleep.

We did Miami in June and as great a time as the Clevelander was, that Easter Sunday was really our last great night together. Because the zip code doesn’t make up the rules on a good time, yanno?

And before we both knew it, it was late August and our forever after was being called on account of rain, again, this time for keeps. I would spend Saturday on the couch, watching Ted Kennedy’s funeral whilst keeping company with one part coffee to whatever the fuck parts vodka and a couple packs of smokes.

You have to be a writer to understand that shit.

Next Week: The Epilogue





Matters Of Little Consequence

December 31, 2008: 

Before she became Red to me, she was Geena. We’d gotten to know each other well enough that she invited me to a New Years shindig she was throwing at her condo. I brought my son and my friend Karen, because my son loved parties where he could hone his extensive vocabulary whilst flirting with the ladies. I brought Karen because she called me out of the blue to vent about having taken a break from her Romeo.

We’d dabbled in perpendicular associations after our respective divorces, but our friendship had become a hands free dynamic long before the Dame came along. Besides, the Dame and me had forged a compact inside our long distance relationship in which we socialized with friends of the opposite sex- including former flames. It was a matter of trust, and a dearth of friends.

My son talked politics with Geena’s daughter while Karen found some shot partners. I hung with a lesbian couple, and we kvetched on celebrity crushes. When the clock struck nine o’clockish, I collected my son and searched for Karen, who was having a blast and asking if we could stay till midnight.

I figured the night was still young and I’d be able to partake on the other side. So I drove my son home and headed back to the party, after which I called the Dame. Her plans had fallen through and she was short with me, so I decided against telling her I’d gone back to the party. But then she asked me and then I told her and then I promised to call her later, and then she told me she was going to sleep. If not for my schedule, I would’ve been there. And so I let it go and I hoped she would let it go, and I went back upstairs. I was intent on digging into a friendly beverage when I was swiped up by my new pals.

“We’re going dancing!” Tara said, as the party began heading out. A block and a half later, I was failing miserably on the dance floor, so I grabbed a beer and moved to where Karen and her new friends were sitting. By this point, Karen was several sheets into a stiff tequila wind and nursing a beer much too cozily with Paul, who oh by the way was Geena’s husband. So I tabled it with my sisters in rhyme, after which I danced up the floor to more proper conclusions thanks to an old school DJ who went heavy on disco.

When Geena wrangled up our motley crew, I couldn’t hit the door fast enough. I was feeling melancholic about Chi-town and dreading having to work the next day and bummed as all get out that I wasn’t feeling nearly as jovial as everybody else.

“Hey mister . . .”

It was Geena, sidling up next to me as if she could read my mind. Inside my depressed state, she was coming up aces. She asked about the Dame as we chatted our way back upstairs, where I constructed a martini for myself while Geena, Lori and Tara involved themselves in Gatsby sized vino glasses. I was feeling shin bone deep in a mellowed out feeling when Karen came in and handed me my coat. “You left it at the club, so we bummed a few cigs . . ,” She smiled.

We toasted the dwindling minutes as they teetered into dust and the hands of the clock reached for an indelicate breach. My brain began deconstructing a year whose wings had perched themselves into the vespers of a raging fire. I’d won and I’d lost and I’d given up trying to figure out the reasons why.

As midnight exploded, the martini swam upstream and the beer chaser dovetailed the setting magnificently as I let tomorrow work on its snooze. Me and Geena debated the best Bowie song while the girls took me to task for converting to deep dish over New York style. And just when the night had settled into a peaceful logic, one of Karen’s shot shuckers ran into the condo in a panic, “Your friend is bleeding in the hallway,”

Sure enough, Karen was sitting on the ground and bleeding from the forehead after hitting the astragal between a set of double doors which led to the elevators. “I’m fine!” she said drunkenly as Paul came out with a hand towel. I went back to grab my jacket and when I returned, she was gone. Geena wished me a vaya con dios and I went searching for a tall redhead doing a civil war drummer boy impersonation as I headed towards the parking garage.

There were plenty of times in my life where my past has spoken to me in bold cursive, but none quite so bizarrely. So I wasn’t shocked to find the parking garage booth had closed up shop, leaving me stuck between a gate and a single lane spiral I was never going to be able to navigate in reverse. I had two choices: crash through the fucking thing or try and lift it. I chose the latter and then cursed my way out of the garage, shortly thereafter finding Karen strolling down the street.

“Get in,” I said icily.

“Hey fuck you for laughing at me!” Karen slurred.

I pulled over and she got in, after which I told her where to go and how to get there. “I wasn’t laughing at you, so ease the fuck up,”

“I’m sure your girlfriend loves the fact that you were having such a great time with a married woman . .”

“What in the fuck does that even mean?”

“It was awkward!”

“No, awkward was whatever you and Paul were doing. We were dancing . . . and I’m pretty sure it was the only thing keeping Geena from scratching your eyes out,”

“Your girlfriend might not think this is so funny,”

I thought this black comedy of an evening had run out of surprises, as if there was a chance in hell the universe was done with me. 

As if.

Heroes Of The Week! (Hurry Up And Hero Edition)

JDM Watchmen

This week’s Heroes episode will not include the Boston Red Sox, because they’re staying home for October. There won’t be a mention of the Emmys (Well, except for Chernobyl being recognized . . because it IS a must see). As for the Russians, Imma let Congress see red whilst I settle for blanco y azul.

This week, it’s all about tempo; as in quick strike hits on the stories of yea and nay. I was remiss in my story scooping this week, so I had to crash study the fucker into some form of coherence for my Friday exam, and then post it on Thursday because why not? And thank GOD for Fox News, because they make it easy to find Nero in the news worthy. So I begin with a double take of fake news  . . .

Michael Knowles of The Daily Wire called Greta Thunberg- a 16 year old with Asperger’s- a “mentally ill Swedish child” for having the audacity to blast the climate change deniers. Much like the glaciers, this dude is all wet.

After Fox News apologized for the comments, Laura Ingraham went on her daily show and compared Thunberg to a character from Children of the Corn. Ingraham’s own brother tweeted (of course) that Ingraham cares more about her paycheck than her own children. Can’t wait to see the live stream from the Ingraham Thanksgiving dinner!

A New York teacher is on leave after asking students to write “funny” captions to images depicting slavery. Making this my WTF story of the week . . .

A Deputy Sheriff in Forsyth County, North Carolina footed the bill for a handicapped woman because he feared the eight dollars she had for gas might’ve left her stranded. So how’s about some praise at the pump for Chris Owen, who owned the moment.

Hakim Laws’ Monday morning consisted of catching babies being thrown out of a burning building in Philadelphia. When he came upon the burning building, he was prevented from entering by the smoke. So he stood on the pavement and yes . . he caught babies. Sign him up, Eagles!

And so Hakim tweeted (of course) his exploits whilst ribbing the Philadelphia Eagles Nelson Agholor by tweeting ” . .we was catching them. Unlike Agholor.” To which the star wide receiver tweeted back (of course) by calling Laws a hero and inviting him to a game. Well hells . . an athlete who gets it! That’s brotherly love right there.

As if peeps seeking romance ain’t got enough hurdles, now is catfishing with ’em as well. Save your money kids, and hit the produce aisle. 

Congress did something right(!) when they passed the Christa McAuliffe Commemorative Coin Act of 2019. The act calls for the Treasury Department to mint $1 silver coins to commemorate teacher/astronaut Christa McAuliffe. Money well spent.

The Anti-Defamation League has decided that the “OK” hand gesture is now a hate symbol, seeing as it was co-opted by white supremacists. I think when you start censoring the everyday, you’re simply giving power to the people we cannot afford to give it to.

Lemonade Stand Bikers

It’s been a year since Daryn Sturch was driving with her daughter Bryanne when she came upon the scene of an accident involving several members of the Milwaukee Iron Biker Group. A nurse in Chili, Indiana, Sturch applied her skills to the accident victims, some of whom were critically injured. She remained on the scene until the paramedics arrived. Thanks in part to her efforts, all of the injured victims survived.

Sturch became Facebook friends with members of the group, and it was how the bikers learned that Bryanne’s lemonade stand sale had been rained out. They reached out to let Daryn know they would be in the area the following week, and they urged the kid to try the lemonade sale one more time.

Let’s just say Bryanne crushed her sales goals, thanks to the thirty bikers who showed up to partake. Daryn Sturch was beyond verklempt at the outpouring of love and support shown by the group, but really . . it was all about getting what you give. She made the scene for them, and hey . . all’s fair in love and lemonade.

“I think it’s a perfect example of how just because you don’t look the same way or dress the same way or have the same hobbies or interests doesn’t mean we don’t have the same core values inside us,” Sturch said. “We shouldn’t make assumptions about people, we should just love each other.”

When life hands you lemons, drink up.







First Draft Horoscopes!


Hey Libra . . .

Adventure is always one of your main priorities, and when you add adult beverages, pain meds and gun toting romantic involvements to the mix, well . . let’s just say it’s only a matter of time before your ass lands on one of those NBC true story crime shows. Posthumously. Today, you might have your sights set on an adventure you’ve never tried before. Like maybe, staying home and reading a book. Or going to bed early. Or not involving yourself with someone who’s been incarcerated. Naaaaahhhhh!!!!

A normal person might find their bucket list moment on the side of a mountain, whereas you simply aim to land in the bucket. And really, what fun is traveling when you can engage in all manner of dangerous trysts in your own personal jungle story. Going around the world? Pffft! You did that the other night. Visiting the South Pacific? That too. Your social life would make Bukowski shudder.

Your one hundred and one different moods will set the tone, after which you’ll most likely burn down the house. Just remember not to touch that bail money savings account you started after the last episode, because you’re gonna need it seeing as how you’re down to three friends. And no, the arresting officer doesn’t count.

Remember that you only live once, because you’re already lived eight times. And you know what happens on the ninth hole, asshat.

Heroes Of The Week!


Last week’s September 11th post was well received, and a big thank you goes out to the best peeps in the blogosphere for your touching comments. You guys are what make this place worth the visit.

And now the news . . .

The Trump administration’s decision to allow a big game hunter to bring home a lion trophy he collected while on safari in Tanzania achieves yet another low point for 1600. Previously banned from entering the country based on the US Endangered Species Act, the US Fish and Wildlife Service now considers such applications on a “case by case basis”. Sir David Attenborough once remarked that if humans disappeared tomorrow, the world would probably be much better off. He wasn’t wrong.

This college football season will be a trying one for Arkansas State head coach Blake Anderson, who is dealing with impossible loss after his wife Wendy lost her battle with breast cancer on August 19th. So when Georgia Bulldog fans welcomed him back to the sidelines by wearing pink in honor of Wendy, it moved him to tears. He described it as “One of the classiest moves I’ve ever seen,” If the Dawgs have as good a year as their fans are having, they’re gonna win it all.

Remember Wendy

If NFL pundits were as proficient at sandblasting teams like the Chiefs for signing bad guys like Tyreek Hill and Frank Clark as they are at trashing the Dolphins for tanking . . . maybe the league wouldn’t be stuck in the dark ages when it comes to domestic violence. 

Abby Fink’s errant text to a wrong number ended in a righteous gesture that has taken on a life of its own. Fink was reaching out to her friend Shaun Jakeman whose son is in the ICU but instead sent her text to a stranger named Bill. Fink offered to bring dinner, to which Bill joked that he had a seafood allergy, after which he learned the what’s what: That Shaun’s son Noah suffers from Lennox-Gastaut syndrome, which is a severe form of epilepsy, as well as cerebral palsy. Bill immediately asked how he could help before setting up a fundraiser on his Facebook page, and he’s planning on meeting Noah soon. Let’s just call Bill the angel of wrong numbers.

There’s fashion forward . . and fashion faux pas . . and then there’s what Bstroy recently unveiled during New York Fashion Week: School shooting themed hoodies. The distressed hoodies, complete with bullet holes, feature Stoneman Douglas, Sandy Hook, Virginia Tech and Columbine. And I just can’t add anything, because what is there to say? Other than what the fuck were they thinking? 

Right wing loud mouth Michelle Malkin isn’t much for tributes. Within hours of receiving the news that renowned journalist Cokie Roberts had passed, Malkin stated that Roberts was “one of the first guilty culprits of fake news.”. Heartwarming stuff. 

Carson King is the Boss of epic beer runs. The Iowa State student held up a handmade sign during a nationally broadcast college pregame show asking for beer money and leaving his Venmo handle. Forty thousand bucks later, he decided to gift himself a single case of beer and give the rest to the University of Iowa Stead Family Children’s Hospital. Anheuser-Busch and Venmo both loved King’s story so much that they matched it, with the tote board now passing one hundred thousand dollars in donations. The kid has a PhD in party. 

Ebony Rhodes was well acquainted with rock bottom when a traffic stop introduced her to another spiral. Her expired tags would become an eviction notice, since Rhodes and her four children were living in her 1997 Buick Regal. Enter Deputy Police Chief Jeff Glazier who took it upon himself to find a shelter for the family, allowing Ebony to save up for an apartment. Glazier then set up a GoFundMe page for the family that will help cover hospital bills for three of her kids, including her youngest daughter who has Lupus. Glazier not only protected in this instance, he served. Mightily. (Big thank you to Susannah for this feel good scoop.)

Appreciating the good guys shouldn’t be a sometimes thing, reserved for national holidays or somber occasions. Because duty isn’t a sometimes thing for the men and women who put on a uniform every day. It doesn’t mean they’re infallible and it doesn’t mean their actions cannot be questioned. But to slant our opinions on every uniform is to miss out on cops like Bobby White, who became known as “the basketball cop” after video of him responding to a noise complaint in Gainesville, Florida went viral a few years back.

A white cop makes the scene where black kids are hanging out, things can go sideways in a hurry. Bobby White defused the situation by letting them know he had no problem with some kids balling. He even joined in. It wasn’t a “look at me” moment, but rather, a “look at us” moment, as in . . look at all the better outcomes we might achieve with just a little bit of understanding and some dialogue.

So the other day, The Meritorious Q sent me the “rematch” of that pickup game that happened three years ago but is still scoring all this time later. White brought Shaquille O’Neal out with him for another round, and it was such a brilliant spin move on what had already proven to be a wonderful story. Of hope. Because Shaq provides the kind of soul hug that doesn’t just light up the room he enters, it provides electricity for the entire neighborhood.

It was a valuable reminder that we don’t have to let anyone tell us what the world is supposed to look like. Because the better can happen from our rolled up sleeves to the tips of our fingers. In the quiet of our daily breaths to the pulse of a great big world that isn’t so frightfully hopeless when you let the ball bounce, and you let the kids play. Imagine the places we might find when the noise ceases to be a complaint, and becomes something else entirely.

An embrace.

















Hello I Must Be Going

Everybody wants a superpower, but nobody wants to pay those dry-cleaning bills.

Personally, I think most of them are overrated. Can you imagine the shit you’re going to be subjected to if your co-workers found out you have the ability to leap tall buildings in a single bound and you didn’t pick them up on the way to work?

So forget time traveling or possessing superhuman speed. Don’t give me telepathy, flight, shape shifting or even having Catwoman’s number on speed dial. Because while those superpowers are nice, they ain’t got a thing on mine.

I rarely run into an ex.

That’s it. That’s my superpower. And while it ain’t ever gonna put Iron Man out of business, it works for yours truly. And it’s my great good fortune to have it, seeing as how I’ve got plenty of Rico but precious little Suave for these situations.

Running into Ex

This isn’t to say I haven’t experienced an awkward conversation in line at the grocery store. But more often than not, I’ve been able to avoid the calamitous “Oh heeeeyyyy!” . . which is the single dude preamble to that John Milton novel. Okay, all of ’em.

I found myself behind Red in a Starbucks drive through last week. There she was in her adorable little Fiat, fussing with her fiery red curls as I leaned down to search for something in my glove box in order to escape detection. Red was married, which is why we lasted as long as we did.

Rosemarie was my disco lemonade crush back in the ’80’s, and I really thought I was going to marry her someday, maybe. This was mostly due to the fact a Survivor love ballad always seemed to make the scene when we were skin deep in negotiations. I actually came across her a couple times over the last few years before I was certain it was her, seeing as how she chopped her mane and lost her infectious smile thanks to parenthood. And it’s even money she was thinking the same thing about me.

Ms. Borinquen gifted me an Ireland soccer t-shirt on St Patrick’s Day 2007 after we decided to double down on the merry making at her crib. I spotted her in a downtown cafe a few years back, looking as creamy as ever. After which I switched seats with my coffee pal, just in case the dude she was with happened to be her gun toting baby daddy.

I’m expert at spotting an ex before the ex spots me. As with Mel the poet at Hershey Park . . . Val the therapist at the mall . . . Diana the parole officer in a Jimmy John’s (after which I got Chinese takeout instead) . . . Lisa the perpetual saint of unemployment at a bar . . .

Awkard Ex Conversation

Which brings me to Miss What’s Her Name. She was a teacher who had worked with Red for a while, and we once ran into her at a pub near Red’s condo in town. She was several drinks south of the meridian line by that point in the evening, but she still remembered the chance acquaintance when speaking to Red a few days later. And it was somewhere inside their conversation that Miss What’s Her Name made a rather tawdry suggestion that maybe the three of us could, yanno, have a round table. Sans the table.

Discretion was the better part of Red’s game, so it never happened. And thank God for that, because this woman would end up in a 50 Shades-like scandal a few years later. Seems she had been playing bare naked Hades with several prominent names when a scorned spouse cried foul.

So of fucking course I ran into her. And it was the strangest thing, to run into someone I didn’t sleep with only because the woman I was sleeping with had more sense in her pinkie than I have in . . . umm, mine. Because you know what’s more awkward than running into someone you went Hello Dali with behind closed doors? Running into someone who suggested such an encounter to your married girlfriend.

She asked if I still talk to Red and I told her I didn’t. And then I asked her something to which I have no recollection, because I just wanted to extricate myself from the situation as quickly as possible. And I know she was thinking the same thing, because she was fidgeting like a pitcher with the bases loaded. Thing is, for someone who is locked and loaded when it comes time to find trouble, my arsenal is weaker than the french army when attempting to flee the scene.

Catwoman would have a field day with me.