When I walked into my local coffee shop the other morning “Same Ole Layne Syne” by Dan Folgerberg was playing. It reminded me that he left this Earth last week. Mara called me the day after to ask me if I had heard. I had not and was devastated by the news. I was glad it was her as Mara and I have been through a lot together – like August 18, the day Jerry Garcia died. Even though we only ever went to one show we lived the life of Gratefully Deadicated, barefoot, pot smoking, acid dropping hippies 20 years too late. Dan did not represent a movement or provide the soundtrack for a generation, but he represented a time for me and Mara that was simple and innocent; our formative years.

Dan Fogelberg was part of my world before I was part of this world. He blared from ma’s 8 Track during my time in the womb and while I sat sucking strained peas from a yellow Pyrex bowl. Even when I started to wear ripped flannel and eye liner Dan Folgelberg, Jackson Browne, Gordon Lightfoot and the like remained in my cassette bag next to Nine Inch Nails, Stone Temple Pilots and Concrete Blonde. There was a station in Cleveland, Ohio called WDOK, 102.1. It was our favorite station; Mara and I used to call Nancy Alden, Cleveland’s Lady in Red, and dedicate songs to each other all the time. Ma listened to that station religiously and it was the backdrop of being with her at home or in the car. Every corner of my childhood was accompanied by the sounds of AM Gold and the 70’s.

Mara and I would sit in the park and many times Dan would be playing from the Skiv and some of our hippie friends would cock a curious head. It wasn’t usual to hear something blaring other than the Dead, Buffalo Springfield or Janis. Amazingly there were quite a few that did not recognize Dan and his soothing, melodic music that Mara and I had come to love.

We got older and exchanged our shag throw rugs, flip flops and KB’s for Keds, checking accounts and coffee shops. Our lives were very different, yet Dan’s music provided a familiar sound to alleviate the stress from our new, unfamiliar way of living.

Soon Dan and his music would accompany me on a difficult journey. My father died of cancer and at the close of his funeral, I chose “Leader of the Band” to play. It was absolutely the most perfect song for my Dad. To this day when I hear that song I stop, close my eyes and say “Hi Dad”; I somehow think that that was what Dan was saying.

That music has been with me for my entire life. No other artist has been so closely associated with so many aspects of my experience and I can’t help but feel as though I’ve lost something. Although he is not of this Earth he lives here with Mara and me, an arms reach and USB cord away.

Download Same Ole Layne Syne

Normally I would not be found out drinking on a Wednesday night, but I had guests and the venue promised strippers in addition to an underwear contest. You may find it surprising that the strippers are what interested me the most. Upon arriving with my posse I took notice of a tall, hairy, somewhat plump looking man flailing himself around the torso of an older gentleman with a vacant expression on his face. I naturally assumed this toad was one of the strippers. As I turned around to return home for an episode of “Sex and the City” and a frozen pizza, my friend assured me that this was one of the contestants getting a “jump” on the event. He explained that the winner is chosen by the reaction of the audience so it pays to gain a fan base before the contest begins.

I ordered a round for us at the bar and discovered the advertised stripper in my line of sight. He was physically perfect. No fat anywhere, not a blemish or a misplaced hair. I immediately hated him and fantasized that he had an eating disorder or recently had a hump removed, anything to give my insecurities some comfort in the hot glow of his flawless appearance. After five minutes of glaring and internal turmoil I thought it best to ignore him and concentrate on my friends and our evening together. While we sipped our Newcastles I began to draw up my chest workout for the next morning in my head.

The contest began and the announcer looked all of 13. He was appropriately dressed in black, square-cut Calvin Klein’s and nothing else. It must have been his first attempt at using a microphone because he held it so close to his mouth that all of his words blurred into a muffled mess. It was hard not to appreciate his enthusiasm though. Amidst the breaths and sighs he seemed very eager to get the crowd into the show or at least into their underwear.

There were three men of various shapes, sizes and levels of intoxication that lined up on the stage ready for their turn to turn it out for the crotch-starved crowd. The first guy was the scary one that nearly caused my premature departure. He had an ear-to-ear Cheshire cat grin on his face and appeared to be really happy to be on stage. I suspect he took notice of his competition and was already calculating just how he was going to spend his winnings.

The second contestant was the smallest and drunkest by far. He was about 5′5″ and 115 pounds soaking wet. A very, very thin man, the sky blue bikini bottoms he chose as his costume practically drooped on his fragile frame. The poor guy almost lost his balance as he undressed in the spotlight. We’ve all been there, right? Trying so hard to be suave and sexy while making extraordinary effort just to remain vertical? He meandered out of the spotlight following his drunken introductory salute and began to walk away. The announcer politely herded him back to his position next to the Cheshire cat guy who was still appearing confident and poised.

Number three was my favorite and the one who got my vote in any category. He too was very short and very drunk, but not as thin. He reminded me of Jim Henson’s Fraggles; short, pear-shaped with bright yellow hair that was sticking up everywhere. Now this guy had set out to win. As soon as he was announced he strutted on stage in a red baseball cap with his bright yellow tufts pointing East and West. He wore a Hawaiian print shirt in the same tone of red that hung to his knees overlapping a pair of shorts in the same style. To cap his Pacific fashion motif he wore bright red flip-flops. He started to remove his pants midway through a turn on his heels and I was honestly looking forward to seeing what was beneath his shorts. Keeping true to form a bright red thong was revealed – much to my delight. I held up my beer and hollered in enthusiastic approval of his thoughtfulness and dedication to the ensemble.

When it came time for the winner to be decided I got butterflies and a wave of embarrassment swept over me. I was nervous for them. I stood there watching them and realized that I was alone in my shallow pool of shame. They were happy to be there, proud even. Who was I to feel anything but happiness for these guys? If they were enjoying themselves then I should be excited for them. When it came time to cast our “votes”, everybody in the house voted for all the guys in claps, hoots, hollers and cat calls.

Somebody had to win however, and it was, as expected, the Cheshire cat guy from Long Beach, California who, by the way, was named Ed.

I finished my beer and thought of how many times in my life I watched somebody in outlandish dress or manner and felt sorry and embarrassed for them. It dawned on me that the feeling of sympathy and shame stemmed from my own insecurities and internal rubbish. We should be so lucky to have the courage to present ourselves to the world without regard for judgment and scorn. I envy them. They are all winners.

This past weekend I had the pleasure of visiting the island of Catalina with a buddy of mine. His father has a great condo there and a decent sized boat. This excursion reminded me of my many trips from Boston to P’town; a beautiful sunny day going somewhere to spend time on the water in a beautiful and charming setting with nothing to do.

We arrived in just enough time to hop on a golf cart, which I later learned is the primary source of transportation in Catalina. Lunch was found at a place called Lua Larry’s that sits only steps from the port. I imagine it has all types wandering about getting lit and sunburned. I had two of my most guilty pleasures, cheese sticks and beer, while meeting the parents and little sister.

The throng of tourists cruising mindlessly through the shell shops, candy stores and clothing spots was soon left behind when we made our way to the condo on the side of a hill. It sits at the top of one of two really nice, serious developments on the island. Catalina is mostly a nature preserve and no further growth is permitted there. I was so glad to hear that a place still existed that was admired so much for its beauty that not even money could pave it over. The view from the condo was reminiscent of something one might see in “Traveler” covering Greece or Spain; huge squares of Spanish tile atop grand white structures that exude a timeless, confident beauty.

Our first activity was snorkeling. This was my first time, but it was a secret I kept from the marine family. The idea of putting my mouth below water and drawing air through a tube was a bit of a mind fuck and I had a hard time adjusting. I got it, but by then I was nervously breathing very hard and trying almost as hard to settle my breath and calm down enough to enjoy the aquatic scenery. All I could do was hear my heart pounding and suddenly the air flow stopped and I panicked. It reminded me of the several times I choked on water as a boy while swimming and terrified, tried very hard to catch my breath. One time left me so scared that for months I had severe difficulty swallowing food and water. I swam back to shore where I confessed my secret and told them of the faulty equipment. After a cursory inspection his father determined that it was because I had dipped my head down too far, which engaged a safety feature to keep water from entering the tube and drowning me; the equipment was not faulty, it was me.

After dinner let up, the bets were placed on how long the two of us were going to last in the boat. The last time I slept on a boat was about 20 years ago and this would be his first time ever. We boarded the small dinghy to take us from the dock to the boat, it was only then he confessed to me that this was his first time operating such a machine. It was a great weekend for secrets and firsts. Without warning I had visions of “Open Water” going through my head. Thankfully it was not a vision and we arrived dry as a bone and experienced the best sleep of our lives.

The next day turned out to be the highlight. We took the boat to find a secluded beach for lunch and during our search we found ourselves surrounded by a pod of dolphins 200 strong. They played with us for a while jumping alongside the boat and chattering excitedly. It was SO unbelievable to watch them glide effortlessly through the water as if they hadn’t a care in the world. At that moment I just wanted to jump in the water and play with them, but I was too busy operating the camera. Besides, they were clearly going places and could not spare the time. Still it was so great for me that they joined us for a bit to wish us well. Dolphins really do have it all!

A friend of mine, Dave, recently treated me to dinner at an oyster house called Pacifica Del Mar. El Paseo is the Rodeo Drive of Palm Springs, but at this time of year the sounds and sights of credit card swipes and 3 Series are replaced with the dull click of traffic lights changing.

With this in mind the restaurant was surprisingly busy. We walked upstairs where the sun was beginning to set behind the mountains at bar level so perfectly that the glasses of wine and colored martinis sparkled on the bar like pieces of beach glass. I started with a glass of Pinot from Carneros while I studied and weighed the many options. The menu was packed with interesting and creative items such as Fanny Bay oysters Rockafeller and seared Sea Bass with a Miso Orange Marmalade. When Dave asked me if I liked oysters I was shocked to realize that I had never had any.

As the comment resonated I thought how absurd it was since I have spent every summer since I left home on the shores of Cape Cod. I could not believe it and asked him to order a dozen of his favorite; he chose Fanny Bays hold the Rockefeller which were baked with spinach (hence, not true Rockefeller anyway). I wanted to try them with no bells or whistles since it was my first time. So the first course was on, a dozen oysters and a seared salmon ceviche, which seemed rather appealing.

While we waited for the first tastes of Pacifica to arrive I scanned the room in my customary inspection of the clientèle. Everybody and when I say everybody, I mean with an exception of maybe 20 people out of more than 300, had on a color that matched the banquettes or a pattern resembling that of the carpet. There is a uniform of sorts that you see with the 50 to 80 something crowd of Palm Springs. When the first course arrived and the dishes were placed in front of us I gave this crowd a name, The Desert WASPS; I already started to design the logo in my head.

Something that I did pick up from living among the fisherman and having served quite a few oysters myself is that the experience is mostly the result of mixing together in one bite the shellfish and the mignonette, a flavorful little array of accoutrement like capers and fresh horseradish that accompany the gelatinous alleged aphrodisiac. I dressed my oyster and slid it into my mouth, gave it two light chews to mingle the flavors and swallowed it. I liked it, a lot.

The ceviche was a bit disappointing, not in quality but execution. Ceviche should be a light and tantalizing mixture of tomato, onion, avocado and cilantro presented cleanly and diced just at the right size where a spoon might be needed. Although this dish seemed to contain those ingredients they were very coarse making it more difficult to manage. Lastly, the salmon was cooked to about a medium rare. Hello? Ceviche is not seared! The point is the citric acid “cooks” the fish by denaturing the proteins. It would have been more accurately described as “Country Style Seared Salmon Ceviche” – but that’s just me.

For the big choice of dinner I vacillated between the Whitefish with parsnip puree and julienne veggies or the Sea Bass with the miso and orange marmalade. Dave was a bit bummed that there was no Surf and Turf. When our server began to clear the plates from course one he asked her why was there no Surf and Turf. He was hanging on the verge of sobbing. She happily put Dave back in happy land when she said that they did offer it in its traditional presentation of Fillet and Lobster Tail with drawn butter and mashed potatoes. I then thought to myself as I watched Dave’s eyes glimmer that the last time I had lobster was when I was at about 12; I ordered the Surf and Turf just for that reason. I was happy. I did although come to the conclusion that I find lobster to be quite boring and probably will not order it again in that way.

One detail I found to be quite amusing about our evening happened when Dave was on the phone making our reservation. The full extent on the humor was not fully experienced until I sat down.

Dave’s parents know the proprietor so when he called he said, “……and I am a friend of Dick’s”. I immediately thought of all those times I would take a reservation and the party on the other end would include at the end of our conversation “….and I know ____.” “Sure ya do pal, everybody does!” is the immediate response in my head and on two occasions seemed to vocalize itself.

When we arrived at the top of the stairs the man at the front asked our name and then turned to his Micros screen to look us up. He turned around almost immediately and said to us “Who’s Dave? I’m Dick’s partner Mitch.”

The way he said it, based on my years in the restaurant biz, led me to believe that this might not have been received well. Dave then explained that it was not him but his parents that had the friendship with his partner. Mitch shook his hand and said condescendingly “Here. Right here you see?….pointing at the screen, VIP” – not the best sign.

We were led to the main dining room to a two top. I took the inside seat and sat down on what seemed to be a large crack that aligned perfectly with my own. We had been seated where two banquettes merged together creating a rather uncomfortable gap of space. I began to move the table to the right when I bumped into something. It was a party of two sitting next to us; their outfits camouflaged so well that I was not able to distinguish them from the floor or upholstery. I only had to hang my crack above the crack for about 20 minutes until the party to the left departed and gave me the chance to realign my gluteus maximus. It’s good to be a VIP!