It was a not too unusual, for this time of year, wet n' warmer grey kind of day as I turned to walk down the garage lane alleyway I'd walked down with her such a seemingly long time ago. One of those first of the season warmer grey days that told one it would be warmer yet still; and reminded one how much one can indeed enjoy a good ol' grey kind of day now and then. If it's warmer enough. It had even rained earlier that day but sadly enough I couldn't for the life of me get it out of my mind just how we had wasted those pitter patter of rain drops on the window on this particularly wet, warmer grey kind of day... Not the usual because we were rushed nor hurried with no time to wait as had been before; just that certain decisions had been made that prevented our enjoying the rain in the morning together... today.

I grabbed and pulled at the sash metal slat emblazoned with a familiarly old 7UP advertisement that served as the handle to an almost antique rickety wooden screen backdoor. This backdoor served as the front door to Mr. Wong's Chinese Wonton n' Lawyering Shoppe. The paint on the door had peeled in so many spots one could easily see that it had been blue then green then maybe yellow at one time before; it was one of those old wooden screen doors that when pulled to be opened, bent a bit at the bottom just enough to make one stutter his step, just a stuttering moment no more. 

Inside all was pretty much the same as the last time I'd seen it. When last we had been there to seek the advice of Mr. Wong oh so many years ago when we had first felt the need for some form of a contract to settle our unsettled things straight; set ourselves on a path towards a sound n' solid friendship... The Law offices of Mr. Wong's did double-duty as a kitchen for the Chinese Wonton part of his business; the part that put food on his table, so I guessed.

The walls of this office come kitchen were lined with shelves bearing row upon row of now long greasy law volumes, organized haphazardly, whole portions of them cover by things pinned willy nilly like a scatterbrain's corkboard. Arranged in a way so a scattered brain could look out loud at the very long list of things to do. Now, by no means and quite to the contrary Mr Wong was certainly no scatterbrain; these law book-lined walls with things corkboard like pinned  upon them muffled the sizzling sounds of the frying of this and showed what to he'd cook for that next order of that. As book lined walls go, they certainly looked more interesting than the fake wall of books they sit our local politico down in front of for their Sunday morning TV news show interviews...

"You here to apologize?"

Mr. Wong asked (in his very old Chinese food cook total-broken english accent). This question surprised me as it was almost as if he'd not even noticed I'd walked into his kitchen; I had done so as quietly as one could through a rickety old screen backdoor. Not that I was trying to sneak in, but rather to show a little consideration or try to, as I had walked in fully expecting to ask the old man for yet another favour again... To open, review and rewrite our contract, once more.

"You owe me apology"

Puzzled me... But, for certain he had it part right. Afterall It was merely three maybe four weeks earlier that we were at the point of tearing the fourth draft of his silly little contract to shreds. Barely a month since I'd blamed the interpretation of this barely legible legal scribble for all the pains I'd been feeling in the pit of my stomach. A few short days since the thought that I'd been somewhat mistreated by this ill-legally advised contractually belly hurting agreement had began to subside. I owed Mr. Wong an apology? I don't think so, I thought out loud to myself. I'd simply come in to see if Mr Wong might polish up a clause or two; help define this contract's applications to the more recent days developments. You know revise it to suite the needs of this man that lives quietly, perhaps selfishly inside me. The man who has recently laid claim and set up shop in... my belly.

"You eat noodles"

He scooped a bowl's worth of greasy beef and flat noodles; two dolla extra beef as I liked it into a reusable tin foil take-out container; plunked that down on what counted for the only table in the corner of the kitchen. It could've look like law desk of sorts, if one squinted; swivel chair squeezed too tightly between it and the wall, an old stool for seating one's customers across from the swiveling chair. The last time I sat here, she stood beside me as Mr. Wong and I spoke the words on this contract right through. This time more alone, I grabbed a fork, and not really knowing why, as I wasn't quite hungry, started in on Mr Wong's noodles.

"You a stupid young man"

What? Here I'd come all the way across town, well actually, just 'round the corner but all the same I had got up and out of my apartment, made the effort to give this half lawyer and not half bad Chinese Food cook a little more business I couldn't afford but would promise to pay for a little bit later, just like before... And the noodles? They were certainly oh so delicious.

"You say sorry to Mr, Wong"

Pausing for a second, well actually not pausing but plunging my now growing hunger into another forkful of noodles. I couldn't help start to think about the first time we'd come by here to this law office; a little emotionally dishevelled, a bit ragged around these edges we'd been trying to connect together. Bemused at times, befuddled at others; suffering the bunglesomes that had befallen us as I figure we'd been trying to sort out and set quite a tightrope like common companionship set of objectives together. On that first visit, as we stutter stepped through the old painted but peeling screen door, I kind of felt we were grasping at straws. I recall the door bending a bit at the bottom and I got back to eating my noodles.

"You a happy man today"

And he was right, at this moment I was. Being well fed in the back of his kitchen... yes. I was happier than I had been before. I certainly didn't have everything that I'd wanted, many parts of our friendship not specifically covered in this contract; things perhaps not anticipated correctly nor considered thoroughly enough through to the passage of good, no make that great times. Those things that most contracts never can cover as there are thousands of different ways things can play themselves out over time (great times n' all); And you know, as for playing, well, we likely had many a ways left to play through all of these yet unknown things, n' all.

"You say sorry"

So, with a satisfied sigh, I finished my noodles then stood and quite officiously bowed in Mr. Wong's direction. I mumbled a heartfelt apology then reached into my pocket a fished through my wallet. I left a five and some change on the corner of what could only be described as the best law desk in the city. This five and some change counted for about half what a bowl of greasy beef noodles might have cost if I'd entered through the front doors that served of the entrance to the Wonton n' Chinese food part of Mr. Wong's business. On top of this poor payment I gave him a compliment, describing his wisdom as being on par with say, Confucius and told I'd be bring more business his way. As I turned to start leaving he stopped me... and said.

"Confucius good man make lousy noodles"

As I walked out the garage lane alleyway and back onto the road that separated her street from mine. I gave all of this and our contract, not a second, third nor even a fourth thought; but what was more likely the thousandth of thoughts I'd had giving it over these days, weeks and a month. Just a little desperation left in my thinking, I did realize, I was happy maybe even happier than before. And she too, I now recalled had been giving many an indication that she was too happier.

I let thoughts wander freely read through the original wording. Reading the now ancient only one paged, even with pictures document in my minds eye and concluded, yes, It was all there pretty much word for word and in plain black and white... Mr. Wong had prepared it as well as his noodles, not a clause had been left missing, nothing really much more could be added, taken out or re-worded. Oh for certain at least many ways left to get through as things yet to come; but with my belly now full of those greasy great noodles and a new beefy pep in my step. I was pretty confident, this well prepared, thorough quite precisely written in the back of a Wonton Restaurant contract... did indeed, have our continuing friendship well covered.

With all do respect Mr. Wong, indeed I am sorry, oh and thanks for that noodle.

A sudden flush feeling flooded across my furled brow on the drive into, just where is it I'm off to again these days, oh right, the coffee shop-office. The place we all seem to work at this juncture of the 21st century. My coffee shop-office, a sweet barn of a room called The Grind. So, it was while off to the grind this morning, that Bran Van 3000's "Drinkin In LA" comes across my oh-so-mixed up and happy Aereo Speedwagon playlist. "Hi, my name is stereo Mike…"

"...What the hell am I doin' drinking in LA at…" brought back a memory, not a best memory; certainly not the highest of heights of my life, my drinking career, nor my career for that matter. Just another little almost lost little memory. A bit of fun had, three maybe four lifetimes ago (as if anyone is really counting). Certainly long before I'd settled into my first, second, my third and final attempt to become a New Yorker. After which, it would be a demand that LA become an enemy state of mind. It was my second trip to LA. Stupidly, I was silly enough to think I'd had the place figured out by then.

We'd been given the opportunity to travel to LA to visit the ex-First Woman Prime Minister (of Canada) Kim Campbell in the home they'd given her as a big ol' thank you for being the First Woman Prime Minister (of Canada), and then promptly losing them the election. One of those, quick, get the guy/gal out of here before anyone notices, before she get's lynched by the faithful plump n' juicy patronage appointments. And then there I was, here in LA, little ol' me, all suited up in his best Dick Van Dyke style skinny pants suit, ready to roll with the rollers, sipping wine and munching on canopé in the house of the Canadian atché to this or that cultural woo-ha-ha or something like that. The complete lack of stars was telling; I would learn later that night… there were more glorious stars in LA than I'd originally counted on.

Now, when I end up at a suaré such as this, one of two many me's is bound not to show; I'll either be you know, that guy the one standing over there, you know (all by himself), or the other guy, gob-handing and yickity-yacking with any and all of the anyones and everyones willing to listen to whatever gibberish is dripping outta a mismatched brain n' mouth at any particular given moment. If I recall, at this particular suaré; I came as the all by himself... guy. Almost lost behind the enormous girth of one of my new business partners, and the sheer stupidity of the other who'd dragged me across the country so they could canoodle with their inbred-industrial money-burnin' associates in the Film & TV Industry (oh my, are my under-bitter-pants still showing)? - If I further recall, although not gob handing or spouting gibberish, I was on it and generally having a good time quietly talking... at least to the staff.

Having been recently un-married and singled, and in LA and younger than most that had showed up to this suaré and almost as stupid as I'd ever be… I was indeed ogling the one and only almost babe that had appeared. The ex-First Woman Prime Minister (of Canada)'s parties didn't draw too great a bevy of, are they broads or dames? Even though it was the quieter me who'd shown up, I was able to pull off a few manoeuvres and soon found myself in a wonderfully pleasant conversation with, if I further recall one of ol' Kimmy's personal aides. I have only a vague recollection of this young lady, her age, name and number escape me. All I recall is that the conversation was bright n' lively, she had a similar suspicion of the crowd we were in and… I'm pretty sure she was a brunette.

I haven't a clue how it happened; I guess I'd let drop that I had great later plans. Whether I asked her or she simply decided to tag along is beyond me; likely the latter as I'm dreadful at "the pick up line"… I think mine has worked all of once. So, let's call her Alice (for the sake of this story) and I ended up in my semi-slick rented Mustang convertible and off to you'll never guess where.

The first time I went to LA, I didn't have the slightest clue. My Eastern Seaboard / Midwestern Toronto upbringing left me to assume that all cities were the same and, if you simply looked hard enough you'd find a nice little neighbourhood, compacted with this restaurant and that bar and this little grouping of things you could do before sauntering off to the next neighbourhood right there just up or down the street. I think our cab driver was stunned when we asked him to drop us off on, in no place in particular, along the Sunset Strip, anywhere, you know, where the action is, was or would be… he dropped us at something like 10,678; after walking (quite) a bit, we found a place for a beer at, like, dude 8,456 Sunset Boulevard  This second time around in LA, I rented the car, the semi-slick Mustang convertible.

So later that evening, after the suaré, here's "Alice" and I cruising the freeways of LA, towards, somewhere out of the city at super high speeds. Before travelling, I'd conducted some semi-extensive research and found where the ravers would be while I was in LA. What this recently singled, boneheaded, early 30 sumpthin' was thinking… well that's a whole other story. Maybe Alice had thought it might be fun to help this silly man from out of town drive out of the city to search for the third dry lake bed to the left of some place or another in search of his these kids, the ravers…

It took us what felt like hours to find my kids, perhaps twenty of them dancing by their make-shift car stereo super-sound system, while juggling glow sticks and marvelling how this Dick VanDyke of a Canadian guy and some sweet woman named Alice had managed to maneuver themselves in such a manner as get a Mustang up and over the ruts on the roads leading to the dry lake so they could crash their little private party out in the pitch black middle of the night in the absolute middle of nowhere somewhere north of the City of LA. - We were kind of surprised ourselves I guess; and pretty much turned right around.

I recall quite fondly the quiet ride back to the City. A couple of lost "once were kids" in an open roofed car, laughing to themselves a wee little bit; not really talking likely totally exhausted and dying to get back to wherever it was they could simply shower and jump into bed. And, it's not what you're thinking… I dropped her in some lonely suburb out on the freeways, she pointed me in the direction of Santa Monica and thanked me for a wonderful evening. I sped away halfway tired and thinking how lucky I was to meet such a wonderfully nice person… thinking of the stars so damned close that you'd almost felt you might need to put up the top of your opened roofed car that you'd forgot now was rented. A now totally rough road ruined semi-slick Mustang convertible, covered in dry Lake Bed (with luckily no dents in the paint job). I'd likely forgotten how how close I'd come to ruining a moment by dropping the ecstasy I'd smuggle across the border on my way to Kim, the ex-First Woman Prime Minister's party… nope, just a nice drive back to my hotel room, to shower and sleep and then hit what was then the AOL chat boards to find out where best to look for "the kids" and find next night's wild, fun goofy little party…

…I found them. Or, perhaps… they found me.

Haven't you figured it out yet? Determined just where it is you are most likely to meet the best of the best of your best friends? Undoubtedly you've met great friends at school, often life long friends. You've likely met good friends on the job, oftentimes you'll even remain friends long after you or he quits, or that sorry ass of yours, get's itself fired… Unless of course you're the prayin' type fella, or have another some such hobby, the best friends you'll meet will most likely be the peoples you meet at your local bar. If you go to bars religiously, then this, well it's a no brainer, right?

I've always had more than one bar I'd call my local on the go at anyone time. As a matter of fact I have always had at least four or five locals on the go at any given time. Just the other day, I realized I had become a regular at a grimy little Irish bar at 23rd and 1st Avenue; a wee little beautifully dingy hole in the wall corridor bar, goes by the name O’Connel's. I'd become a regular there simply as it so happened to be right across from the NYU Dental Center. Since I'm there once a week these days, why wouldn't I have a "hey how ya doin', how are the teeth treatin' you today ol' chum?" local to check into before and outta after these weekly trips to the dentist?… And, the good folks behind the corridor of a bar at O’Connel's offers me up a free shot of Jameson when I pop in post-op condition; face swollen and stuffed with cotton... (don't tell my dentist I'm suckin' on a straw 5 minutes after... you know, dry socket n' all).

But, this little ditty isn't just about the locals; it is about one of my most favorite locals, a truly wonderful friend we all call, Doc; a finer Irish-Bostonian you'll likely never meet just below Midtown Manhattan, near the Madison Square Park, Flatiron district if you'd like to be exacting. 

Another of my locals in Manhattan, a place called the Swan, has been a Manhattan local for over six years now. My original New York-ex-girlfriend introduced me to the place mere moments after I had met her, just before I considered I'd moved down and well before I had a permanent address in The City. So, I’ve been swinging from The Swan's German taps, been a local since well, before I was even a local myself (hey, that's kinda sweet). Sadly, I frequent the Swan less and less these days, I mean, it’s not the at least twice a week plus once for a month or so for their Saturday Night Tanny-Parade as it once was… These days I frequent the Swan… primarily to see Doc. 

Doc’s is an older gentleman and to be certain, the term gentleman survives today specifically to describe gentlemen like Doc. He’s older, but not that much older than the oldest fella I call friend; I believe he’s 69... let’s get these facts straight and the stats out of the way already... Doc is 69, he’s a Vietnam Vet, he has been awarded both a Purple Heart and a Bronze Star [for my Canadian friends, the Bronze Star is the third highest decoration one can achieve in US military service]… He’s a Vet, he’s a retired New York City plastic surgeon, he’s gay, oh and (shhhh) keep this to yourself, he is the finest Republican I have ever had the pleasure of meeting, to date. 

Doc and I had struck up our ongoing conversation long before that disastrous day in the city Ken Burns' brother Ric calls "The City on the Edge of Tomorrow"… Doc and I became very good friends to some extent on the basis of what some idiot might call a courageous, non-homophobic ability to kiss him directly on the lips each time I saw him, just before we'd say hello; and a shared ability to carry on a conversation that went way beyond the limits of Rush Limbaugh into the nether worlds of what another idiot might call the extreme right-wing. These nether-worlds where Doc and I would meet on the great plains of democratic enlightenment, (non-partisan, small "d" democratic to be sure). Doc is the true American argument… 

I mean, c’mon think about it for a moment. He’s not only gay, a very-decorated Vietnam Vet, a Republican; he’s also from the neighborhood from which that cursed family tried to hoodwink this country into the belief that a bunch of booze running, far too rich Irish locals, a bunch of loud mouthed to good for their own good… eh hem, I'm sorry; my apology... Doc is from Boston Massachusetts (a state I cannot not pronounce, cannot spell nor truly figure out).

The brief history of Doc as I have managed to glean from those rare moments he'd talk about himself, reveal those secrets far worse than that he is… a Republican.... He was born to a working class Irish family, up there in Massachusetts, in other words, he's from Boston. And, he has a weird accent to prove it. Haven’t heard all much of his childhood story, we'll just assume it was everything we'd seen in the movies about, being from… a working class neighborhood Boston, adding on the clichés of being a gay child in a working class neighborhood may afford our imaginations. Doc got himself through med-school in particularly patriotic fashion, perhaps peculiar for the times. It was back in the sixties; being from the working class neighborhood, he knew, he'd have to serve his country. An old college professor of his who was stationed at some camp down in South Carolina, got him assigned to the medical core. When that sheltered assignment was up… he might have been re-assigned to say infantry in Germany, or logistic in Korea, but he requested to go directly to Nam, specifically to continue his medical education… and to serve a country he once loved more than he may do so today. 

He honestly hasn't told me too too much about being a warrior-medic, come doctor. He’s mentioned that he saw action, a lot of action. He once told me, somewhat later one evening a bizarre story, that time of the evening when our stories became more bizarre, about setting up camp near some beautiful cove. He and his buddies would often swim off the day's battle strewn blood stains in the cove… he'd alluded to how he had once rescued a small boy from the currents and the sharks in this cove. How he stitched up the little boy after the boy had been bitten (or cut on the rocks, it was never quite clear which). I would noticed how Doc's eyes would well up a bit each time he told me a newer fresher version of the story he never did finish telling me. Just another unfinished story from Doc, told over the bizarre later hours... Perhaps one day he'll finish that story and just how and why he was awarded the Bronze Star, another of Doc's deep-darkies. We do have an agreement that he will one day get to these...  

Indeed, it's all a bit sketchy, but he did return from Nam, eventually alive and as intact as anyone else who arrived back from that story... and skippity-skipping past whole whack of stories I have only had the pleasure to partially hear; Doc gotta a get into med-school-free veteran education, located in NYC and became quite the renowned plastic surgeon in this one place outside of say, LA where plastic surgeon-ing is renowned and most definitely quite financially rewarding. I won't tell Doc and mine's secrets, but I can report, on the proof upon seeing his old apartment, he was indeed living the lifestyle one might imagine a 1960's through 70's gay retired plastic surgeon could be living... yappy little dogs, his living room, wall to wall to wall mirrors, little glass figurines, a warhol there, another fabulously ugly 1970's piece of way too valuable for how it looked piece of art over there. Kind of a Halston-esq museum cum shag-rugged dream palace.

For those unclear, Halston was in many circles the King of NYC in the late 60’s early 70’s, his fashions and scents put him leapfrog years above that silly white haired boy who lived in a loft he called the factory down in what Doc would simply snub as the heroin ridin dirty part of town they called… the "Art World" (in reality, just a couple of blocks from mine and Doc's local). For his time, Halston was NYC and Doc’s old apartment, every inch n' detail of it stank sweetly of a Halston enriched interior design scent… more mirrored walls in the bedroom, zebra print bed sheets, red shag deepest of the deep pile carpets and did I already mention those hundreds upon thousands little glass figurines… everywhere. The only sad thing in Doc's happy place, were those prerequisite two cute yappy dogs who seemed to have survived to this day from the 70's, but were likely descendants of the originals, were all yellowed, mangy and mottled at their ripe old 16 and 18 years of age. 

Doc once told me a story of how he'd been pulled over by cops in Toronto while breaking red lights in his big old solid gold colored Rolls Royce… Niagara Falls and Toronto had been one of the regular trips he and his pal Trudy, the widow of the scientist who invented the no more tears formula and sold it to Johnson and Johnson would take together. I can only assume he'd met Trudy in his plastic surgeon-ing chair. Another regular trip he'd take with his good friend Trudy was to Villa Desta (along with Donatello et al)… They were once a year winter regulars, I guess locals at the Bermuda Beach Club… Doc introduced me to Trudy once, and to many other of his very good friends. One fella an un-named Restaurant chain magnate who gets chauffeured around town in classic, 70’s era stretch Mercedes Benz limo. Doc has told me all these stories along with many others I'd listen to while eating the leftovers off his plate at the Swan, our local. AND here's one thing, maybe the best thing I love about Doc. Not in any one of these introductions did I ever feel belittled, subrogated to a lower class; Doc introduced me to his friends all in a manner (a true gentlemanly manner) where I described simply as his friend, a good friend. And Doc, my dear friends, as much as many another friend of mine, knows the value of a friendship… and I shall leave it at that, as Doc might say himself.

Actually, no maybe I won't… Here’s a story of good friendship. Last Christmas, I wandered into the Swan in, let's simply call it a forgettable state. Doc gave me the greatest gifts any friend could give another… and a compliment I've held dear ever since. I had a very big pile of problems on my plate… I wandered into the Swan and went through these problems, in a friendly non-complaining way with my good friend Doc… Gordon, he said, you don't need to be in such a state, or seek therapy… you don't have a problem, he said, you just have to do what I do and take time off whenever you're feeling out of control. His kind advice on one what I had begun to imagine the bigger of the problems I was to simply describe. On another he...

"Gordon", he said, "go to the NYU Dental center (across from my vet), on first Ave, they're cheap and they will fix those problems in your mouth…" "Gordon" he said, "...you and Jennifer (my then original NYC-ex) will remain good friends…" "...and, you'll meet someone soon..." That night we actually did something quite rare and left our local together. We walked as we talked, up Park Avenue, stopping at what could only be assumed were other people's locals. Him drinking too much, me holding him upright as best I could. It was one of those truer almost beautiful moments in a friendship; him spending a bit of extra time with a friend that was a bit blue... around Christmas time.

The compliment came a bit harshly at first. He chided me (as gentlemen with manners sometimes do): "Gordon", he said, my more Scottish name rolling and broiling through a by now far more pronounced and way more working class Boston Irish brogue... "...the nicest thing about you is that you do not present your problems as problems… things you'd like to be solved by your friends.. You do not have drama, you have small issues; and issues are so much more easily attended to by your friends". I took this compliment, stuck it in my heart and promised myself I have stuck with this manner of addressing my problems, er "issues" with my dear friends until this day... (I think). 

Doc has issues himself; he presents them to me as issues, I discuss them with him rationally, and while I am with him, I refuse to express the concern and dread that I may actually feel at the moment he describes them. I offer a fresh bit maybe even a full dollop of empathy, at least as much as I might, depending on the problem. Doc and I are more often than not found smiling at our problems... Then, I give him a kiss on the lops, walk out of the Swan and onto the L train… with just enough said about that. 

I've now only a vague memory of the many things I wanted to get up in this story about Doc when I started to write it. I may have wanted to write about those non-arguments over politics and the general state of the Union he and I loved to have (over which Doc and I have buried hours). He’s a Republican, I'm a Canadian and we'll leave it at that...  In the end we do see eye to eye on about 90% all issues, and share both 2 of our 3 most favorite Presidents… we argue only at the point where he believes in a more Gomorrah-Interpretation of these United States of America  where as I still see a country, an empire, a new epoch, not yet truly beginning to take it’s true shape in the beautiful history of mankind… Funny thing is Doc and I will argue intensely while holding almost exactly the same point of view... and talk happily while disagreeing vehemently... friendship.

I wanted to write about these conversations, instead though, perhaps I've begun to realize, that although the stuff one “talks” about with his friends may be important. It really is the beautiful opportunity to just sit and talk with your friends, share the shit, the luck of the Irish. Having someone close, dear and on more or less the wavelength of the day is what makes it all have it's own particularly special and spectacular meaning… 

[Original Postscript: I take pride in giving my younger friend bits and pieces of dare I say wisdom yet, AND I revel in the advice and examples of their lives, their bits of living they give me… My older friends, the Docs, the Paul, the Charlies to name but a few... I am honored, truly honored, blessed to have their friendship, and to have access to what I see as their most definitely appropriately called... wisdom… I am beholden to passing the wise advice they give me onto these younger friend of mine, maybe someday I'll be old enough to deliver it correctly]

Meanwhile, I continue to live as, or like an Irish… Potato..