His dark curly ringlets, bronze hard body, primitive work out regimen and voracious appetite for eggplant parm fed into my fantasy. I believed the neighborhood Apollo must be Roman. It turned out he was (Russian) Jewish and really balls-out funny, and never wore shirts, which worked for me, because when he did they clashed with his busy shorts. As his hair grew out, people at work began to call him, The Dude. Most especially himself. Like the mayor of Venice, folks on the street knew him by sight because he was as friendly with grandma as he was with the kids from the hood as he was with Susie Q. He'd make everyone laugh and make everyone feel special. He was the hairy chested Jew with the 'fro and open shirt who ate at the taco truck and spent his three-hour lunch break walking around town. Because of or despite being an urban Thoreau with ADD in loud prints, women would throw themselves at him. Usually women with one thing on their minds. Learning to surf. He didn't actually surf, but his collection of cute Japanese souvenirs from his ex he wasn't over was endearing. Sometimes Aussies looking for a place to stay tried to move in. He often dated women who wound up preggers with the next dude they dated. It's a jungle out there.
He cooked dozens of fried chicken breasts every day, and he'd whip out his gallon jug of oregano and Walmart-sized mustard squeeze bottle to flavor it. He had no need for plates, because he ate standing up in front of a greasy frying pan with a knife. Fuck forks. He'd spend hours doing push-ups and lifting heavy arrangements of chairs after his twenty-mile bike rides. He was the guy perpetually clearing his head. He liked when I called him my mimbo. Yet, he had studied Shakespeare at Oxford, studied poetry in college and had written a Jane Austen parody. Night Call Nurses posters covered his walls and his old computer with the flying toasters screensaver gave way to really tight dialogue. I thought his minimalism was very zen, and he always had records playing. Usually surf when he was writing things for Trimark and Corman, et al. He was a real writer, because he was a hunt and pecker. Boink. He was perfect for me, because he wasn't serious about anything and we never thought it would last.
One phase led to another, and we both became more serious about the meaning of life, work and our paths. That was after we rejected an invitation during a meeting to create a "reality" show based on our TV pilot. The actually real producer hated 'my' character, but asked me to play 'myself'. "You're caustic, abrasive, outrageous, and in my opinion completely unsympathetic. Audiences will love you or loath you." The producer was a visionary. I felt misunderstood. Firstly, she's not mean. She's just honest. She's a sharp emancipated character who won't be held down by societal conditioning. And secondly, it's not based on me. The first draft was written before I came along." "I don't care one way or another. Do we have a deal?" Reality TV? Exploitative drama? Screw that, we thought. Idealists we were. Which accidentally led to a fulfilling and mystical path.
Raven's an adoring, thoughtful and attentive father for which I am extremely grateful. We're well into our second decade, and I Still Forget He's Not Roman. That outta be the name of something you'd find at Toys of Eros in Ptown.
Happy Birthday baby! Love you!
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