I sat at the small round table for two, vaguely looking over the dinner menu, as a Saturday night crooner was trying way too hard, her voice straining awkwardly with a song that I neither recognized, nor cared to hear.

No, I take that back. She was eager. And as professional as could be expected. She wore the part--a silver-sequined skin-tight dress that glinted in the street lamps that lighted the sidewalk--and sang the part, I suppose. But I would've preferred to listen to some oh-woe-is-me wispy pixie draped in a black silk shawl billowing in the breeze meandering off the park across the street, soft-talking her latest attempt at an I'm-a-downtrodden-screwed-over-oppressed-womyn-and-I-hate-men anthem.

Yeah, I was in that kind of mood.

Not sure why. A lot was going on around me, though it wasn't a particularly noisy evening. Nor did it have any kind of 'edge' to it. Just another summer Saturday night at Hamilton Park. Cars passed. Neighborhood residents walked by. A few streets away, a motorcycle engine reved. I watched tennis players getting in a few late night sets just as the day's humidity lifted for the evening.

And I just wanted a plate of pasta.

I hadn't been hungry even a half-hour ago, but now I had a feeling that if I didn't eat something soon I'd be regreting it around the time Saturday Night Live went on. Then I'd undoubtedly half-fulfill that hunger with Haagen-Daz ice cream, or a bagel and cream cheese. So I ordered a plate of Rigatoni Bolognese. I'd get the pasta I wanted and a little taste of meat, which I also desired.

My waiter proved to be quite unenthusiastic. It wasn't an issue since I'd only ordered a Corona and Diet Coke, and the aforementioned rigatoni. But I wondered why he seemed so apathetic. Sure it was a Saturday night, and few people want to work then--except for, of course, restaurant and bar staffers, I'd imagine. It could've been a Monday night, which would be less busy for him, but bring in less compensation. It's either-or.

That wasn't particularly relevatory, since most decisions are either-or. Or both, if you're really fortunate. None of all this took away from the fact that I was enjoying the convenience of sitting at a neighborhood restaurant, among people but happily alone, drinking my favorite beer and favorite soda. Even the singing had grown better than tolerable. In fact, I rather enjoyed the crooner's rendition of "Killing Me Softy With His Song."

"Strumming my pain with his fingers..." What a brilliant way to start a song.

The rest of the lyrics lingered in my mind as I watched, at the table next to mine, an absolutely adorable baby girl trying her best to sing a few bars of "Itsy Bitsy Spider." That, and the rigatoni, made the evening feel complete.

​You can't ask for too much more, I suppose.

​#HamiltonPark #JerseyCity #alfredcmartino

When my pen stopped scribbling what was pure brilliance (wink, wink) onto the pages of my writing journal, I noticed a Rolling Stones' song playing from the bar's music speakers. At least, I think it was. It wasn't one I recognized, but the vocals sounded like a young Mick Jagger. Back when his voice was velvety smooth, singing the blues.

My waitress had a nose ring and I couldn't help but look at it -- not stare, mind you, but just gaze at it wondering why she'd choose an accessory that took away from what was a rather pleasant face, framed by a generous amount of curling brown hair (she vaguely minded me of Monica Lewinsky) -- while I ordered a cheeseburger ("No redness in the middle, please."), topped with grilled onions, and lettuce and tomato on the side.

She stared me straight in the eyes, as waitresses are wont to do, and said, cheerfully, "I'll get that for you," as waitresses are wont to do, then left me to consider whether the hint of a wink and subtlest of smile she offered after she took a few steps towards the kitchen then looked over her shoulder at me, was an invitation to consider something more from her, or had it already triggered a subconscious (and, now, conscious) decision on my part to bump her tip up from my standard twenty percent.

Unexpectedly, when my order arrived, I found it entirely wrong. Definitely a bit of redness in the center of my burger. Certainly no grilled onions. Not a leaf of lettuce or slice of tomato on the side -- or anywhere else near my plate, for that matter. The mistakes could have, of course, been made by the kitchen. I'd hoped it wasn't my Monica who erred. Unless, of course, it was because that last look over her shoulders towards me left her so flummoxed that I should be thankful she brought a cheeseburger of any kind.

But I didn't bother to point out that my 'order placed' and my 'order received' were quite different. After all, the music was interesting and the burger did taste good. Most importantly, my Monica -- and the waitress who took over her shift, and who could've passed for Michelle Phillips from the early days of The Mamas & the Papas -- let me be, alone at a table in the corner of the bar, to contemplate more pressing concerns.

And maybe that's why I kept any complaints to myself. Because I really didn't have more pressing concerns at that moment.

And that was a good thing.

I wrote the following on Sunday, March 13, 1994. I kind of like it:

"In the darkened silence, I am reminded of human obscurity. There are those people, of which I am one, that live with a restless animal spirit within their body trying desperately to break out for success and freedom and fame. Yet, at the same time, the means for escape does not exist, or, perhaps, it is unavailable. Nevertheless, the spirit scratches and claws, at times energizing me to reach, with the last of my breath, for celebrity, though often draining me of confidence and desire, leaving me huddled within myself in my own darkness."

That I'm old enough to have a midlife crisis, has given me a midlife crisis.

​Jesus In The Sun
 
Spied a wayward woman with a crooked, quirky smile.
Singing to herself and spinning dancing all the while.
Knew right away as she swayed through the fair,
Drenched from a passing rain,
She might be held in my heart, but never be claimed.

Stepped up alongside her and offered my name.
Had time to share, did she want to do the same?
With a ballerina’s turn, she looked into my eyes,
And reached out a hand.
You can follow if you like, she said, follow if you can.

She gave me a look that left my legs unsteady,
Asking me, gently, Are you sure you’re ready,
To release your mind, leave your fears far behind,
And all your worries?
Then join me now on my beautiful journey.
​
Without waiting for an answer, she ran off with a start.
The downpour eased, dark clouds drifted apart.
Calling to me, she said, I’m searching for something,
Looking for someone.
And when they appear, we’ll find Jesus In The Sun.

Butterflies flutter on an open flower.
Rainbow mist after an August shower.
Newborn sleeps at her mother’s cheek.
Midnight moon alights a mountain peak.
A kiss before dying, goodbye whispered.
Raptured lovers, desires untethered.
Silver sparkles on an infinite ocean.
Written words of lost emotions.

I stood all alone in the middle of the still crowded fair.
And watched the dazed faces of everyone everywhere.
As they marched through the haze of revelation.
Feeling Jesus In The Sun.
Seeing Jesus In the Sun; Beauty is Jesus In The Sun.

​
2018  Alfred C. Martino

​I have to wonder if US soccer player Megan Rapinoe's anger regarding the nomination of 18 year-old Venezuelan Deyna Castellanos as one of the three finalists as Women's Player of the Year isn't misguided. After all, the initial list of ten nominees (which obviously included Castellanos) was decided upon by six all-time great female players (including perhaps the greatest US women's player, Mia Hamm). Therefore, shouldn't distaste for Castellanos inclusion have been voiced when the list of ten was announced?

And if not at that time, then is it really that unreasonable to imagine--given FIFA's process for deciding the final three is through open voting by national team coaches, national team captains, journalists and fans--the voting might result in an unlikely candidate like Castellanos, particularly when Venezuelan fans could have chosen her in far greater numbers than other candidates' fans, just as South American coaches, captains and journalists might have voted overwhelmingly for the single South American player among the ten nominees?

Finally, Rapinoe's suggestion that FIFA -- "Old, male, and stale" -- should have stepped in to take away Castellanos' nomination is ridiculous and would have been grossly unfair. Imagine the criticism the organization would have, rightly, come under if the "old, stale males" at FIFA had decided they knew better than coaches, captains, journalists and fans who should, and shouldn't, make it as a Women's Player of the Year finalist.

#meganrapinoe #deynacastellanos #fifa #womensplayeroftheyear

This past weekend, I was sitting on the Jersey City Pier taking in some sun. I stared out onto the water and wrote down these words:

Shimmering suncaps, flecks of gold.
Ceaseless currents, constant motion.
Swelling, sinking, undulating, rising.
Dusting, bursting, then disappearing.

2017 Alfred C. Martino

​#shortpoems #water #songlyrics #alfredcmartino

Yesterday afternoon, my Daisy crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

I remember fondly, fifteen years ago, when I was considering adopting my very first dog, visiting the home of a foster family taking care of a trio of adorable German Shepherd three-month-olds. As I kneeled down to get an eye-level view of the pups, the female--a spindly and delicate, tan brindle girl--crawled under me for a reprieve from her larger, more rambunctious brothers. And like the guy who suddenly has the prettiest girl in the bar saying hello to him, I melted. I named her Daisy, after the character Daisy Buchanan of my favorite novel, The Great Gatsby.
​
She (along with her canine sister Sara) went to work with me every day thereafter and lied down at my feet at night when I was writing or watching TV. She was athletic and intelligent, and as friendly a dog to humans and canines as I've ever come across.

Over the past year or so, it pained me greatly to see age break down her body. Now, she has joined my beloved Sara in a place where the two of them can play and bark and run free. Love ya my little ‘Mookie’… I miss you dearly…

Headlights dim until dawn.
Skin glistening, transient love.
In the glow of dashboard blue.
Forever memories, however true.

Kiss my ear, you offer a smile.
Close my eyes, for just a while.
I'm yours tonight, with a hush.
Tomorrow may come, now is us.

Feel of your warmth makes me shiver.
Sweet taste of your lips, a hint of quiver.
Linger inside your soft embrace.
Steal night moments, forgive by day.

2017 Alfred C. Martino

​I wish I could sing, but I can't. I wish I had musical ability, but I don't. Maybe some artist out there would love to make these the lyrics to their next fabulous single. I can only hope.