single-handed

Matt Sesow has just one arm. The other one he lost when he was eight.
In a plane crash. He wasn't on the plane. He was in a corn field in Lincoln, Nebraska. Playing. Out of nowhere came a plane. And part of it crashed into his left arm. He lost it. And no one has found it since.

As if such an event isn't enough for the guy, what made matters worse was the fact that the plane picked his left arm to crash into. Somehow it overlooked the right arm and plowed straight into the left. And up until the time he was eight, playing in that corn field,Matt was known to be left-handed.

I never even noticed. At least not right away. Each day he'd smile his way past my cubicle, stopping briefly with a happy hello. He'd spiral his way up the staircase and take his spot seated above my head in the Q&A loft.

He's just the nicest!

That's what we share in common. Matt and me. I don't know about the "nicest" part - but that we're both left-handed. What's a little different now, is that I still am. Matt's not. After Matt lost his arm he had to learn to be right-handed. I can imagine it all must have been so tough. You can see it in his paintings.

Which is why went came went to the art gallery in the first place.
To see Matt Sesow's paintings.

Matt didn't learn to paint to prove to the world that he could work that right arm. Oh no, he picked up painting for more noble reasons. He wanted to meet a girl. The soon to be then, Missus Sesow saw herself to be an artist (<--­­­ yeah, try saying that 5 times fast!). So back then, Matt signed up for class. And now his work was in a gallery. And so were we - Lucas, Whisk Boy, and me. His work really is impressive. It's all very beautiful and sad, funny and fascinating, silly and scary….there's no reason for me to try to put words to it all, when his painting seem to speak to it all quite clearly. If you don't believe me, stop reading my stupid story and see for yourself: http://www.sesow.com.

Later after the opening, Lucas and I met up with Tara & Co(workers). at a bar.

"We need to talk to you about something," Tara started. "It's about how you spend you free time."

"Word on the street is that you played ball in high school," one co-worker continued.

"Uh…JUNIOR high school?" I told him. "That was SIXTEEN years ago."

"Perfect! You're way ahead of a lot of the girls," he said. "I'm sure you could teach them a thing or two."

"Like how to pick daisy's behind first base in right field? I don't think so," I answered. "I can hit and I can run pretty well, but ask anyone at Alconbury High School, I cannot catch worth crap. Besides that, I don't have a mitt."

I should have known that was a too easy excuse. Someone's father coached a high school baseball team. Left-hander, right-hander, it didn't matter. He was sure he could hook me up.

So I decided to further explain my situation.

"I catch and throw with the same arm," I told them embarassed.

I am the only left-hander in my family. In fact, the only other left-hander we know about was my great, great uncle Chet and he died ten years ago. So as far as we know, I'm the only one left (literally!).

When we were way young, my brothers used to let me play ball with them, but I was never allowed to pitch, only catch. I'd catch with their right-hander mitts. I got pretty good at catching, but no one seemed to care that my awkward return throw rarely traveled further than a few feet past my feet. They at least met up to my brothers' expectations.

"She's a girl," Glenn would explain. "She's supposed to throw like a girl!"

Later in the 8th grade, I joined the softball team. Not because I was good, or I liked it, or anything of the sort. I did it because of a boy.

Matt Liston was our baseball team's star player and it was important to him that his girlfriend supported his interests. He was very sweet that, Mister Liston, and after his game he would come over to the girl's diamond, all sweaty and dirty, sit on the bleachers, cheer on the team…and watch me pick daisies. Try as I might, I could not convince him to teach me how to spit chewing tobacco….
He was concerned with my catching situation, and tried to help me recondition. He took time after our practices to catch and throw with me a little more. He couldn't decide which was more likely - which arm had a better chance at getting better at whatever.

It really didn't seem to matter though, my left arm just seemed to want to do it all.

So that's when we decided we would let it do just that.

"Catch the ball with your left hand," he told me. "And then drop your mitt and throw it back with your left hand as well."

It wasn't the best solution – it was pretty awkward and clumsy, but by the end of the season, it at least afforded me the privilege of occasionally subbing for an injured left or center fielder. He was so proud of my progress...

Anyway, flashback to the bar….

While my mind gets busy floating down memory lane, Tara & Co. are still busy laughing at my tossing talents and speculating over the impact my handicap might have on the team.

That's when I realized how silly I sounded.

We had just left a gallery where a guy named Matt painted everything with one arm. He had lived over twenty years doing things single-handedly, and I was sniffling over my stupid, softball throwing uni-arm.

"When's practice?" I asked.

This Tuesday, they told me.

I think I'm supposed to be there.

On the drive home I realized, I had just been conned into signing on for the softball season. Tuesdays and Thursdays all summer long…damn. Driving in this morning I realized, I had just been conned into signing on for the softball season. Damn, Tuesdays and Thursdays all summer long…
Maybe it will be a rainy season.

Just because one might find beauty in a brush,
doesn't mean that a miracle will happen with a mitt.

After all, we're talking athletics here, not art.
And in this situation, I think Matt might have the upper hand.

indecent proposal

Yesterday a boy asked me to marry him. I could be wrong,
but I think this marks my very first marriage proposal.

I was in Georgetown on M Street.
He was in a van stuck in stop and go traffic.

He's a businessman of sorts.
He and his partner were on the job, selling a truckload of stereo speakers.
I was walking along on the sidewalk when their van pulled up beside me.

He said, "Hey! Would you like to buy a pair of speakers?"

"No, thank you." I said.

"Okay," he said. "Will you marry me then?"

Just like that, he asked me!

"No, thank you." I said and I kept walking.
I thought it best that I play hard to get.

So when the got up to the stoplight, he asked me again, just be certain.

He was a little rough around the edges but kind of cute.
Probably a little too young for me and not really my type, but...

"Does it come with a free pair of speakers?" I asked.

The light went green and his partner hit the pedal.
He was gone before I got an answer.

I wonder if he says that to all the girls.
It's really quite a risky tactic if all he's trying to do is sell a cheap set of speakers.

I wondered what would have happened had I said yes?
What if I was one of those girls going through that "biological-clock-ticking" crisis?
Damn, man he'd really be in a jam.

One day he wakes up without a care in the world except to sell stolen stereo speakers,
and the next he's dealing with me.
Lucky for him, I said the common sense to say no.

Ironically, my first proposal just happened to coincide with Sandie and Fred's 31st anniversary.
They, by the way, celebrated in style, dining at a BBQ hut in Manassas...

I am embarrassed to admit that despite the fact that I've known them for 29 years
and lived with them for more than half, that this was the first night that I had ever looked through
my parent's wedding album.

I knew nothing of their engagement, nothing of their wedding...
Only that they had met in 8th grade and with the exception of Sandie's brief interest in a man named Flutter, had been together ever since. That alone to me was so unbelievable; I guess I never bothered to dig deeper.

So there I am looking at pictures...and they were pretty cool. Fred, for the record, was quite the little hottie. I had always thought my mother's "Tom Cruise" reference was slightly biased, but looking back 31 years, I can see it...with that and his Air Force thing they had that little "Top Gun" thing going on.

"You two were quite the couple," I told them. "So tell me, Dad, how did you propose?"

Fred looked up from the television.

"Hmm?" he asked.

Sandie started laughing.

"Oh it was very romantic," she said. "It was in the basement of my house. He probably doesn't remember much. I picked him up from work he needed my ID card so that he could buy the ring at the BX. We had to make a mad dash there before it closed. And then we came home, and he proposed to me in the basement."

"Dad, did you get down on one knee? What did you say?
Did you have to ask ole Tom Hanford's permission?" I asked.

"Ummmm...I don't think sooooo."

Mom saved him.

"I think he might have. Look at him! He doesn't remember.
One person who wasn't at all pleased though, was your father's mother."

"So Dad, you get off from work you were home from school, working construction that summer, right? You get off work, run to the store, buy a ring, propose to your girlfriend of 10 years, she says 'yes' and then go home. All you want to do is go to bed and get a good night's sleep, but you have to face the wrath of your parents?" I asked. "What did you tell them? Were you scared? Did they ground you?"

"I wasn't scared," Fred replied. "I had been dating your mother forever and it was just time."

Well that, at least, he remembered.

"It might not sound at all romantic," Sandie told me.
"But it was good. And the good thing is, is that it worked."

And indeed it has, quite beautifully.

So then I thought, what IF I had said "yes" to stereo speaker boy?
What if we had run off into the sunset right then and there and got married?

Twenty-nine years later, if his daughter asked him about his proposal,
I wonder just what he would say...

"I got a wife, and she got a good set of speakers."

I wonder which would have lasted longer.

she's crafty

In sync with the shift from margaritas to mojitos, our thoughts took turn to a more philanthropic focus. Perhaps it was the tequila talking, but Tara and I both felt compelled to find some way contribute back to our bar community.

The answer came to us in shape of…pornographic origami napkin ring holders.

Come on now, it isn’t exactly the most uncommon of subjects. Plenty of you are well aware of my views regarding this untapped, environmentally friendly art form. It's humble Brooklyn beginnings is a whole different story that I’m certain your sick of hearing. What was unusual about this instance was that the subject came up in conjunction with a conversation related to Mother’s Day...

Our bartender had no clue what to buy.

“I ALWAYS make something,” explained Tara in her prim Martha Stewart tone.
“Last year it was candles, the year before soap. The year before that, I was taking pottery classes…”

Her list of DIY crafts were endless.
If it had been on HGTV, this girl had done it.
My eyes started rolling towards the sky.

“Uhh…I don't think so,” said Steve. “Candle making? Way too messy. Besides, I can’t imagine my mother being impressed with her son’s soap making skills.”

“What about paint-by-numbers?” I offered. "Shrinky-dinks maybe?"

Steve shook his head and headed for the other end of the bar.
"I don't do crafts," he said.

“I know!" I shouted, "Pornographic origami napkin ring holders!”

Steve stopped dead in his tracks. I got him.

“It’s amazing how cool naked people can look all folded up into squares,” I continued.
“And on the dinner table, wrapped around a nice cloth napkin, you can’t even tell what they're doing!
I gave my grandmother a set last year and she hasn't a clue!”

“Now this,” said Steve, “Might be a little more my speed.”

Even Tara was interested. “Do they HAVE to be pornographic?” she asked. “Or can I make mine with flowers or something?”

"You can make them with that damn pink oxford shirt if you like," I assured her. "I can show you the “G” rated version."

The pornography was all in the paper, not in the form of the folds.

“Is it difficult?” they both wanted to know.

Of course not! Good Lord, if I can do it anyone can. It is just a little time consuming. You’re forever folding paper. And as far as your fingernails…forget about that manicure. Paper and polish don’t seem to mix.

"Is it messy?" was the next question.

Not at all, I assured them.
In fact you could do it all, right here on top of this….bar!

And that’s when the liquored-up light bulb lit up. We were going to host the first Bedrock Billiards Craft Night and assist all of its patrons in creating, their own make-it-yourself, Mother’s Day gifts!

Damn, man…how cool is that?

We could add a whole new dimension to Monday nite's Ladies' Nite. Maybe we can even turn it into a regular event. We’ll teach the world naughty knitting, paper mache pasties, and dirty decoupage....maybe...

So at any rate, the fun starts tonight…at around 7…If you’re in Adams Morgan and looking for something to do with those old stacks of Playboy magazines - where they came from, no questions asked -- you should certainly stop by. BYOP