My fellow, single father brothers, if you're responsible for cooking for you and your children and you don't have a crock-pot, get one. Cooking in a crock-pot is one of the easiest and most economical ways to help create a healthy diet for you and your children.
From the standpoint of cost-effectiveness, wait until you find a protein that's on-sale at your grocer's meat department or at your local butcher. Grab a pork shoulder or beef rump roast and, if the price is really right, grab a few. Stick them in the freezer for when you need a quick, easy solution for a healthy.
Now, let's assume it's a busy holiday season Saturday. One of your kids had been invited to a birthday party, another has basketball practice, and the third has a dance recital. Given this very realistic scenario, you don't really have time to cook when you get home and the other option is fast food. Right?
Grab one of those pork roasts from your freezer the night before the crazy day and let it defrost overnight. The next morning before you leave for the day, dice a couple of onions, an apple, a potato, and anything else you may have in your fridge. Toss all of that, the roast, and seasoning into your crock-pot and let it cook on high. It, literally, only takes about five minutes to make. When you get home ten hours later, well, your fairly healthy, balanced meal is ready and waiting for you.
Here's a quick breakdown of my recent crock-pot creation:
Crock-Pot Pork Roast & Vegetables
2 onions, diced
1 apple, diced
1 potato, diced
2 peppers, sliced
1 three to four pound pork roast
Add ingredients to crock-pot.
Cook on "high" setting for ten hours.
Dinner is ready when you get home.
It's not fancy. It's not gourmet. However, it's easy, healthy, and functional.
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I write down my thoughts, regardless of the time of day, in my "Ideas Become Things" writer's notebook, which was a gift from a friend for a milestone birthday and which I keep on my nightstand. Eventually, a lot of these will be included in a book or a short story. In the meantime, here's a big, ol' batch. Enjoy.
All rights reserved. Published by Matting Leah Publishing Company.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written consent of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Matting Leah Publishing Company, 21 Grand Street, Warwick, New York 10990-0265.
Matthew S. Field
Only a tiny fraction of people could possibly appreciate the kind of weekend you had. You’re in your seventh year as a widower and a single dad, and your son, now seven years old, grieves and misses his mother and doesn’t even know it. His grief manifests in surprising ways. You have more in common with shell-shocked Gulf War veteran than you do with your former career path peers or even your divorced weekend dad friends.
You walk the quarter mile from your house to the bohemian-style café, buy a cup of free trade, the black stuff, find the only chair that affords no opportunity for company, and begin to read what most people consider to be very good popular fiction. You really don’t care that the café is bohemian style. You just like the relative tranquillity. You don’t care one way or the other that the coffee is free trade. You know the world works a certain way and that’s all right with you. Besides, free trade is probably bullshit and just another excuse to improve the retailer’s bottom line. You do, however, care that the book you’re reading engages you. You hate when you feel obligated to read a novel someone had given to you and it sucks ass. This one doesn’t. It won’t win any literature prizes, but it’s engaging and it’s sold about a gazillion and nine copies. That’s roughly a gazillion more copies than any of the books you’ve written have sold.
You cross into that meditative state. The pace of your heartbeat regulates as you process the words and engage the fairly well-conceived plot line. You sip your coffee, but it’s difficult not to glance up. Your sixth sense compels you.
A striking woman wearing black sweats strides confidently past you, sits down at a table directly across the room from your solitary cushioned chair, and pulls a laptop from her bag. You return to your reading. You don’t notice the woman looking over at you.
“Do you know how to connect to the Internet here?”
You hear the question from across the room, but you don’t acknowledge. It’s part of the white noise you find so comforting. You continue to read.
“Excuse me. Do you know how to connect to the Internet in here?”
You realize the woman in the black sweats is asking the question. She looks at you, smiling, awaiting an answer. For the first time, you look directly at her. Your mind quickly processes. Dark hair. Perfect olive skin. A cherubic, perpetually blushing face. A smile that could light a small city. Dark eyes in which a guy could get lost. Thirty-fiveish. No makeup. She’s one of those lucky girls who doesn’t need it.
“I’ve tried to connect here before,” you answer. “I haven’t had any luck. The girl behind the counter is Elyse. Maybe she can help you.”
Your eyes move down again. In the periphery, you see the woman stride confidently around the corner and then back again a few moments later with the barista in tow. Minutes pass. You lose track of her progress as you return to the drama you hold in your hands.
“Couldn’t get it to work.”
You look up again, realizing the statement is directed at you. You notice the way she talks is very much like the way she walks.
“Yeah. I don’t know what it is about the Wi-Fi here.”
It’s not that you’re not interested in women, or, in particular, this woman. It’s not that you lack confidence. You’re just not really looking for anything right now, other than a little quiet to disconnect from the rest of your world a little, read, and relax. Besides, the woman likely just dropped her kids at school. She’s probably married. There’s just not any chance of anything happening and you don’t feel like making small talk. You return to your book hoping for no further interruption.
“What are you doing here on a Monday morning?”
You’ve read about a page and a half. You smile ironically.
“I had a crazy weekend. I need a little bit of downtime. This is how I spend some of my downtime.”
“I mean, don’t you work?”
“Well, yes and no. I don’t know. I’m a writer. I do other things, too.”
“Oh, wow. What have you written?”
You swallow the last of your coffee. You’d already had two cups at home while you were getting the kids fed, dressed, and off to school. Now your bladder has also become a distraction. “A couple of children’s books. A grown-up novel that will be released in a month or so.”
“Oh, that’s great. So, why was your weekend so crazy?”
Not even one paragraph.
“Ah, just with the kids. I have three. They’re great and I love them, but they’re a lot of work. The older ones are pretty self-sufficient. Of course, they don’t drive, which means I’m a part of their social calendar. I have a seven-year-old son and he’s another story. This weekend was just particularly nutty.”
“Sounds like you’re a stay-at-home dad. Are you divorced?”
“I’m very sorry.”
“Thanks,” you reply automatically.
Pause. Silence. Okay, that might be it. You try to find the place you left off. After a moment, you pick back up. One page. Two pages. Characters engaged. Contemplative state reacquired.
“I know who you are. You wrote . . . I have that book.”
What are the odds?
You stand up, leave the pulpy novel on the table next to your chair and walk toward the bathroom, which brings you in close proximity to the woman’s table.
“Yeah, that was me.”
You concede. Instead of walking directly back to your chair after you finish in the bathroom, you walk over to the woman’s table. You notice that she’s not wearing a wedding ring.
“My name is . . . and it looks like you’re empty. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Tea,” she answers.
You sit on your living room couch with the woman. With the exception of her top, she’s wearing the same black sweats she wore the first day you met her. As for her top, it’s on top of her sports bra on the floor next to your family room sofa.
You see her twice more after that first day. The second time is at the coffee shop again when she tells you a little about the husband from whom she separated about three months earlier, her art, her love for the outdoors, and her passion for Botticelli. She tells you about the framed poster of “The Birth of Venus” in her tea room.
“What’s a tea room?” you ponder.
When you meet a woman for coffee and talk about stuff like that, even if you do it a ten o’clock in the morning, it’s a date.
She tells you about her kids. She’s got four. The oldest is nine.
When she has to retrieve the four-year-old from preschool, you walk her out and give her a hug. The hug feels surprisingly natural. You plan another ten o’clock in the morning date in a week at a nearby state park where she sometimes fishes in her kayak.
The day at the state park is surprisingly cold. You choose fashion over comfort and underdress. She arrives a few minutes late, but that’s all right because you really want to see her. She hops out of a colossal SUV and hugs you. You walk and talk for a few minutes. Then, the two of you sit down at a picnic table. She doesn’t like sitting opposite you, so she positions herself on the table top and straddles you with her legs. You arrange your arms to rest on top of her cute chicken noodle thighs wrapped in stylishly torn jeans. Your hands are perfectly arrayed to encircle her hips. She leans down to kiss you. You kiss as much as you talk.
She explains she hasn’t been the mother of four children, but five. She tells you that the man from whom she is separated is a little too 420 friendly. He was 21 and she was 19 when they married She expected him to grow up with her, but he never really did. She tells you the significance of each of her four children’s names and that each was a caesarian birth. She tells you that she hasn’t had much in the way of marital relations during the past few years and, when she had, it had not been terribly satisfying. She tells you that her friends said she should find a mature, good-enough-looking guy, and get laid. She tells you that’s not her style. She tells you she has to love a man and be emotionally connected to a man to give herself to a man like that. She tells you that she thinks you’re handsome. She tells you that she’s glad you asked to buy her tea at the bohemian style café two weeks earlier. When it’s time to leave, “for being such a good kisser” she gives you as a reward—a rubber frog fishing lure. The gift seems strangely apropos.
You were supposed to have gone to the library this morning, find a book about Botticelli, and research “The Birth of Venus.” You actually start at the library and you actually find a book about Botticelli. As you’re sitting in one of the library’s study rooms with the giant Botticelli book open in front of the two of you, though, you find yourself barely able to keep your hands off of her. You suggest that the two of you check out the Botticelli book and go back to your house where it’s quieter and more comfortable. The library is, in fact, fairly quiet; you actually mean more private. Now her top is on the floor next to your family room sofa on top of her bra. You were right about more comfortable.
“Take your shirt off,” she demands.
Your respond nonverbally.
“You are so good looking,” she tells you.
“And, you are hard on my ego. You are incredible, by the way.”
She is incredible. You’re not ashamed of the fact that you are very visual and she is extremely easy on the eye. Her breasts are beautiful and, by the way she pulls off her shirt and support, she’s very proud of them. When your hands move down below her waist, though, she invokes the Monroe Doctrine.
“I want you, but I just didn’t want to do that today.”
“We don’t have to. I just want to do something for you.”
She’s unresolved. She tells you that she hasn’t been with anyone but her husband for a long time and not often at that. In spite of her friends’ advice, she’s unsure.
“I want to, but I don’t know.”
“That’s all right. I don’t want to move fast, either.”
After you slip the sweats off over her feet, she stands up and pulls down her lacy blue panties. She’s hairless. Her clitoris is swollen to the size and approximate color of a large, ripe cherry.
You say, “Lay down.”
You think, “Botticelli, this is the work of art.”
You come to her and hold her. You take your time. You breath her. You kiss her. You slide down and put her mouth on her. You glance up and look into her eyes. Eyes locked, in your field of vision you notice two, nearly identical scars about three inches in length, one just under each of her breasts.
In moments, you find her rhythm and literally seconds later, she writhes and doesn’t stop until you do. You would have continued indefinitely, but she has to get her son from preschool. She looks down at you in disbelief and an unexpected understanding.
She asks breathlessly and without pretense, “Will you promise to do that any time I ask you?”
After a more traditional date, the kind that happens at night and involves getting dressed and going out and ends with intimacy, you realize that the two of you have a rare and beautiful connection. She seems to realize it, too.
The following week, she starts to spend the mornings, during which her four-year-old son is at preschool, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday and her other three are at their respective schools, in your bed. You make raspberry tea and have it ready for her every day before she arrives. From the start, you make love to her and she makes love to you with a passion, an intensity, and a familiarity that most people never achieve. She is generous. She is uninhibited. She is appreciative.
She tells you, “It turns me on when you do to me exactly what you want to me.”
“I met this woman for the first time three weeks ago,” you silently muse with some incredulity.
The beautiful rut you create in your bed includes some variety of patient, but intensely satisfying mutual release; followed by conversation; followed by patient, but another intensely satisfying, mutual release; followed by making the bed and getting dressed.
During one naked conversation, she tells you, when she was three years old, her father left her mother. She tells you that she fears abandonment, which is probably the reason she wordlessly consented to the two decade codependent relationship with the father of her children. You tell her in excruciating detail the story of how you lost your wife. You tell her about your fear of loss, which is probably the reason you haven’t yet allowed yourself to open your heart to anyone.
You observe, not without a measure of irony, “I think this woman might just be my kind of crazy.”
She asks you to recommend a book the two of you can read when you are naked. You choose Steppenwolf; “There are always a few such people who demand the utmost of life and yet cannot come to terms with its stupidity and crudeness.”
Sometimes when you are physically spent and satisfied, you sidle next to her under the sheets and read. She adores you for it. She calls it the “Naked Book Club.” Your second selection is Vonnegut’s The Sirens of Titan. “A purpose of human life, no matter who is controlling it, is to love whoever is around to be loved.”
You tell her, “I love you.”
She answers, “I love you.”
You become convinced that she’s your kind of crazy. Sure, like every woman you’ve ever known, she’s a lunatic. Somehow, though, her brand of lunacy is okay with you. Your pet name for her is MKOC, short for “My Kind of Crazy.”
Sometimes, she blames herself for what she believes is her father’s abandonment of her. The internal struggle manifests in peculiar ways. As a child in her mind’s eye when she sees her father, he is spending time with other, different women every time instead of spending time with her. She fosters a jealousy uncommon in the animal world. Although perhaps not as profound inasmuch as you have some perspective, your fear of loss originates from the death of your wife. For you, anyway, the relevance of the practical loss of a spouse, considering your responsibility for three children, is at least as great as the void created by the removal of a loving and emotionally supportive partner. She doesn’t want to be abandoned. You don’t want to lose her.
Your kind of crazy.
“Look at me,” she says, straddling your hips under the sheets. A fire’s smoldering in the fireplace. A tepid cup of tea and an empty Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup wrapper sit on the nightstand next to the most recent selection of Naked Book Club, a tattered hard-cover copy of The Grapes of Wrath. “There ain't no sin and there ain't no virtue. There's just stuff people do.”
She loves the story. She adores you reading it to her in a way that only a woman who’d been abandoned as a three-year-old girl by her father could. Like only a mother can, she identifies with Steinbeck’s description of Rose of Sharon, who gives a starving man life with her breast milk that had been intended for a child, now miscarried.
“Look at me,” she repeats. “I love you and I will never leave you. I know that. I don’t want anyone else.”
You nuzzle tenderly into her breasts and fall asleep.
As always, thank you for reading The Single Father's Guide Blog. I hope you have enjoyed the preview of my short fiction, Second Person: A Short Story. Please support the blog; click the banner below, order the ebook version on Amazon Kindle for only $1.49, and read the conclusion of the story. Thank you.
Sometimes, when my two beautiful daughters were little girls and it was time for them to go to bed, one or both would say with genuine concern, “Daddy, I’m afraid that there are monsters in my room.”
A monster under the bed?
Of course, I couldn’t have blamed them for that innocent fear in any case, but especially because my two little girls had experienced the most traumatic thing little girls could imagine. My daughters lost their mother to cancer when they were seven-year-old and four-years-old, respectively.
On those occasions when one of both of my daughters and, later, my The Favorite Son would express their fear of monsters in their rooms, I’d simply answer, “Don’t worry honey. That kind of monster isn’t real and real monsters are afraid of me.”
My explanation usually was the remedy for the “monster under the bed" problem, but then, my daughters asked, “What are real monsters, Daddy?”
I always tried to be relevant and appropriate based upon my children’s level of maturity, so I’d say something like, “Real monsters look like real people. In fact, real monsters are people.”
My little girls would then ask, “How will we know if someone is a monster, “Daddy.”
The only think I could say was, “First, don’t worry too much about it because there aren’t nearly as many monsters as there are good people. By the way, those monsters are afraid of me, too," I'd add. "Usually, you won’t be able to tell the difference, but I’ve been teaching you how to stay away from monsters since the day you were born.”
Just the day before the day I wrote this, I learned that someone with whom I am acquainted is very likely a monster. I didn’t know the monster well, but I’d seen and talked to him dozens of times. The monster’s son played with my son on more than one of the baseball teams that I’ve coached or managed over the years.
According to the story I read in the on-line edition of the local newspaper, though, the monster “sexually assaulted the child, who was younger than 11, multiple times over the course of a year.”
I don’t know anything about the victim. I don’t think I want to know.
Pope Francis, "It seems that the Great Accuser has been unleashed and has it in for the bishops."
Monsters are real. They look just like everyone else. Often, there’s no way to know the difference. A monster could be a member of the clergy in whom a child and his family place their complete trust or the neighbor who you’ve known for years. Monsters do horrible things. Pope Francis notwithstanding, “The Great Accuser,” aka the Devil, isn’t responsible for the monster’s behavior. Only the monster is.
One more think is certain. It’s a tragedy have to tell a child that monsters are real, but not as much of a tragedy of the loss of a child’s innocence.
I hadn't expected to be dating after I married my wife 26 years ago. Fate has its own plan for us and there isn't much we can do about it.
This brings me to real life case of dating sucks.
I met Jess on Bumble. I've actually met a number of remarkable ladies using dating apps and services, but no, I haven't met Miss (Ms.) Right . . . which brings me to Jessica.
Jess and I met for dinner one evening. She looked in person the way she looked in her pictures and the two of us had fun eating tacos and talking. After dinner, we took a nice, moonlight walk. We both must have thought that the first date was pretty good or, perhaps, it was the tacos, but we decided to have a second date. date.
Soon after the taco night, we went "antiquing" and had a nice lunch. However, the potential I thought we had after the first date waned during the second. We didn't have a third, at least for a while.
A few months later after continuing to exchange occasional, playful text messages, Jess and I decided to have dinner again. I thought, perhaps, I was too hasty in my decision to step back. Near the end of dinner, Jess asked, "So, do you want to get together again?"
I was honest. I enjoyed dinner, but I realized that Jess and I weren't really right for each other. I answered honestly.
Here's what honesty got me.
Yes, finally, she was. And, no. No boiled bunnies.
Among the many benefits of having genuine, platonic female friends (PFF) is the ability to be, almost literally, a fly on the wall. Well, if not exactly a fly, I do occasionally get insights from the fairer gender I wouldn’t otherwise have gotten. (You should have heard some of the sh*t that I've heard. Wow.) I like to think it’s a two-way street. My PFF’s can also get it straight from me about what’s really happening from the guy’s perspective.
Recently, one of my PFFs, an accomplished and attractive professional woman, started using an on-line dating service. She told me she’d met a guy and he’d asked her for a date. She accepted.
You can learn a lot about a person when you listen.
The day after the date, my PFF told me about her evening. Her date took her to one of the nicer local restaurants, which she appreciated. She described him as a very interesting guy who works a fascinating job and millions of people regularly see his work.
“That’s pretty cool,” I said.
“Yeah, sort of cool, I guess. The guy could not stop talking about himself. He talked about his Harley-Davidson. He talked about his house and swimming pool. He talked about his BMW. He talked about Bayliner. He did 80% of the talking!”
I’ve always believed people who have to boast about the brands they’ve bought are often not comfortable with their own personal brand, but I digress.
If you haven’t learned this by now, this is as good a time as any; women like to communicate. According to the author of the book, His Needs, Her Needs: Building of an Affair Proof Marriage, Willard Harley suggests, for most women, communication is the most important part of a romantic relationship. Ladies like to be heard. It’s difficult to hear, gentlemen, if your mouth is moving. Always, but particularly on a first date, listen to the lady sitting across the table from you. Look into her eyes. Acknowledge that you hear her and understand. Often, she doesn’t want your opinion or your "fix." If she knows you care and knows you hear her, that’s enough for her. Instead of doing 80% of the talking, you should be listening 80% of the time.
. . . people who have to boast about the brands they’ve bought are often not comfortable with their own personal brand . . .
Of course, she’ll want to know about you. She may ask. Then, obviously, respond, but she’ll welcome and value the fact that you listen to her. There is another motive; it’s a great time to learn about herand whether she might be right for you. You can learn a lot about a person when you listen.
CRAPPY CAR HUGE DONG.FUNNY VIDEOS VINED WATCH TILL END SO FUNNY. - YouTube
Then, there’s the other thing. You know, about all that crowing about your bike or zip code or your car or your boat. Two observations. First, if these are the things that impress her, then you’re probably with the wrong gal. If a new BMW is what she’s looking for, she’ll probably want a new one every year and she doesn’t care a rat’s ass about the man buying it. Or, second, she’ll wonder, “He has to brag about his stuff? What is he compensating for?” Either way, brother, you lose.
So, guys, you know about empty barrels, right? STFU and listen. Even a fly knows that much.
As a young husband, I would be shocked every 28 days or so by the demonic possession of my beautiful bride by cantankerous imp who I came to know as Aunt Flo.
In spite of having grown up in a home with three younger sisters, the vituperous arrival of my late wife’s monthly visitor never ceased to surprise me. I’d walk through the door wearing a hopeful smile after a long a day at the First National Frank & Crust and say in a Ward Cleavian fashion, “Honey, I’m home.” On those ever unforeseen 28th days, I’d be greeted with Regan MacNeil. (You know, the Linda Blair's character who was possessed in The Excorcist.)
. . . she was Gozer the Gozerian and I’m no Ghostbuster.
If the cycle of the Moon wasn’t enough, like a maniacal comet on a 180-day orbit, Aunt Flo’s every sixth visit was exponentially even more extreme. Twice a year, she was Gozer the Gozerian and I’m no Ghostbuster. It caught me nappin’ every time. BLAMMO!
The GOZER - YouTube
I wished that I could somehow have a little notice for these “events.” After all, a guy’s partner probably isn’t going say, “Honey, just a head’s up. There’s a really great chance that I’m going all praying mantis on your ass tomorrow. Steer clear.”
Since then, I have experienced more of life, matured, become more understanding, and, I like to think, a little smarter. (Perhaps, not.) So, yeah, you might think I’m a little crazy, but I came up with something to remind me when my partner might not be herself.
My solution to the “notice” issue is “Flo.” Yes. That’s right. “Flo Period & Ovulation Tracker” is a smartphone app which a lot of women use to track their cycle by logging specific information during the month. Here’s a secret. Guys can use it too.
After charting this information over time, Flo makes fairly accurate predictions of, well, how your lady will feel on a particular day. As more accurate information is recorded, Flo will even adapt to a woman’s irregular cycle.
Knowledge is power, gentlemen, and that’s a fact.
There are a few other benefits to using Flo. For instance, Flo will let you know the days your partner is more likely and the days your partner less likely to become pregnant. That may be helpful for some couples depending on the objective. Also, considering the level emotional intimacy and candidness in a relationship, taking interest in this stuff may even facilitate more communication and improve the overall quality of a relationship. On the other hand, some gals probably would feel uncomfortable knowing their partner knows so much about something so personal. The decision to talk with your partner about this is your call.
So, look. I don’t care how someone would view tracking my lady’s cycle using an app like Flo. Knowledge is power, gentlemen, and that’s a fact. Anything that can provide me some assistance in dealing with a difficult relationship issue with which a lot of couples struggle, well, I’m all over it.
After all, I love my partner and I’d go to great lengths to help our relationship be successful. Yes, I’d even become familiar with her cycle than I ever wanted to.
When I first watched The Wrestler ten years ago, I was truly moved. I wanted to write about it, but I just couldn’t find a way to put onto paper the intricate plot and the complex emotions it elicited in me. I’m not sure that I can do such a good job now. After I DVR’d it and watched it again recently, though, I thought I’d have another go.
Mickey Rourke’s performance as Randy “The Ram” Robinson, a lonely, aging wrestler and single dad in Darren Aranofsky’s The Wrestler(2008) is haunting.
In his prime, The Ram was on a par with Hulk Hogan or “Nature Boy” Rick Flair, but the opening scene shows Randy in a kindergarten classroom recovering after a match held in an elementary school gym. The promoter gives Randy his meager cut of the gate and, after signing a couple of autographs as he walks back through the gym, Randy returns home to find his trailer locked for delinquent rent. That would have seemed to be the ultimate humiliation. However, when he returns to his day job as a stocker in a grocery store and asks his supervisor for more hours, he hears, “What's the matter, they raise the price of tights?”
The talented Marisa Tomei as Cassidy in The Wrestler.
Other than the cheering weekend crowds on the minor league professional wrestling circuit, Randy takes his only solace from a stripper, Cassidy, portrayed by Marisa Tomei whose career parallels Randy’s.
After another “main-event” match, the promoter reminds Randy that the twentieth anniversary of The Ram’s tussle with “The Ayatollah” at Madison Square Garden is only a few months away. A rematch would bring big money for everyone involved. After Randy suffers a heart attack, the rematch looms over the remainder of the film like a funnel cloud over a mobile home park.
The dozens of small battles Randy fights every day to hold onto the shreds of his self-respect pales in comparison to the battle he must fight to reconnect with his estranged daughter, Stephanie, who is played by Evan Rachel Wood. Stephanie’s response to Randy’s first attempt to reconnect is, “This is so fuckin' you. You only come around when you need something from somebody, when they can do something for you. Selfish fuck. Good. Be alone.”
THE WRESTLER film clip #2-"Boardwalk" - YouTube
At the moment it seems Randy is on the verge of pulling his life and priorities together, he makes another poor choice and all the good things that he’d begun to build tumble down again like a house of cards. Yet, Fate gives him another chance. In the end, Randy is faced with two paths to vindication, but only one leads to happiness.
Mickey Rourke’s performance yielded a Best Actor Award from the Golden Globes and the Screen Actor’s Guild and an Oscar nomination for a Best Actor and was clearly Rourke’s opus. As far has Rourke’s romantic foil in the film, it seems that every role that Marisa Tomei is just flawless. Her portrayal of Cassidy’s overcompensating vulnerability leaves the viewer no choice but to fall in love with both the performance and the character. Tomei was nominated for just about every Best Supporting Actress award including one from the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences.
All tolled, The Wrestler is an amazing film that will appeal to anyone who appreciates amazing films. There is no question, though, Randy Robinson’s story is an agonizing metaphor with which nearly all men can at relate on some level. For some, it may hit even closer to home.
"Dating" may have both intended and unintended consequences.
If you haven’t yet heard, Mark Zuckerberg announced in May that Facebook would release a dating app for members. Reportedly, the name of the new app will be called, “Dating at F8,” or just, “Dating.” There are still a lot of questions about the way Dating at F8 will work, like whether there will be a fee and the actual launch date of the service, but there are some things we already know.
Download my short story, Second Person.
According to Zuckerberg, "Your friends aren't going to see your profile, and you're only going to be suggested to people who are not your friends."[i]
“As described on stage, Facebook Dating will allow you to create a separate profile for dating. When you and another person using the service like one another’s profiles, you’ll be allowed to contact them. The company also described a feature that would let you make your dating profile visible for people attending the same event as you, in hopes of generating more offline connections. “This is going to be for building real, long-term relationships — not just for hookups,” Mark Zuckerberg said in his announcement.”[ii]
“Users who feel like sharing even more of their personal information with Facebook will be able to set up separate “Dating" profiles on the site where, instead of updates from people you know, you'll be able to swipe through "potential matches."”[iii]
Whether you happen to be part of the market for Facebook’s new Dating app, there may be a couple of other things about which we can be pretty sure. Event planners (for weddings) and divorce lawyers will likely see their businesses boom.
[i] “Facebook plans to launch a new dating feature for 'meaningful, long-term relationships'.” Daniel Arkin. NBC News. www.NBCNews.com. May 1, 2018.
[ii] “Facebook has started internal testing of its dating app: Let the poking begin.” Casey Netwon. The Verge. www.TheVerge.com. Aug 3, 2018.
[iii] “Facebook Is Launching Its Own Dating App: It's called Dating, because what else?” Cosmopolitan. www.Cosmopolitan.com. Hannah Smothers. May 1, 2018.