And the New American Idol Is. . .

.

.

For two hours tonight, time will stand still. There will be no random crime, no political debates, no chaotic weather. The planets will realign in perfect harmony. Even that giant killer asteroid hurtling towards Earth will momentarily alter its course.Only one event could have that sort of global impact. Tonight we hold our collective breath as the fate of Blake and Jordin is revealed, and the reign of the new American Idol begins.

.

I realize some of you may be previously committed to pressing engagements, and I know how heavily this must weigh on your shoulders. It’s okay, really. I feel your pain. They set you up for disappointment last night, pitting the “better performer” (Blake) against the “better singer” (Jordin), as if the two were mutually exclusive terms. They billed it as a showdown, and presented it as a singing version of a WWE spectacle. And then, as if we hadn’t been battered enough, they had to offer proof that all AI contestants are winners. To prove it, they paraded the ultimate poseur, Daughtry, on stage. (I’m unclear if that’s what he calls his ~ahem~ band, or if he just got too cool to use his first name.)

.

It was at that moment that my damn epiphany swept over me. For all its posturings, American Idol was never about fulfilling dreams. It’s about crushing them. Even worse, it makes us gleefully watch as the no-talents, the lesser talents, and even the really good talents are cut down like chaff. Seeing them fall makes us feel better about our own shortcomings. And when our favorites make it through the ranks, thanks to the “power” of our votes, we feel like we actually call the shots in where our world is headed.

.

What it gets us is a prefab version of pop culture, where “performer” and “singer” are mutually exclusive terms, and where “rockers” are transformed into manufactured charlatans, replete with choreographed guitarists and perfect eighties-era leather pants.Once I got over my epiphany, I focused on tonight’s momentous occasion, and my mission to save would-be viewers from mass suicide.

.

Here’s who will win. Jourdin will take it, and this is why.

.

As I’ve said before, I believe the voting block consists primarily of teenage girls, mainly because teenage guys don’t have that much of an attention span, and adults have more pressing matters to attend to than voting on singing competitions. The reason Blake and Jordin are the only ones left standing has less to do with their talents (as good as both of them are), and more to do with how they resonate with that block. Both performers have personalities that teenyboppers think are — well, way cool.

.

But it’s down to the wire now, and with the attendant publicity surrounding the finale, the voting block has shifted and expanded. That effectively seals Blake’s fate. His performances last night proved him to be a one trick pony. The beatbox vocals are cool, up to a limit, but they certainly are not enough to make a career. His Maroon Five impression is nothing more than that, and he doesn’t have the range to pull off a ballad. He’ll have a chart-topping album out of it, and then he’ll be quickly forgotten.

.

Jordin, on the other hand, has what the labels want. She’s young, but she sings well beyond her years. She has a well-scrubbed look, the sort that can evolve over a career (hopefully more Joss Stone than Whitney Houston), and, dammit, the girl’s got chops! She’s taken everything they’ve thrown at her, and she’s never failed to deliver a performance.In the end, the voters will identify more with Jordin than Blake — she’s the fairytale ending they want. With all that in mind, the American Idol title this season goes to Jordin. I just hope she wears it well.

American Idol: Why So Surprised?

.

.

It’s down to Jordin and Blake now, and America appears to be collectively aghast about Melinda going home. I’m hardly aghast, but I am a bit surprised so few people saw it coming. There was no way Melinda Dolittle was going to be the next American Idol. Sure, she can sing, but as much as Simon likes to refer to the show as a “singing competition”, it’s hardly that cut and dried.

.

Video killed the radio star over 25 years ago, and from a visual standpoint, Melinda was... well, mundane. No matter how she belted out the vocals, she was never able to project a visual presence. Had she thrown her shoulders back a bit and ditched that “I’m not worthy” facial expression, she might have had a chance. But I doubt it. AI is all about the youth factor, and at 29, she was, sadly, too old for the 18-24 demographic.It’s that demographic, coupled with my sneaking suspicion that the voting audience is largely female, that made it obvious to me that Melinda would be leaving.

.

Chicks dig Blake. His beatbox style resonates with teenyboppers. He has that bad boy aura, but he’s a guy they could take home to mom. The problem is, a ‘hood ‘tude quickly wears thin without something to back it up. Suburban white boys rarely have it. On the other hand, Sir Mix-A-Lot has given Blake his blessing. And when a one hit wonder from the early nineties endorses you, that has to be a good sign, right?

.

Not necessarily. Seventeen-year-old Jordin has a certain post-adolescent gawkiness that’s endearing to the audience, and especially endearing to that teenage voting block I mentioned earlier. Plus, she can actually sing. Despite Simon’s occasional admonitions that she’s choosing songs “too old” for her age, the fact remains she pulls them off by virtue of her phrasings and the sheer power of her voice. More importantly, she knows how to emanate a presence. Add to that equation the fact that she’s young enough to be molded into whatever persona the labels desire at any given whim, and she has to be the odds on favorite.

.

That said, it’s still anybody’s guess. No matter how it goes down, nobody really loses on American Idol — except perhaps the viewers who thought they held the future course of pop culture in their hands by virtue of their vote. It will all be forgotten by the time next season rolls around. Ask Taylor Hicks.The truth is, American Idol has always been a sleight of hand con game. Melinda, Jordin, and Blake will all have their moment in the sun. So will the almost-rans. They’ll all have a nice little run on VH1 (aka the American Idols Rejects channel), but they’ll add nothing of substance to the fabric of pop culture. It doesn’t matter. We’ll be back next season for another round of bread and circuses. So will Simon, Randy, and Paula, all looking even more disinterested than they did this season. And once more, the viewing audience will choose yet another American Idol.

.

God help us all.

When a Sequel Isn't a Sequal. . .Exactly

.

.

Fay Grim is a fascinating movie, albeit not always for the right reasons. Ostensibly a sequel to 1998’s acclaimed Henry Fool, Fay Grim works more as a cross between the Bourne movies and The Girl from U.N.C.L.E. As a result, it can be maddening at times, leaving us to wonder if it’s intended as farce, espionage thriller, social parable, or a combination of all three.

.

Writer/director Hal Hartley picks up the story ten years after the events of Henry Fool in a deceptively pedestrian way. The characters from the original film return intact, if a bit altered. Henry is presumed to be living in Sweden, Fay (Parker Posey) is trying to raise their now adolescent son Ned (Liam Aiken) in Queens, and her brother, the Nobel Prize-winning poet Simon Grim (James Urbaniak), is doing time for aiding and abetting Henry’s flight from prosecution on a murder charge. It’s typical suburban mayhem until CIA agent Fulbright (Jeff Goldblum) comes visiting one day, and informs Fay that Henry wasn’t what he appeared to be, and that his unpublishable “Confessions” are actually encoded texts with enough information to destabilize several governments.

.

From there, things get a bit convoluted. After negotiating Simon’s release from prison, Fay is sent to Paris by the CIA to retrieve the notebooks. Other governments want them, too — the Israelis, the French, the Pakistanis, and though it’s never clear how damaging these notebooks could be in the wrong hands, Fay finds herself at the center of an international web of intrigue. The story often borders on the ridiculous, but manages to keep us poised at the precipice of disbelief.

.

Shot in high def video, and on a shoestring budget, Fay Grim is in some ways reminiscent of the low-key espionage thrillers of the sixties. Hartley’s use of off-kilter camera angles (in almost every frame) heightens that sense of tension, in counterpoint to the otherwise deadpan pacing of the film. But it’s the inimitable Parker Posey in the title role who ultimately makes the film work. Her portrayal of Fay is a fascinating character study in self-awareness.When we first meet Fay, she’s a single mom with a moody adolescent son, trying to hold things together, depending on her brother’s royalty checks to make ends meet. Even at that, she confronts potentially adversarial situations with a blasé attitude. Nothing fazes her in that regard — an attitude that serves her well as she gradually evolves into a woman of international sophistication. In fact, the only moment she becomes visibly flustered involves a scene in which her cell phone, set to “vibrate”, rings at an inopportune time.

.

As much as Fay Grim is a satire on the paranoia of the 21st century political mindset, it’s ultimately about a woman’s journey to discover her potential. Every action Fay takes, especially when she’s following directives, has unforeseen repercussions. It’s only when she takes matters into her own hands that she becomes a fully realized character. Given the somewhat cliffhanger nature of the ending, Fay remains a work in progress.

.

Hartley has said he envisions Fay Grim as the second part of the Henry Fool trilogy. Let’s hope he doesn’t wait another decade before filming the final installment. For all its faults, Fay Grim remains a testament to the power of the independent film, proving mega-budgets do not necessarily a good film make.

One Last "24"Theory Before the Season Ends

.

.

The more I think about, the more I think my superfluous theory that Mike Doyle might replace Jack Bauer as 24's action man, taking orders from Bauer as CTU director, the more I think it might happen. A worse scenario would have Doyle playing Robin to Bauer's Batman. Either way, I have no doubt the Doyle character will play a more prominent role in Day Seven. The producers of the series said earlier this week that there will be changes next season, but kept mum regarding any details. We do know 24 is going to go at least another two seasons, and it's obvious, after watching Day 6, it's in dire need of some retooling.

,

Day Six has two hours left for Bauer to save his nephew, kill all the bad guys, find some sort of closure with Audrey and save civilization as we know it from annihilation. Of course, he'll do it, with at least ten minutes to spare, just enough time for the denouement and the teaser for Day Seven. If it goes anything like the rest of Day Six, it's going to defy any semblance of logic. FOX promises an ending that's totally unexpected, though.

.

Maybe the lack of logic this season is the key to Day Six. From the moment the Chinese released Bauer to CTU, nothing has rung true. Maybe there's a reason for that. What if this is all happening in Bauer's mind? What if the reality is he's still in that Chinese prison, being fed all kinds of psycho-meds in an attempt to break him? That would explain a lot of plot inconsistencies. There are a lot of Freudian things going on, too — Bauer's father, brother, nephew, even Doyle — are all different faces of Bauer.

.

Could it be? Naaah. I don't for a second think this is how the writers are going to paint themselves out of this corner. Besides, it would shoot my whole Mike Doyle theory out of the water.

When Sly Stone Took a "Stand!"

Some things are simply not open for discussion. Debating the merits of Sly and the Family Stone’s groundbreaking Stand! is one of them. When it was released 38 years ago, America was embroiled in an unwinnable war, racial tensions were high, governmental corruption was rampant, the voices of change were wafting in the breeze and it seemed the world was about to blow at any moment.
.
Wait! That’s 2007—my bad.
.
“Political correctness”—a term that’s never made any sense to me—had yet to be coined in 1969. If it had been, I have to wonder if Stand! would have been released, at least in its original form. Let’s face it—if the song had been called “Don’t Call Me the N Word, Person of Caucasian Persuasion,” it just wouldn’t have resonated with the same impact.
.
It wasn’t that they were going for shock value back in the day of Sly and the Family Stone. It was more a matter of understanding that in order to ultimately defeat an evil, it’s sometimes necessary to attack it unafraid. With Stand!, the band released a manifesto of peace and understanding whose message is every bit as important today as it was in 1969.

It’s like this: Stand! is probably the most life-affirming album to emerge from the sixties. Its message was simple: rise above whatever life throws at you. A line like “there’s a midget standing tall/ and the giant beside him about to fall” (from the title track) pays homage to the underdog in all of us. “Don’t Call Me Nigger, Whitey” was among the first songs to tackle festering race relations, and did so in such a darkly satirical way, accentuated with vocoders and anguished beats, that it rendered racial slurs utterly impotent. It wasn’t an angry song so much as it was a more aggressive version of the band’s constant cry against discrimination from any quarter. Next to it, “Everyday People” seems almost contrite, though certainly no less heartfelt. The constant in almost all the songs here rings of self-determination, most obviously in “You Can Make It If You Try.”
.
Sly and the Family Stone walked the walk they talked. They were racially and sexually integrated at a time when it was unheard of among touring bands. Women weren’t relegated to just vocals—they were playing instruments with the guys, black and white, jamming together in a psychedelic soul show the likes of which had never been heard before. It was a new sound that mixed soul, James Brown proto-funk, acid rock, gospel and blues, stirred it all together, and invented a recipe that shaped the face of funk’
.
On Stand!, they pretty much laid the groundwork for funk as we know it today. “I Want to Take You Higher” and “Sing a Simple Song” are powerhouse raves, replete with shoutouts, symbiotic polyrhythms, slap bass and primal beats that still make the blood race and the feet stomp. People took notice, from Clive Davis to George Clinton, and a new genre was born. They called it “psychedelic soul” then, and every body from the Isley Brothers to Diana Ross and the Supremes wanted a piece of that new sound. I think it’s safe to say that Parliament and Funkadelic, not to mention the various incarnation’s of Prince, would have been very different acts had it non been for the influence of Sly and the Family Stone.
.
Drugs and internal conflicts are usually blamed for the dissolution of the band’s decline and dissolution a few years after the release of Stand!. There’s probably some truth in that, but I think deeper issues were at play, too. The muse of creativity is fickle, and frequently peaks early. Orson Welles, though he had a lengthy career, was never able to top his early triumph Citizen Kane. With Stand!, Sly and the Family Stone mad the perfect album at the precisely perfect time. That’s hard to replicate, much less surpass.

Whatever frustrations or addictions led to the band’s demise aren’t nearly as important as what they accomplished with this album. They took a chance and embraced their convictions, and they did it in such a damn funky way, we just had to listen. You don’t get that kind of daring often, and certainly not in our walking on eggshells world today. But that’s why Stand! endures as one of the all-time most important rock albums ever, and it’s why Sly and the Family Stone will always be remembered as one of the great bands.

The Deeper Tones of Peace

.

.

Perhaps it’s indicative of the global climate in which we labor that the mere mention of the word “peace” elicits a spectrum of emotions, from tranquility to rage. We throw the word around, using it in conjunction with “victory” or “surrender”, as if one had anything to do with the other. In the process, we’ve almost succeeded in rendering the word “peace” another casualty in our headlong march to a politically correct, colorless world.

.

That’s partly why Santana: Hymns for Peace, Live At Montreux 2004 is one of the most engaging live performances to be released on DVD this year. At first glance, the title is a bit of a misnomer, since this is a concert that is anything but somber. This is a celebration of peace as it applies to the universal healing power of music. There’s no overt political agenda here—it’s more a cleansing of the soul, and the inevitable party that ensues as a result.And what a party it is.

.

Carlos Santana had been planning this since 1988, when he and sax master Wayne Shorter found themselves touring with the Miles Davis Band. They began to envision a tour that would also include Herbie Hancock, Chick Corea and other musicians who envisioned a world of shared cooperation and aspirations on a global level. It would be 2004 before the dream was realized. Miles Davis had passed on, but Santana still clinged to his dream. So when Montreux Jazz Festival organizer Claude Nobs, gave him free reign to do what he wanted at the Jazz Festival in 2004, the dream reached fruition.

.

On 15 July 2004, Santana and a few of his friends played a concert that redefined live performances. It lasted for over three hours, and watching it even now, the mind boggles at how tight it is. First, there is Santana’s band itself, a formidable lineup that works seamlessly between Latin, African, jazz and soul rhythms, augmented by the vocals of Andy Vargas. They’re the backbone of all the performances in the concert, with Santana’s inimitable guitar stylings providing a unique flavor to all the proceedings.Had it only been Santana and his band performing, it would have been a memorable show.

.

But this was designed to be an event celebrating peace and freedom, as interpreted through music. The tour wouldn’t happen, but they could deliver the inherent message in one show. To that end, Santana’s band was augmented by a number of guests of legendary status—Wayne Shorter on sax, Herbie Hancock on keyboards, John McClaughlin on guitar—and that was only for the warm-up piece. Within minutes, they’re joined by a stellar array of luminaries such as Ravi Coltrane, lending his sax as counterpoint to Shorter’s phrasings, and Chick Corea melding his Fender Rhodes seamlessly with Hancock’s keyboard stylings.

.

What’s most amazing about this DVD is how it transports the viewer into the spirit of that night. One by one, guest performers join the lineup, their enthusiasm for the message obvious by sheer virtue of their delivery. Angelique Kidjo’s Afro-jazz vocals are complimented by the soul-laced renderings of Patti Austin and Barbara Morrison, with Chic singer Sylver Sharp adding a dose of funk to what is an incredibly silky female vocal ensemble. Before it’s all done, Steve Winwood and rapper Sam Totah (who leads the performers in a fiery hip-hop infused version of “Give Peace A Chance”) have joined the stage. It’s not so much a concert as it is one glorious jam session.

.

Given the context of the show, it’s not surprising that some of the songs have vaguely political overtones: i.e. Bob Marley’s “Get Up Stand Up” and Marvin Gaye’s “What’s Going On”, but they’re performed in such a celebratory way that they become testaments to the enduring power of the human spirit. In fact, the entire show succeeds in doing what it sets out to do—it celebrates the universality of inner peace as a means of world salvation. The fact that it rocks nonstop for three hours doesn’t hurt one bit.

Farewell to the King

.

.
Tonight marks something of a milestone in the history of television. After nine seasons, The King of Queens airs is final episode, and with its conclusion, a chapter in situation comedies is closed.

.

Airing on CBS opposite ratings juggernauts 24 and Heroes, it’s unlikely the demise of The King of Queens will be regarded with much more respect than a backpage obituary. It could have been saved, perhaps — placed in a different timeslot as it had been on more than a few occasions in the past — but it opted to go out with a modicum of dignity. Sometimes, you instinctively know your time has come.

.

.Nonetheless, it’s been a good run for The King of Queens. Debuting 21 September 1998 (the same night Will and Grace premiered), The King of Queens ends its reign as the last live-action sitcom to have originated in the 20th century. That in itself says something. As much as the world seems to have changed in the 21st century, the series demonstrated that our core values — or at least, our sense of humor — haven’t radically altered since the early days of The Honeymooners. In fact, both series touched a common nerve in the American psyche.

.

It wasn’t necessary to follow The King of Queens slavishly, any more than it was to follow The Honeymooners or I Love Lucy or Dick Van Dyke. Like the characters in those earlier sitcoms, Doug and Carrie didn’t change much from episode to episode. You could drop in on them anytime, and know without asking that Arthur was still living in the basement, that Carrie was still trying in vain to keep the household sane, that Doug was never going to grow up and they’d still be doing the same thing with a different twist next time you dropped by for a visit. That’s the way the world worked in old school sitcoms, and that’s why we remember them. They provided us with an odd sense of stability.

.

That’s not to say that The King of Queens leaves us without resolution. Secrets are revealed left and right — secrets we heretofore never knew existed. And though it appears that Doug and Carrie will end their reign in divorce, the finale offers twists and turns to rival its network competitors. It might be a good day to finally invest in a TiVo.

.

I won’t mourn the network passing of The King of Queens overmuch. I see it more as passing into an eternal life of syndication. Still, I have to wonder where the future of the network sitcom lies.

Traveler Moves at a Breakneck Pace

The pilot episode of Traveler (sneak preview tonight on ABC, 10 PM, EST) hits the ground running—literally. Sirens blaring in the streets of New York, we see two young men running desperately, from what we don’t know. They retreat to a hotel room, where the TV newscast is giving updates about a terrorist attack, listing them as the suspects in this act of domestic terrorism.

The camera moves in for an extreme close-up of a book on the table-- Jack Kerouac’s On the Road. . .

.
Starting a story in the middle of the action is rarely a bad idea. It may be a cheap shot, but it immediately engages the audience with a sense of “what did I just walk in on?” It’s called misdirection, and the creative team who helm this series are no strangers to the concept. Directed by David Nutter, best known for his work on the X-Files and Without a Trace, this pilot episode is paced more like a feature film than a TV episode. The script by David DiGilio (Eight Below) is taut as a kettle drum, tantalizing the viewer with well-placed, but murky clues in all the key moments,flashing back and forward in the action that would defy logic were it not for his deft scripting.

It all begins with a simple prank. Three grad-school buddies embark on what is supposed to be a cross-country last hurrah road trip before entering into their workaday futures. But when one of the trio, Will Traveler, convinces Jay Burchell and Tyler Fog to rollerblade through an iconic art museum in New York City, the first leg of the road trip takes a very twisted turn. An explosion rocks the museum, and Jay and Tyler suddenly find themselves prime suspects in an act of domestic terrorism. Worse, they gradually realize that their friend Will Traveler set them up to cover up his own involvement in the bombing.

Traveler takes the premise and runs with it. In so doing, it calls into question the nature of loyalty, patriotism and love, and wraps it up in the fabric of well-placed paranoia. If the pilot is any indication, this looks to be a series fraught with twists and turns to rival 24 or Lost in its heyday. We already know more than the protagonists in that we see that nothing is as it seems. It offers enough tantalizing hints to keep us going through the summer. If it can maintain the pace it set running out of the gate, it may very well end up being a must-see come fall.

After tonight’s sneak preview, Traveler begins its weekly run May 30. I suggest you watch tonight’s head start. You’ll be the talk of the water cooler.

The Exies End Their Exile

.

.

It's been well over two years since the Exies released an album, and truth be told, they weren't greatly missed. They were one of those bands that seemed always on the cusp of success, what with landing soundtrack deals on a couple of Playstation and XBox games, and being an opening act for Motley Crue in 2005 ( a dubious distinction at best.) But they were unable to crack that sound barrier that would make them stars. After three albums, two of them on Virgin, it looked as if the Exies were done. Virgin dropped them, and the band began to disintegrate. Original guitarist David Walsh and drummer Dennis Wolfe decided it would be a good time to jump ship.

.

Vocalist Scott Stevens and bassist Freddie Hererra soldiered on, though, and after reuniting with guitarist Chris Skane, they set about to resurrecting the Exies from the ashes of oblivion. What results is their fourth album, A Modern Way of Living With the Truth. It's not only their best effort to date--it stands apart from the current crop of LA bands.

.

While their earlier efforts weren't terrible, they didn't do much to distinguish the Exies from other bar bands with a record deal. For the most part, they sounded like they were working the room. The songs on Inertia and Head For the Door showed promise, but failed to take that necessary leap of faith, and presented nothing challenging.

.

The hiatus has done the band a world of good. "Exies" was always shorthand for "Existentialists", but A Modern Way of Living With the Truth is the first work the band has produced that actually reflects that stance. Oh, it still has that polished LA hard rock sound that gets airplay, but this outing sounds more sincere than contrived. They've emerged from their self-imposed exile rejuvenated, tighter and with a sense of purpose that simmers through the three chord structures. This time, the Exies mean business, and they're taking no prisoners.

.

It takes some chutzpah to open what is ostensibly a hard rock album with an acoustic ballad, yet "The Leaving Song" sets the tone for what follows, if not musically, then certainly lyrically. Most of what follows (and this, according to the band) are songs about coming to grips with the past, while seeking the best for the future. There's nothing particularly earth-shattering in that approach-- themes of uncertainty have always been a mainstay of rock. What the Exies bring to the table, though, is a post-grunge sensibility to those themes. The result is often blistering, as in "Lay Your Money Down," with its rant against materialism, and sometimes plaintive, particularly on "Stray." "Different Than You," the first single from the LP, aptly demonstrates the band's new-found strength, with its staight-ahead, grinding guitars, solid bass and pounding drums (courtesy of "Hoss"). But its on their reworking of Talking Heads' "Once In a Lifetime" that the Exies prove beyond doubt they're a band to be reckoned with. The lyrics are the only reference point to the original tune, with the new version being a haunting acoustic tune punctuated with buzzsaw guitars in the chorus.

.

The Exies stumbled on their early efforts-- it happens. But with A Modern Way of Living With the Truth, they've finally found their voice. I think we'll be hearing a lot more of it. This is a guitar band that rocks without pandering. We need more voices like that.

Before We Wore Black

.

.

Behind me, clouds boiled darkly, scarred here and there by jagged patches of light, constantly shifting by the whims of the wind. A storm was approaching, bearing the dregs of the past and heralding in an undreamed future. The wind hurled tiny needles of refreshing rain into my face as I hurried on to meet Elke at the bus stop, from where we would be ferried to the train. That part of the plan proved fruitless, as the storm had other plans, and I found myself flashing back to another time. . .

.

It was a stormy May morning in 1985, and my wife at the time had just gone into labor. I couldn't help but smile to myself as we drove the Cutlass to the hospital, directly into the approaching storm. From what I'd been told, it was a day not unlike the morning I entered into the world some thirty years earlier. Margeaux would enter the world with a dramatic flourish, after all. . .

.

The light rail train moved almost silently, shielding us from the storm without as we made our way through the concrete corridors of Dallas. The train was crowded, packed with an odd combination of weary office workers still strapped to laptops, street hustlers just beginning their workday, and assorted laborers, vagabond tourists and sullen city dwellers. Nobody talks much on those afternoon commutes. Elke and I were no different. We sat across from each other, exchanging nervous smiles and clasping each other's hand. I couldn't know what thoughts were racing through her head at this point. The daughter I'd been trying to find for 18 years was waiting just a few stops down the line. . .

.

There was no happier man in the history of the universe than me when I first held Margeaux. I was in the delivery room when she emerged, and except for the doctor and the nurse, I was the first one to hold her. Imagine an ocean flowing over you, drowning you in the unknown, suffocating you, then releasing you you into a universe you could never have imagined, where an infinite future beckons. Imagine all that happening in a moment of touch, and you have a vague idea of how I felt when I first held my daughter. . .

.

Light rail trains don't lurch to a stop--they glide imperceptibly to their destination, and if you're not paying attention, you'll float right by. The storm had subsided, but the gray skies against the skyscrapers of downtown Dallas--a hodgepodge of gargoyles, urban statuary and pale blue glass towers--only enhanced my odd sense of noir-ish ennui. I should have been nervous--I'd only reconnected with Margeaux two weeks earlier, and we'd only spoken via phone. It all happened so quickly that I didn't even have a current photo of her. She told me she was a bit on the goth side, and that she would be wearing black. That couldn't be too difficult--Elke and I would most likely be wearing black, also. After all, it simplifies laundry. . .

.

We laughed a lot during those first few years-- at least, that's what the photos indicate. They're all full of bright colors and smiles, typical of happy dreams. The marriage was going south even then, though. The divorce was messy, I was blindsided, and despite court orders, Margeaux vanished from my life for a while, gone to parts unknown. I never gave up hope, though, and neither did she. . .

.

The wind whipped in all directions as Elke and I raced to the Greyhound bus station. The storm had put us behind schedule for what would be the singlemost momentous event of our lives. She was rushing headlong into stepmotherhood, I was about to meet my baby daughter all grown up, and somewhere in that bus station was Margeaux, who I just knew had to be wondering what the hell she's gotten herself into. . .

.

Enough flashbacks raced through my head to fill several books. I wondered what flashbacks Margeaux had on her bus trip. And I wondered what was going through Elke's head. . .

.

Once again, storms turned out to be a salvation--Margeaux had come in from West Texas, and ridden the storm all the way. Some things never change. Elke and I, somewhat bedraggled but nonetheless for wear, were waiting as the bus pulled into the station. It was a cacophany in the Greyhound station, but we made our way to what had to be the bus from West Texas. Elke saw her first--"That's Margeaux!" she shouted, even though she'd never seen her before. (She said later it was the lips.) I looked up, dumfounded. . .

.

Beauty, I know, is subjective. But when Margeaux first emerged from the Greyhound, time stopped for me. Her hair was raven black now,and draped over her shoulders, accentuated by twin ponytails, but I flashed back to her auburn tresses when she was three. Her eyes were accented with black eyeliner, making them even larger than when she was a baby. She was wearing a black jacket and indigo jeans, and I couldn't help but chuckle-- it was hardly goth. . .

.

Margeaux and I had already made a pact we wouldn't cry when we met--and we didn't. But when we hugged, eighteen years of uncertainty were washed away in a nanosecond. She had heard tales of me, most of which ended in my demise. And I, considering her age wondered if she had been shipped off to Iraq, among other outcomes. Neither of us ever gave up, though.

She found some of my Blogcritics writings, and wondered if that guy might be her father. I searched for her, and thanks to the unique spelling of her name, found her in a martial arts forum. The hunt, as it were, was on..

.

I had just come back from lunch when a co-worker told me I had a call. "Your daughter's on the line," he said. I took the call upstairs. The voice on the other end was faltering, nervous. "I think I'm your daughter," she said. . ..

.

That was two weeks earlier. Now, I was hoisting her luggage as we made our way home. We didn't talk a lot-- there would be plenty of time for that once we unpacked. For now, the smiles were enough. We'd brought three umbrellas--Margeaux chose the black one.

.

It didn't really matter. The storms had passed to the east, and the future lay ahead.