Greetings Xanga readers. I'm assuming you've all left.

So this disclosure will be no holds barred.

Yes. I am back in Detroit. Moved back here in February to help mom with grandma and to reconnect with my daughter Chloé. Ironic: As I write this, my absolute favorite Bill Evans song ("Waltz For Debby") is playing in the background. That is the song I wish to dance to with my daughter at her wedding, if she chooses to do that.

Wow. Talk about a change of pace. Philadelphia was all about what you were doing after work. Detroit is all about being with family and friends at a much, much slower pace. I've been able to help mom out with grandma, who is in the advanced stages of Alzheimer's. I've been able to have dinners and meaningful conversations with Chloé. I've been able to relive my carefree high school days with my best chum Mark Chownyk (more on that later). I've come back home.

Home ain't so bad.

OK. Too fucking ironic. I'm just letting iTunes do it's thang. Song playing now: that "who says you can't go home" ditty by Jon Bon Jovi. Now I remember why I blogged.

Best moment (aside from the family stuff): Watching MY Detroit Red Wings win the 2008 Stanley Cup and then, watching the parade RIGHT THERE ON WOODWARD AVENUE and being FIFTEEN FEET from Nicklas Lidstrom and the STANLEY CUP. I cried very hard that day and none of the tears were from sadness. That experience rates second, right after watching Chloé being born. Being "that close" to the Cup.  Holy. I've been to Jerusalem. The Holy Sepulchre, where Jesus was supposedly crucified. Been to Bethlehem, where the son of God was born.

But ... motherfuckers ... I GOT WITHIN 15 FEET FROM THE STANLEY CUP and that, for very personal and spiritual reasons ... would be like finding the Holy Grail. Ergo, it's HOLE-EEE. Second best day of my life. I've watched my beloved Red Wings win three Cups before and I always lived out of state. I was on the phone with my grandma in 1997 (before her Alzheimer's) and we shared that moment together. I had the same moment this year. I was with grandma and when the Wings won. I cheered and silently cried and looked instantly to grandma. She was asleep. Didn't stop my joy. Took everything in me to not shake her by the shoulders.

And then I went to the parade. Seeing the coach. The players. The organization. The Cup. It was all too much. It was like watching game six all over again. Joy and excitement. Being home. With someone I love.

It was at that hot, humid day, with me standing there in the middle of Woodward Avenue where I had no regrets about leaving the City of Philadelphia. All was right with the world.

Second best day of my life.

Are things as good as we remember? Or are we remembering things better than they were?

I first uttered that line about five or six years ago on stage. It was my absolute, proudest theatrical production — Jeff Daniels’ “The Vast Difference.”

I’ve been attempting to remember that line verbatim, all day. I’ve struggled and, failing Internet access, I kept struggling and grappling for the exact line. It bothered me that I couldn’t remember it because it was the one that resonated with me.

I’ve lived my whole life trying to recreate memories. I’ve attempted to relive going to Metropolitan Beach with my kids and my one grandkid, hoping to rekindle the magic I felt as a youth. I’ve revisited movies, TV sitcoms and music that I once cherished before I turned 18. Again, I was hoping to rekindle the magic. Fell short. The music sucked, compared to my standards today. Same for the TV shows and movies. Case in point: I once memorized nearly the entire dialog to the “Blues Brothers” movies. I was a junior in high school. But by my senior year, I could’ve been a stand-in for Belushi. I watched the move a couple of months ago and said — after 30 minutes — I’ve had enough. Going home.

When my interest in hockey was rekindled in adulthood (not that far ago), I was from Detroit and the Red Wings were on a Stanley Cup streak. Today, I am less interested in the Red Wings, but more interested in hockey. In fact, I could care less about the Wings than I do about predicting who is going to clinch each division title. I've lived in three different states. Each have their own NHL teams. I WANT to still care for the Red Wings. I follow their stats and their standings. But I highly doubt what I will do what I did in 1997. I had the Red Wings logo shaved into the back of my head. I was living out of state at the time. But I didn't care. That "magic" will never be the same; at least in my lifetime.

I don’t know what’s going on. All I know is that I spent the last three days of my holiday vacation building up to the Mummers Parade today in Philadelphia. It was such a grand time last year, that I was sure it would repeat itself. The parade was on the verge of being postponed because of inclement weather. I did my homework and learned that the Mummers Parade big wigs met at 4 a.m. on Jan. 1 to consult with a weather expert. And then they would decide there and then if they would strut or postpone. I set my alarm clock at 5 a.m. this morning. I just wanted to know because I worked my ass off to make this year’s Mummers Parade better than last year’s. And I heard about 5:16 a.m. that the Mummers would strut, but would be delayed by about three hours.

So I text messaged my pal Saly. Regular readers, you should know about her from previous blogs. If you don’t, do a search of Saly (yes, with one “L” and you’ll find her here). I kind of helped her co-host last year’s Mummers Day by default. We were both in the blues for similar reasons. Actually, we were VERY MUCH IN THE BLUES FOR THE EXACT SAME REASONS. And, by total happenstance, we threw this killer party on Jan. 5, 2007 (last year’s parade was postponed due to rain). It went off without a hitch, even though we were crying on both each other’s shoulders hours before the parade and her party were supposed to start. I was all over Philadelphia last year and I was mesmerized by the pageantry, the tradition, the beauty and the conviviality. I had never had such a momentous New Year’s Day ... ever!

And here I was, down in the dumps, with a co-worker who was in the same emotional boat as I was, and we made the best of it. I’m not much of a believer in New Years resolutions and all that. But the fact of the matter was, it was already Jan. 5. Yet, after that day, I knew 2007 would be better than 2006. In retrospect, it was.

So where am I going with this? I’m getting there. Trust me.

2007 was better than 2006. Yet, as most of us feel in the last days of the year, many of us are forced to look back at the “should’ves” and “could’ves” and we enter the new year in regret. This is not from my mind, but from a very insightful article from the New York Times. Look it up yourself. I’m too lazy to provide the link (I think it appeared Dec. 31st).  However, the gist of the article said we actually create a lesser quality of mental health by dwelling on regrets. I’m paraphrasing too liberally. I read this just after 6 a.m. this morning after I heard the Mummers Parade was on.

So, with about seven hours to kill (before I was to show up at Saly’s), I thought long and hard about things.

Are things as good as we remembered, our are we remembering things better than they were?

It is now a quarter to 11 p.m. I have relived the Mummers Parade experience this year. I tried — ever so hard — to recreate the magic I felt last year. And this is what I learned.

The key word in the above phrase is “magic.”

There were certain minor elements in the party tonight that could marginally qualify as “magic." But, compared to last year, things were remembered better than they were. I struggled so much to come up with this exact phrasing that I called Amy.

Amy has been mentioned here and there in my blogs. But she was and always will be my wife. She directed me in the "Vast Difference" play. And she probably doesn’t remember her coaching me on that line, but she did. I wasn’t saying it right. But we would come home from rehearsal and we would climb into bed and review the night’s effort toward bettering community theater.

“Do you know what that line means?” she asked me as she spooned me.

Of course, my stubborn Scottish pride got in the way.

“Of course I know!”

But she needled me ... on that one line. She KNEW what it meant. I didn’t at the time. But she made me understand and — to this day — I give Amy full credit for me winning a regional community theater award for acting and advancing the entire ensemble to state competition.*

Again ... where am I going with this?

I work my butt off to have a better Mummers Day party than last year. Within the last 12 months, there are at least five people at work with who are  new hires. I’ve become very close to them all. They care enough about me that they have driven me to the hospital when I was very sick, or called me after the doctor’s appointment to learn if I had cancer or not. Good, good friends. All I’ve done in the last 12 months is talk about the Mummers Day experience. One of my closest associates has been “this close” to quitting. All I said was “dude, just hang around till Mummers Day. Do me that.” I promised not to talk about regrets, but this year's parade fell short of my 8-month long exhortation of why he had to stick it out.l

Most of coworkers showed up tonight. I noticed this year would be different because I woke up in a much different space on Jan. 1, 2008. This is, of course, compared to Jan. 1, 2007. I wasn’t as bitter this year. I took the time off work to do some reflecting. I have made the usual resolutions to better myself. But, I took a step back. I angered a couple of people when I was home in Detroit for the break.

Amy was and — for the several last years — has been first on the list.

Let me repeat what I’ve previously said. Amy is, was, and — in most respects — always will be my wife. We’ve been estranged for the better part of more than two years. I must admit, I’ve hedged my bets because I’ve always thought she’d be there for me “just in case things didn’t work out here in Philly” or "whatever."

I’ve uttered that phrase to her in countless conversations. She’s held on. Even though I made the ultimate mistake. I convinced myself — after some serious soul searching — that I was gay.

The honorable thing that I should have done (as advised by my spiritual counselor at the time, several years ago) was to come clean with Amy. Tell her that I love her. Always will. I just, at this point in my life, have to come clean with liking dudes. Shoulda, coulda, woulda.

Goddamn my pride. It SO set me back.

I met a dude. He paid attention to me. I convinced myself that I was in love with him. When this became public to my immediate family, it tore EVERYONE apart. But, goddamnit, I was bound and determined to not only come out of the closet, but blow the fucking doors off as well. And that hurt even more people.

My pride again, goddamnit.

Of course, I didn’t know what I wanted. I wanted the security and the love and comfort of Amy. But I wanted the taboo, the secrecy and — I know this is contradictory — to be OUT THERE. I had had a number of homosexual and heterosexual experiences leading up to my marriage. I had had enough of both and thought it would be possible to suppress my gay desires if I married the right woman.

Amy was the one. And, please forgive me Amy for being too personal too publicly. But she did not dissatisfy, sexually that is. We had our fair share of arguments. I had threatened to walk out on her a few times.

But the most disturbing thing was, by the time I had discovered that I was most comfortable being gay, things were really, really good in our marriage. All things. Finances. Our everyday exchanges. The way we dealt with the kids. Our sex life. Was all really good.

But ...

There’s always a but. I was “missing something.” So I started flirting with guys online through chatrooms and bulletin boards. And a guy answers me. And I meet him. And I decide, still inside the closet, that he’s the one.

Here’s the truly weird thing. I help this guy rent an apartment about 10 miles from where I live. But, I couldn’t let go of Amy and our family. On the one hand, I proudly proclaimed that I am gay and God help the rest of you who don’t want to understand. On the other hand, I felt enormously guilty for turning my back on my family. This was even after I met similar gay men who had married and went down the same path I did and found themselves alright after divorce.

I was so wracked with guilt. I still am. When Amy asked me before we got married “are you gay or what?”, I should’ve answered “I don’t know” or “I’m pretty sure I’m bi.” But I didn’t. And we had Chloe before we got married. So, in addition to her beautiful daughters Laura and Katie, I wrecked another young life. One that I double-handedly help spawn. The true shame of it is is that Chloe and I used to have a wonderful relationship. We were tight. We banded against Amy and Laura and Katie because Chloe hadn’t yet experienced puberty and she was cool enough to laugh at my “how stupid are they?” jokes.

And I destroyed all of that because I was SELFISH enough to venture outward.

I don’t REGRET that decision. The primary reason behind the previous statement is because I’ve learned many valuable lessons along this six-year journey. Most of them I already knew, thanks to a good group of friends who have helped keep my sane.

One lesson I’ve learned: No such thing as a geographical fix. I moved to Philly because I considered it a very gay-friendly town. Lesson learned: it’s gay, but it ain’t so friendly. Just like I  moved to rural Illinois to escape similar problems. And just like I moved to rural Ohio to escape even more similar problems. If there's one thing I did right, it's that I've moved to a big enough city where people don't give a shit. (They really don't).

Second lesson learned: You may think you can fix all your problems by moving elsewhere. Lesson learned: Yep. For the interim. But your problems follow wherever you go.

Third lesson learned: Refer to the aforementioned lesson. And if you truly believe that (if you move at least 300 miles away) you believe you can defer the problems that follow you. Lesson learned: They follow you. Oh" God, do they! Just pretend you're Dorothy in the "Wizard of Oz." Instead of saying "There's no place like home," say: "Whatever bullshit I left behind will follow me no matter where I go!"

Fourth lesson learned: AND HERE IS MY THESIS. You may move somwhere else or do something else that you consider “magical."

Lesson learned: There is NO MAGIC. It is truly what you “remembered better than it was.”  You can convince yourself that the “magic” gets better each year. I’ve had a truckload full of such experiences. I think I can say this with some authority. I’ve spent about half my life trying to recreate the magic.

It was returning to that frat party at Michigan State or inviting my student newspaper buddies to my house to get seriously wrecked. Too many and too boring experiences to recount. I gave up on that one about 15 years ago. You find the more "mature" classmates have given up on that dream, way before you have. Talk about a buzz kill.

It was going to the same sporting event over and over again, trying to relive that initial experience. For me, it was watching Sergie Federov score a winning goal in overtime for the Wings in the late ‘90s. Or, even more recently, it was watching Donovan McNabb struggle with the fans and the press; trying to place the Eagles in the playoffs. PLEASE, PLEASE DO NOT WASTE YOUR BREATHE OR ENERGY TRYING TO RECREATE THE MAGIC OF A TEAM FROM YESTERYEAR! IF YOU DO, YOU ARE A LOSER!

I was going to a play in the early 1990s. It was a play written by Jeff Daniels and it was called “The Vast Difference.” And It was about me being so taken by this playwright’s effort that I said to myself “I am too young to play the lead now, but watch out for me in 10 years.” I (and Amy) made it happen. She directed me. And there are still days when I can recite entire soliloquies (I had the LEAD part, after all) when I am feeling bad. There's this poignant part of the play, where the lead character realizes that his Dad, who has been with him thoughout the play — is just a faded memory that he is touched. I know this part by hard because when I am feeling bad (often on the R3 West Trenton commuter train) I recite the lines in my head. And, for sure, this makes me cry. Every time. But, I walk away from the experience and it makes me feel happy because it took me 10 years to achieve get the part of a lifetime that I still keep playing out in my head. And I still recound all my acquaintences telling me that I was so "Hollywood." I owe that to Amy.

But ... and this is a BIG, BIG but ...

For that once instance, things were actually better than I remembered them.  I think that’s because I envisioned my destiny — no matter how long it took — and I was bound and determined to make it happen. Amy and I had a lot of fortitude. We were true partners who tried to get this play we saw produced in Detroit in the early 1990s on stage in rural Illinios and Ohio in the early 2000s. But, WE made it happen and it exceeded our wildest dreams.

Trust me, this is all coming full circle. I know I’m rambling. But it’s late and I’m tired. If you’ve stuck with me so far, dear reader, please consider this:

We can remember things as good as we were and, if you were an important part of making that initial “magic” moment happen, there’s still a really good chance it won’t happen. If you go into that experience fully appreciating and accepting that, then ...

You are EXACTLY where I am.

Mummers Day failed me miserably this year. I tried, ever, ever so hard to recreate the "magic" I felt. I’ve actually been working on a play for the last year inspired by last year’s Mummers Day. This year, I put in more money toward Saly’s party and certainly more elbow grease into making her place more open and inviting for today's event.. And I’ve done my homework to help advance my playwriting efforts.

However, Mother Nature wasn’t as kind to as as She was last year. Last year, I wore a University of Maine hockey jersey, jeans and sneakers and I was sweating. I studied today’s forecast well, well in advance of braving the outdoors of 2nd Street and Wharton. I dressed like I was about to deer hunt in the U.P.

It sucked. It just sucked all the way. Gone was the revelry, the “bon temp rouillez”, The Mummers seemed to expand 2nd Street last year. They were nonstop and in great spirits. This year, it was about 30 minutes in between the comics and the string bands. I would hear the trombones and other brass going “BOMP BOMP BOMP BOOOOMP” and race downstairs to see them and try to experience the magic that I felt last year. There were fewer of them and they were way fewer and farther in between.

If you, faithful Xanga reader, do a search from about a year ago, you’ll find my initial Mummers Day blog. I was transformed, mesmerized, transfixed. I DO NOT DANCE. However, last year, a float went by blaring Springsteen’s “Rosalita” and I was out on “Two Street” dancing with everyone. Didn’t care.

There was one person who shared that experience with me last year. Her name is Natalie. She has a 14-month-old son named Armando and another child one the way. A year ago, she just wanted to hang out and have fun. Tonight, she was here with Saly’s brother (her husband) and her pregnancy was really showing. I found myself standing next to Natalie tonight.

“You know what my favorite memory of last year’s Mummers Day was?” I asked her.

She shrugged.

It was pretty late in 2007. Natalie, Saly and I spent pretty much the entire day going from house to house, block to block trying to find the perfect spot to watch the Mummers. I found that spot toward the end of the evening. I was standing next to Natalie. This weird-ass float comes by and stops (as they all do) right in front of Saly’s building. They start blaring Bruce Springsteen’s “Rosalita” and I just forget what I’m doing and sprint out toward the middle of 2nd Street and start dancing.

I KNEW what I was doing. I was trying to recreate the magic that I had experienced when I was a prepubescent teen. My older sister loved and adored Springsteen. She left our family unit when I was nearing 18. After she left, I suddenly found myself listening to her music. At the time, I thought it was because I missed the music being played. However, in all actuality, it was because I missed her. And though Kim never played “Rosalita” as loud as I listented to them on the headphones in our childhood basement,  it was after her departure that one summerl I always have identified that song as my connection to Kim.

So. Last year, I’m standing at 2nd and Wharton and “Rosalita” starts blaring out of what seemed to be bazillion amps out of a U-Hual truck, I just stopped what I was doing and I let go of all of my inhibitions and started dancing. Dancing like I had never danced before. Saly’s sister-in-law Natalie is taking me by the hand, drawing me in closer toward the music and the Mummers. And, for the first time in many, many years, I feel MAGIC.

Yet, this year, I forget the lesson I’ve learned from so many times before: it’s virtually impossible to recreate the magic of your memory. I told myself going into today’s event, knowing that it had been delayed by three hours and it was about 40 degrees cooler (and very windy) compared to last year.

But, the stupid, selfish, bullish PRIDE in me said “no, if you work hard enough, you will recreate the magic and .. MAKE IT EVEN BETTER.”

So tonight was OK. I refuse to say it was disappointing. People showed up. They seemed to have a good time.

But it didn’t measure up to last year. And, so, now I am home. It is before midnight. I am entering the second day of 2008.

I guess the whole point of this is that I still — even with a minor modicum of wisdom and 40 years behind me — have so, so, so ...

... So much to learn.

Yet, this I hang on to. This is what keeps me alive.

I may not be able to recreate the "magic" as described above.

What keeps me going is the firm belief that — if I play my cards right — there is much, much better "magic" on its way.

HAPPY NEW YEAR'S READERS! LOVE YOU ALL!!!