How I Began to Scratch the Surface of a Diamond with Cubic Zirconia

Facebook message on March 30, 2012.

Ernest Stone: I'm doing a travel essay about the wedding, is there anyway you could put me in contact with Sue?        

           Davey Doo: Dear young Ernest, you’re out of your fucking mind! Uncle Davey

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Monetarily, emotionally, and structurally, nobody is more alien to the concept of discipline than David Stone. My Uncle Dave is the man who every shallow 13-year-old aspires to be. A high school dropout, Dave boasts of his fabricated University of Michigan degree, as if to make light of the fact that his fellow businessmen, and Wolverines, will work twice as hard, yet yield half as much as him. Employing his blue tooth headset and massive personality, Uncle Dave has built an empire for himself that includes: an upscale apartment that overlooks the San Francisco Bay, business appointments in foreign countries, perpetual VIP seats at concerts and sporting events, various luxury vehicles, and love interests almost two decades younger than himself. Beyond that, I guess what really attracts me, and virtually everybody, to Uncle Dave is what he doesn’t have- a fuck to give about anybody other than himself.

Given what you now know about David Stone, you can imagine how excited I was in 1999, when I received news of his plans to marry his girlfriend, Sue. “Aunt Sue” was a literal vegetarian who grounded the most carnivorous businessman in San Francisco. When Dave was occupied with his business, Sue would assist me in promoting business ventures of my own, the most memorable of which being an in-home, back-massage service. While the rest of us would put up with Dave’s childlike, but admittedly hilarious behavior, Sue would playfully condemn it, acknowledging Dave’s undoubted comedic charm but simultaneously housebreaking him. At the time, it seemed that Sue was the only person capable of refining my uncle, who I hoped would become more accessible as an elder figure with the marriage.

Yet, the sincere desires I had for a traditional relationship with my uncle were momentarily thrown aside upon my being told of his plans to stage an early summer wedding in Miami.  Perhaps I wanted the modest, economy car, version of David a few years down the road, but the Ferrari that was currently my uncle was about to give me the best weekend of my life in South Florida.

The superlative week in Miami actually began with the conclusion of my second grade school year, which even at that time, I understood had been out of place. I had spent kindergarten and first grade at the Hollywood Little Red School House. The Little Red School House was as plush and inviting as it sounded, a garden full of positive energy and inspiration. But in second grade, I found myself trapped at Valley View Elementary. Valley View had a beautiful campus and a few friendly kids, but something wasn’t the same. It didn’t succeed in the same way that the Little Red School House had in establishing a nurturing environment. I felt like a relatively small and unimportant part of the mix at Valley View, and I was glad that my year, and likely my time there as a student, was over. The morning following the final bell of the school year, I began the most promising summer of my young life with a trip to Los Angeles International Airport.

My dad and I excitedly carried our oversized luggage past seasoned businessmen, who had made a habit of compartmentalizing their lives into a few files, and a choice Brooks Brothers suit. I pined for a taste of the fruits of their elegant adulthood, yet took solace in the fact that wherever they were headed, it wasn’t Uncle Dave’s wedding. After checking in our baggage, we were on to the security check, the loud beeps of machines, and clangs of the change and metal belongings invoking memories of Uncle Dave’s birthday bash for Grandma in Las Vegas a year prior. The security check also offered an unadulterated exposure to adulthood. My dad and I, who would hold hands on the way to the restroom, while crossing the street, or on the way to our table at the Good Neighbor Restaurant, were required to pass through the x-ray machine… individually. For a short, but glorious second, both my dad and security workers at the x-ray machine were legally obligated to acknowledge me as my own, separate person. Shortly after my brief secession from my father’s grasps, we were aboard our flight. My mom was to meet me in Miami a day later. She was meeting my dad and everyone else as well, but the thought of being a person for somebody to be meeting in Miami was too romantic to be shared with others.

On the flight my dad and I met Shawn, a friend of Uncle Dave’s. Shawn found his seat just moments before the plane began exiting the terminal gate. Shawn, like David, was perpetually late to everything, because, like David, the world had to wait for his awesomeness. It had taken all of five minutes for Shawn to completely charm my dad and I. Therefore, our landing in Florida was met with my disappointment at having to temporarily part ways with Uncle Dave’s friend.

But the heartbreak lasted a mere thirty minutes, the amount of time it took for my dad and I to reach our hotel from the airport. Located in downtown Miami, the Mayfair House Hotel immediately floored my dad and me, and in the best of possible ways. The resort’s presentation was pleasant and unassuming, but just fancy enough to remind guests of the cash they were throwing down to stay there. The building was draped in deep and wholesome beige, well-churned and creamy, yet just airy enough for second and third helpings. Equally charming was the rectangular courtyard that the hotel’s suites were built around.  Standing in the courtyard made one feel at the center of the universe. Not only was the luxurious complex built around the open space, it was overseen by a pristine glass ceiling that would have left even Roald Dahl at a loss for words. Given that the courtyard was the undeniable centerpiece of the hotel, the only time I wasn’t surprised by my uncle that weekend was when I found out that the ceremony was to take place there.

While the Mayfair House seduced its guests with its rustic refinement, the fast paced lifestyle of downtown Miami sat five minutes away. I gladly spent most of the week in or around the hotel, but I thoroughly enjoyed my time out on the streets of Miami. That actually seems hard to believe looking back, because the place is freaking intimidating. Perhaps it was just the area in which we were situated, but it seemed as if every shallow stereotype I had heard about Miami was true. Almost all of the people outside were young and attractive, perfectly bronzed from the hours they spent at the beach. Almost everybody over the age of 21 possessed alcoholic beverages, generally brightly colored margaritas, while the small minority of older gentlemen nursed cigars. Even the way the sun hit my skin felt different than how it had in Southern California. Miami was basically a gigantic version of the lazy river and surrounding pool area at the MGM Grand. Between the hotel, and Miami’s careless extravagance, it was easy to kill the couple of days before the wedding. Because of all the planning, guests arriving, and general chaos, I barely even saw my uncle before the wedding ceremony.

The day before Uncle Dave’s biggest day, those involved with the ceremony officially entered “wedding mode.” Being the ring bearer was fantastic, because all of the tasks and motions I had to practice preoccupied me. Waiting for anything was much less manageable as a little kid.  Additionally, the ring bearer’s central role in wedding formalities made me an irreplaceable asset. Regardless, the wedding had come, and everything went about as spectacularly as I had hoped it would. My dad and I got to walk around in our rented tuxedos, I stood right next to the coolest person on the planet as he got married, and at around 8 p.m., Sue had been formally ushered into the Stone family. The reception was similar to the week-long shit show that had been going on, but the fact that it followed Dave’s marriage gave it that special aura. Unfortunately, as the night drew to a close, I grew back into the childhood I had temporarily thrown aside for a week in favor of pseudo-adulthood. I went back to my grandma’s hotel room at around 2 a.m., hours before the reception ended. The life of a party animal catches up quickly.

The next day, a post-party party took place. On a yacht. It appeared Uncle Dave would remain a well-oiled Italian sports car for a while longer. Shawn reappeared, line dancing in a speedo stuffed with dollar bills, and a live Reggae Band played us out of the weeklong spectacle.

To have been a child the week of Uncle Dave’s wedding was to have been immersed in perfection. I flirted with Uncle Dave’s female friends well into the latter stages of the nights, attracted to the aroma of tobacco and wine that seeped through their pores, a validation of their adulthood. Clad in revealing yet fashionable clothing, they would clamor over my baby fat. Innocently enamored by their voluminous, dark hair, and intimidating cleavage, I situated myself in the center of the booths they inhabited. Intoxicated as the result of one too many Shirley Temples, I would brazenly inform them of my status as a both a close relative to David, and the ring bearer at the wedding. I may have been shameless in my attempts to seduce women twenty years my elders, but who cared? Miami was a place free of the responsibility and judgment that awaited me at home.

As a twenty-year-old writer back in Los Angeles, I grasp that the adults I’d been trying so unbelievably hard to impress felt the weight of the same problems. That pathetic truth has led me to view Dave’s guests with sober contempt. The “grown-ups” I had surrounded myself with were drinking and partying to escape their shortcomings as much as they were celebrating my uncle’s exciting new life. My parents are a perfect example. At the time, my mom was a dental assistant and my dad was an insurance salesman. Dom Perignon didn’t find its way into our house often. For them, the wedding was an opportunity to escape mundane suburban life and pretend that they had accomplished something worthy of commemorating. I’ve always wondered if my Dad was jealous that he couldn’t provide his own wife with the luxurious vacation that his younger brother did.

The Mayfair House Hotel, now titled The Mayfair Hotel and Spa, represents two polar ideals. In the midst of the summer of 1999, it was the breeding ground to the doctrine of the Stone family’s progression. My unreasonably hip uncle was marrying a woman that left room for his flare, but increased his personal depth. My mom and dad were using the vacation as a way to refuel their marriage. I was looking forward to feeling important again, both at a new school, and within a strengthening family.  Miami, for that one week, was host to a family entering its prime as the new millennium approached.

In 2012, the Mayfair Hotel and Spa serves to demonstrate the naivety of 1999. I understand that there were probably secret bets as to how quickly Uncle Dave’s marriage would fail. My mom and dad’s “reinvigorating” vacation proved to be one of their last great moments together, as they filed for divorce the following year. Shawn became a Republican and now lives in Arizona. Miami, Florida is the emotional Chernobyl of the Stone family.

Yet, 2012 Miami’s empty beauty is an opportunity cost I am at peace with. I know I can never have a week quite like the one I experienced at the Mayfair House Hotel, ever again. To do such, I would need to shed the inevitable jadedness I’ve accumulated with aging, and rediscover the childlike sensibilities that made movies such as “Angels in the Outfield” watchable. That skepticism I’ve accumulated has led me to understand that even Uncle Dave lacks depth in certain areas. He’s successful in material terms, but he’s never been that emotionally accessible safety blanket I've desired in an elder figure. What’s more frustrating is that I believe he has that capability, but chooses to remain the way he is because, under the seemingly endless layers of bullshit, he’s insecure about something. Had he not had this problem, perhaps Susan Sparks would still be a part of our family. Then again, hindsight and fairness have led me to discover that she wasn’t the nicest person herself. Upon requesting further information about my former aunt, I learned that she treated my uncle uniquely barbaric during the divorce, and that her own mother barely attempts defending her character. Nevertheless, I have somehow managed to remain thankful even as I have grown wry.  Uncle David, with all of his emotional shortcomings, still managed to grant me the best gift I’ve ever, or can ever receive. Thanks to him, somewhere in between the Mayfair House Hotel of 1999, and the Mayfair Resort and Spa of 2012, there remains a week of tangible, virgin, perfection for me to revisit whenever I so choose.

Blank Canvases Subject to Polluted Artists

“Don’t tell me how to raise my kids!”

Why not? If you find yourself uttering those words, you’ve probably done something wrong.

My mom will never have to defend her decision to teach my sister how to read. Skeptical onlookers don’t make parents stand trial for buying their kids calculators, and nobody will refute that vegetables are healthy.

So, let’s be clear. If you are telling a stranger that they have no right to challenge your authority as a parent, your unnaturally heavy, five-year-old daughter may have just leveled the grocery store with a boisterous temper tantrum, the result of not being allowed to have pizza for dinner.

Parents (and by the way, I’m imagining a condescending, obese woman with her child on a leash at a K-Mart) have an irrational sense of entitlement. If I had a son, the only qualifier that made me his father was that I had sex with his mother. So yes, from a genetic standpoint, parents are entitled to at least take a shot in molding their children into respectable people. But that privilege doesn’t afford them the right to ignore outside criticism, especially if disregarding that criticism affects the child’s development.

Because when a parent warns you, “Don’t tell me how to raise my child,” it’s about their ego, and not their child.

At one point or another, everyone second-guesses the value of living in a world in which there are many abstract questions with no concrete answers. Having children can quell those doubts and supplant new meaning into a parent’s life. Knowing this, you can understand how important it is to parents that they get it right. To moms and dads, even the friendliest parenting suggestions can read as, “Yeah, you even suck at raising your own child, the child you had in an attempt to compensate for sucking at everything else!”

I like to put parents into three categories.

            First, accidental and impoverished parents. Those inept with birth control technology or lacking access to it.

            Second, those addressed earlier, parents who lack fulfillment in their own lives, and strive to serve a higher purpose through the introduction of new life.

            Third, arrogant mother fuckers who believe that it would be a crime to deprive the universe of their offspring.

            The gist? There are many different reasons to have children, and all of them are equally invalid.

             But I’ll probably end up a parent. Hopefully, a mildly arrogant, third category parent. When that time comes, let me know if you disagree with any of my parenting decisions.

            Of course, I’m not saying that all criticism is equal. Within reason, please. I’ll gladly listen to how my son needs a higher calcium intake. I’ll remain open minded, but admittedly less optimistic, if you begin to stress an increase in his Jesus levels as well.

But even if you’re scared that I might disagree with you, please, tell me how you believe I can be a better father to my son or daughter. I’d rather hear it from you, than from them.

The Vagrant

The two frat boys approached the vagrant, White Cranberry juice from the corner store in the taller of the two’s hands (sluts like sweet stuff with their vodka).  Poverty was alien to the sophomore business majors at the premier institution, as randomness had granted them wealthy backgrounds and white skin.

Yet, the universe's indiscriminate randomness seemed to have discriminated against the man they passed, who appeared to have been folded horizontally by the downward pressure of gravity, as evidenced by his severe leftward lean.

Lacking street sense, the frat boys tragically forged eye contact with the folded hobo, who then solicited them for spare change.  Randomness had forced two of its prodigal sons to interact with one of its shameful afterthoughts, and for but a brief moment, the homeless man was granted access to the better world he had not usually been allowed participation in. 

But the itinerant beggar was out of line, and the fortunate sons, who had accidentally allowed the man into their sphere, refused the proposition, sending him back to the realm in which he belonged.  After all, the man had no right to take advantage of the college students.  Contrary to what most, including the vagrant would have believed, the dollar bills the frat boys possessed in their wallets did not grow on trees.  They came from manipulative emails sent home to parents.

Returning to the party, the two frat boys, already reasonably buzzed, began experiencing the faintest semblances of guilt as the result of the charity they refused to provide for the homeless man.  Attempting to silence his self-reproach, the shorter of the frat boys, already three parties deep into Spring Break, reassured his counterpart that, “He probably would have just spent the money on alcohol anyway.”