"Reunion" by Tessa Borbridge

The old tribe met up tonight, joyous yet politely restrained, something I, for one, was conscious of, perhaps remembering too well how unleashed our expression was when we were friends as kids. We sat round the round table, throwing memories into the mix, like ingredients to a delicious slumber-party concoction, instantly resurrecting long lost feelings in our seance summoning the spirits of little girls. It was a gift to us all, lending a break from current circumstances, good and bad. It's nice to go on trips, some of us perhaps more eager to return than others. I myself could have lingered...

"My Breath Away" by Anonymous

Face frozen, hands shaking, face flushes, stomach drops, brain swirls, breath catches, lungs paralyze, voice disappears, butterflies dance.

"Did you hear what I said?"

Mind races, eyes drop, eyes lift, tears well, eyelashes blink, jaw clenches, goosebumps pop, fingers clench, head jerks, ears perk, muscles tighten, nerves tingle, memories shuffle, cheeks redden, eyes close.

"I said, every time that I look at you, you take my breath away."

Heart races, hope rekindles, desires pulse, butterflies explode, hearing ebbs, muscles loosen, eyes open, relief trickles, breath returns, butterflies sleep, lungs loosen, eyes shine, grin emerges, tears fall, eyes meet.

Time Stops.

House of G Presents: "Espresso" (Nayef Perry)

Today I found an espresso in the most unordinary of places. A tiny New York alley, a rusty fire escape, and a small window. Inclined to order two, sadly, “just one” I said. The coffee was aromatic, warm, and it glowed. Suddenly, coffee for one seemed just fine. Before long, a second cup appeared just at arms length, down the bar. Its bouquet was alluring. I savored that moment as memories of other coffee houses journeyed through my head. I found the courage to take a sip. It was the zenith of espressos. For now, it will be coffee for two.

-Nayef Perry

House of G's 101 Words Project Presents: Greek Goddess

I sat at her desk and couldn’t help but notice her striking good looks, a perfect arrangement of nose freckles on a chiseled face enveloped by golden brown skin. She possessed the kind of beauty that would instinctively force a man down on bended knee in the hopes of calling her his own. I glanced at her prominently placed business cards, which read, “Nixzaliz Tavares, Personal Banker.” “Nixzaliz? What an interesting name,” I quipped. “Greek,” she stated matter-of-factly. Although the conversation had run its course, I asked for her business card with the intent of gazing at this Greek goddess again.

-Tony Lace

101 Words

101 words may be too many to string together when words are not your thing. To a writer, 101 words - just 101 words - is like a sweater that's too small -- there's not enough material to go around. This is why I like the constriction of Twitter's 140 characters; it's a challenge (for me anyway) to be concise and still aim for a narrative.

I've invited some brave souls, my friends, to participate in authoring 101-word stories. This is not new. Sites like 101 Words offer a platform for budding and established writers to publish their short stories.

So in collaboration with some brave souls, I'll be posting stories in the coming weeks -- stories assembled in such a way that they serve as succinct reflections of the writers themselves. If you feel moved to contribute, I - we - welcome it.

-House of G

World Cup Fever

I have World Cup Fever (a.k.a., FIFA Fever), and I am conducting a relationship with a Panasonic flat screen.

I once played soccer/football/futbol as a kid, so I'm not an adult newbie to the game. As a soccer player I sucked. I didn't even look cute in my uniform. My parents did spawn one kid that played well: my sister. And yet she has never contracted FIFA Fever. She's too consumed by baseball (yawn), and planning her wedding (I'm not allowed to yawn at this).

During the 2002 World Cup I watched games unfold in bars in Europe. Perhaps this is where and why I learned not to be so constrained about my emotions during a game. During the 2006 World Cup I lived in San Francisco, which boasted an inordinate amount of Americans interested in soccer. My friends and I had no problem finding places to watch games with other enthusiasts. These soccer venues had names like O'Malley's, O'Reilly's, and O'Neill's. My favorite was Martin Macks in the Lower Haight. They even served beans on toast. During those days I drank more pints than normal while the sun still hung in the sky, and I often found that after games my voice was oddly hoarse.

During the World Cup, in a pub, sitting on a stool, in a soccer jersey, or other patriotic accoutrement (I favor headbands) no one sits still or stays silent. Everyone is editorializing, scowling, exuberantly jumping up and down, screaming, and during the more emotional moments, shedding a tear or two. Maybe that's just my behavior.

But, seriously, who didn't well up when North Korea's Jong Tae-Se sobbed as his country's national anthem resoundingly filled Ellis Stadium in Johannesburg before the match with Brazil? (I thought all North Koreans had learned as good proletariat children how to block their lacrimal glands when moments of human emotion pierce their propaganda-blazed armor.) This is just one example.

A soccer game is a 90-minute narrative in motion (with added time). It's the only game that from the opening kickoff to the final whistle blow includes a colorful cast of characters (on and off the field), a conflict of highs and lows across the pitch, climactic goal attempts and blocks, and a resolution that can still end in a draw. Critics like to point to a conclusionary tie as nonsensical and a reason to hate the game. I pity those fools.

A soccer game is not predictable. Even if a team has the best individual player (or a few) in its lineup it has to work cohesively in order to set a rhythm that allows for the end perfection of a goal, or a human shield-in-motion that stymies the other team's assault on the penalty box.

A soccer game during the World cup is not just another soccer game. National pride is at stake, and it all takes place on a global stage. I'd even argue that soccer, more than any other sport, is unifying. It connects people whose love of the game transcends individual circumstances across continents, from favelas, pubs, living rooms, standing-room-only storefronts, to high-brow lounges. It knows no economic class, skin color, age, or favors a particular political ideology. Differences, for around 90 minutes, are swept aside.

Individual ego also has to be swept aside or it can blow up a team's chance to advance (mon dieu, Les Bleus!); it's the collective that matters. And we, through the teams we cheer for, see ourselves in that collective as it plays and pushes itself to physical and mental limits -- and possibly beyond to soar to greatness.

The World Cup will end on July 11, 2010. Afterward, normalcy will prevail. Until then it's me and the flat screen, or O'Hara's down the street, and my sequined patriotic headband. And, my equally fevered roommate (with matching headband). My days are scheduled around ESPN, and my quest for the perfect American flag bandana continues. Viva World Cup 2010, the first World Cup in Africa, and may the best team prevail in hoisting the golden orb, the FIFA trophy, and may it not be Brazil. OK, fine. If Brazil is the best team.

House of G Gives Advice. To Boys.

Are New York men a different breed than the California variety? Can I get through this post without sounding like Carrie Bradshaw?

I am new to the Tri-State area. I am a transplant from my home state of California. There are differences. But there's an indefatigable maxim pertinent to any state and social setting: when guys get drunk they hit on girls. There is a corollary: when girls get drunk they hit on boys.

In this post I will focus on the former dictum in an attempt to help my genuinely clueless and mostly well-intentioned brethren not screw up the first five minutes of talking to a group of ladies, or one in particular. You can screw up on the first date, or beyond, but if it's the first date you'd like to clinch, please stay with me. I may or may not be relying on a recent outing with lady friends. Like, last night.

How Not To Hit On A Collective Of Ladies (or one in particular)

a) Do not brag about how much you make per day without any prompting [and within two minutes of introducing yourself]. P.S. Revealing your per diem salary rate is weird and unimpressive. Talking about your involvement in initiatives to end genocide in Darfur, for example, means you can extricate yourself from your own ego bubble and personal shit. This is impressive.

b) Do not immediately reveal that you are looking for a wife and to "spread my seed", and that you want to take said wife and products of the aforementioned seed back to Toronto. Toronto is cold. And, not every woman is instantly game to jump on the matrimonial bandwagon. With a stranger in a crooked tie.

c) Do not offer that you hope to have a fortune of $20,000,000 when you retire at 65 to live the life you believe you are entitled to in your golden years, but that "it's really not that much", because "bonuses these days suck". You know what sucks? The patronizing look you gave us when we said that money isn't everything.

d) Do not confess that you are driven to achieve great wealth because of childhood issues that have driven you to fiercely compete with your brother, as your fun-guy-party-mask slips and reveals a vulnerable adolescent clad in Brooks Brothers. One more thing: Cain & Abel stories are so out of context at a beer garden -- especially as you keep talking and we drain our mugs dry. And remember, we only met five minutes ago.

e) Do not express surprise when we demand compensation for a mini therapy session or another pitcher of beer due to your hijacking of the "conversation". Attendance at a beer garden usually involves good brews, merriment, glass mugs that are hard to lift, and maybe even french fries. It doesn't, and shouldn't, involve vomiting deeply personal issues to a group of strangers. Even if they are wearing lip gloss, and might have some empathy....which is quick to evolve into...pity.

f) Do not express even more massive surprise that any of the ladies you are attempting to charm hold MBAs, and then try to recover by asking "but tell me, what do women REALLY want?"

Dear resident of Toronto, with your pretty BlackBerry, and your new-lucrative-according-to-you job at a financial services company in Manhattan:

Desperation, in any form, is never, not ever, really, never, ever appealing. Not even when it's cloaked in a really nice black suit with an awesome tie, or slightly numbed by pitchers of beer. It takes some serious pelotas to just appear in front of a group of ladies, sit right down, and introduce yourself. As a residually shy person, I give you props.

You may be obsessed with making money, and really, to each his own. We all have our obsessions and gaffes and quirks, but my advice - if you want any hope of locating a wife and unfurling your seed - is that it's best to keep the dark stuff, the skeletons, the vulnerabilities, in your back pocket during those initial delicate moments of social interaction with the lip gloss crowd -- rather than splay them out on your Italian wool sleeves, leaving your target audience covered in a thick scum of *too much information*.

My advice: keep it light. Make us laugh. Maybe offer us another pitcher of beer. Don't draw an immediate spotlight to your intentions [we can already guess]. We don't like to pull a verbal smack down on a stranger during a ladies' night out. But, we will.

Best,
The Ladies with the pitcher of Hefeweizen