Warning: Contents May be Harmful

Normally, after a long day of work, I like to come home, grind some fresh decaf, and thumb through a stack of magazines while sipping a piece of heaven on earth. Yesterday, however, I ground the wrong beans and wound up wiring myself for the night with a pot of fully caffeinated French roast. I tried reading myself to sleep which made my head ache, I tried Zen breathing, and hyperventilated, so I ended up watching TV. At 1:00 a.m. I came across a show about self-harm -- an interesting insight into the world of cutting, burning and other random abuses. It seemed illogical to me that people would purposefully inflict pain upon themselves. Isn't' grief something most people try to escape -- or are we all harming ourselves in some fashion or other? Does working too much and resting too little constitute self-harm? Is it considered mutilation if material benefits such as money or power are attached? We say things, "I worked my fingers to the bone," or, "I put my blood, sweat and tears into it," yet consider the work par for the course. If life leaves no physical course. If life leaves no physical scars, can we consider it painless.

R-E-S-P-E-C-T

As a small child, and small means short and scrawny, I was somewhat of a nerd. At the time I was unaware my status on the social scale neared that of a single cell amoeba. Like the single cell amoeba I was fed upon by larger predators who were looking to increase their own status by preying upon the lessors of the hierarchy.

As I grew up, and up means tall and scrawny, I became aware of how the system works. Like all systems there are loopholes in which a smart cell can become a fierce predator. In the cell world we call these tiny predators viruses, in the people world we call them witty. Unable to defend myself with muscle, I attacked my opponents with words -- a few scathing remarks and the once mighty shrank back into the sea. We all develop some sort of protective skin to shield us from the terrors of life, be they bullies or antibodies, but how do we gain a sense of self-respect? Do we try to become the biggest fish in the sea by terrorizing those we can, or do we feed our intellect to impress the masses. Is respect something earned or taken.

Family Affairs

Last weekend Sarah and I took a road trip to see the countryside and get away for a three-day sanity break. We sped along the interstate and feasted on M&M's and popcorn while listening to the maxi-single of Sister Sledge's "We are Family." Somewhere in the middle of the twelve-minute club version our conversation switched from the joy of nature and freedom to the cruelty of marriage and family. Sarah and I come from vastly different childhoods. Mine was calm and demure with hardly a raised voice. While hers was filled with the the joy of divorce court and insanity pleas. Still, we survived it all and can look back now with fondness and nervous laughter.

As we looked to the future we envisioned very different families. I pictured a plasma TV, a condo and 2.5 poodles; she prefered a husband, a house and 2.5 children, which seems to be the general rule in modern day society. But, rules are made to be broken aren't they? I figure family life is like the speed limit -- more of a guide than a definitive. Still I have to wonder if we should all seek some sort of family security to keep us stable as we grow older, or will it be okay to be swinging single into our seventies? Will a seventy-year old singleton be frowned upon and deemed a "poor soul" for having never found a mate? What if solitude is enough for him? Can society appreciate a person's happiness even if it differs from the norm, or will there always be some standard used to judge the lives of others?

Promis Not to Tell

The other night after dinner and several glasses of wine, my friend Sarah confided in me that her boyfriend was a pre-mature ejaculator. This was a sad story that I could not help but laugh about sympathetically. I gave her my condolences and my promises of secrecy. I kept that promise too, until about a month later at a cast party for something or other that my friend Tom was in and the topic of sex came up. I couldn't help but mention Sarah's misfortunes in the bedroom. Tom, of course, promised he wouldn't tell a soul. Well, it seems our mutual friend Jodi has no soul since Tom told Jodi who in turn asked Sarah if the rumor was, in fact, true. Sarah, much to her chagrin, was forced to unwillingly expel the torments of her lacking sex life.

Later that night, Sarah called me to ask if I had said anything to anyone about the "thing" she told me at dinner the month prior. "Well," I stammered, "I sort of mentioned it to Tom, but only because he had a boyfriend with a similar problem and I wanted to get his advice." This, of course, was a total fabrication invented to save my ass. After an hour of apologies I realized that loose lips do, indeed, sink ships -- even when you think those ships will never cross paths. It's a lot like six degrees of Kevin Bacon; everything leads to something else. But is it ever okay to tell a secret? What if Tom did have words of wisdom that could have helped Sarah with her situation? Would the ends justify the means or only justify them for me? Is finding the answer, no matter what the cost, worth the risk?

The Eye of the Artist

An artist acquaintance was showing a group of other friends and me his latest adventure in painting; traditionally he used photography as his medium of choice, but you can't blame a guy for wanting to branch out -- at least that was my feeling before I saw his painting. Color me old fashioned, but I just don't find a solid blue canvas particularly artistic -- especially one entitled Blue Canvas. It is the first in a series of colored squares meant to express the basic elements of emotion -- or so I'm told. They look like overgrown paint samples to me, but I'm not an emotional kind of guy. I lied and told him I found his work brilliant and truly worthy of adoration for it is pleasing to both the eye and the soul.

Later that night, craving some real art, I opened an old book containing works by the masters: Degas, Monet, Picasso and so forth. Upon closer examination of these supposed geniuses, I realized I didn't like a lot of their work either. They say life imitates art and vice-versa so I wonder, is life like a Monet painting -- all jumbled up close but beautiful from a distance? Or is it more like a Picasso -- weird and full of nonsense? Is life, as with art, what we see in it?

Hat Trick

I love hats, I always have. There's something about a head topper that not only completes an outfit, but also makes it feel a bit costume-y. A lovely notion considering all the world is a stage and with all my hats, I'm surely the star player. I have different hats for different occasions -- a top hat for formal occasions, a beret for poetry night at the coffee shop and a ball cap for sporting events. The problem with owning so many headpieces is finding a place to store them. Some of them stack nicely on top of one another while others require a shelf of their own. When I am feeling down, I find that if I rummage through my collection of caps, I will most certainly come across one that brings back a particularly jolly memory and I can't help but smile.

My hats are like my personalities -- sorted, varied and not easily stored. And like my hats, I have different personalities for different occasions. I can be sophisticated and drink scotch while reading Town and Country, or I can throw back a half dozen beers before vomiting in the town and country. We all have a certain amount of malleability that allows us to switch hats between work and play, but with all the changing, how do we keep track? How can we stack our personalities so we can obtain the right one at the right time? How do we know which hat fits us best?

Hit Me with Your Best Shot

I have accomplished certain goals in my life that I consider to be pretty major. I graduated with honors, became an extra in the local theatre's production of Fame and successfully viewed an entire presidential inaugural speech. Through the use of hard work and hard liquor I've found most things are possible. Other goals linger somewhere out in the future. I plan on getting a master's degree in an unforeseen and probably useless study, star in the one man musical adaptation of my life and impeach a president based on his views of education, wages and the pot holes on my street.

As I have aged, I have become aware that some goals will always remain just out of grasp, and that no matter how hard a person tries the prize will never be attained. What is to be done with this conundrum? Should we continue to try and reach impossible heights, or is that a waste of potential? What do we do when our best isn't good enough?

Fair Share

In America we pride ourselves on being industrious, innovative and in debt. Our houses and martinis have tripled in size in the past fifty years and won't be paid for for another fifty -- assuming we don't re-mortgage, which, of course, we will, so that we can obtain all the glorious toys that make us who we are -- TV watching, SUV driving work-a-holics who don't know the meaning of environmentally sound. I'd like to think I'm above all this, but I love my all-wheel drive vehicle and big screen television. It's not as if I'm completely oblivious to the problems of the world. I do a fair share of recycling and use ethanol gas (it's cheaper), but I'm hardly a saint.

As of late, these issues have been keeping me up at night, so I've restructured my existence to shrink my carbon footprint on the earth to some effect, but even at my best, I'm still among the worst. How can one maintain a comfortable lifestyle and remain carbon neutral? Must one be destitute or dead to be of use to the environment? What industrious innovations can be used in our daily lives to make us happy in our hearts, our homes and our habitat?

The Velvet Rope

I've known my friend Tom for some eight years now in which time we have drifted in and out of each other's life. He was part of what I refer to as the "outer circle" of friends -- someone I genuinely liked but could live without. Then, unbeknownst to me, I referred to him as one of my three, no make that four, good friends. You know, the people you can count on to tell you you're right even if you're wrong. I don't know if it was a Freudian slip on my part or if he had, in deed, made that quantum leap from casual friend to sisters in arms. Was becoming a good friend like trying to get past the elusive velvet rope? Were there a set number of years a person must pay penance to be invited into the inner circle? What makes a once casual acquaintance a true friend?

Presto Chango

Last Friday, while eating brunch with my friend Angelique, the conversation shifted from the problems of our current lives to the hey-day of times past, and since we have known each other for eighteen plus years we had a lot of fodder to choose from. We reminisced about our theatre days, chuckled over the decor of our first apartment and swapped stories about our current shrink. Yes, we had been through a lot together since the days of sex, drugs and rock and roll. Now our time is spent cleaning house, paying bills and going to therapy -- another topic we had lots of fodder to choose from.

Angelique and I have the same therapist and have for several years now, and during those years I have learned that therapy encourages much self-exploration. Well, after all that searching I came to the realization that I prefer self-gratifying as one week of inner-peace. I'm not knocking therapy or belittling finding oneself, but what if, after years on the couch, we don't like what we find? What if we aren't the person we thought we were? Can we get a new life like we get a new wardrobe? How do we change from who we are to who we want to be?

More Please

I grew up in the 70's and 80's, and as a child of the decades of excess (excessive drug use, excessive hair), I became aware of the unquenchable need for more -- why have one pair of shoes when you can have several to match all your outfits? Then, as I grew older and gained responsibility, excess became a thing of the past, and being thrifty became my new mantra. I used to spend my weekends dining and dancing, now laundry and Letterman are more my style. Still, I crave a night out, a chance to slip into my skinny jeans and drink with friends from a bottle of wine I can neither pronounce nor afford. Instead, I sit at home literally dying of poordom wondering if all the excess is worth it. Is it better to have a good paying job you hate that allows you to spend fool heartedly, or a job you love but forces you to budget in a monthly movie date? Are a few moments of excess worth a week's worth of toil? Is there a happy medium, and if there is one, will we really be happy working an okay job for mediocre cash to have a so-so time, or will we always want more.

Lucky Me?

While driving to the state of Nevada to try my hand at blackjack, I somehow made a wrong turn and wound up in a state of Confusion. I had no idea where I was, or which road led me back to where I was going. I stopped for the night at a run-down "No Tell Motel" hoping to gain guidance from a local who could put me back on track. Unfortunately, the cracked out night attendee couldn't seem to point me to the front door let alone to my future riches. I paid the $29.99 all night fee, found my way to the less than palatable lodgings and tried to rest on the lump of springs they called a mattress. In the morning, I located a filling station where I got cheap gas, good directions and a king size Snickers -- a satisfying way to start the day on all accounts.

I arrived in Nevada safe and sound having spent an extra day traveling through beautiful canyons, rich woodlands and several seedy towns. I rested my weary bones in my posh casino hotel room before losing all my money on a few lousy bets. "Just a run of bad luck," I thought as I headed towards the ATM to withdraw next month's rent. A funny word, "luck." If you're winning at a casino it's called good, if you're trying to sleep in a crack/whore motel with no crack or whore it's called bad. But is luck really only a strange twist of fate? Would I have gotten lost if I had made better plans? And if I hadn't gotten lost would I have seen all the wonderful sights I saw? Is luck, no matter good or bad, just a state of mind?

Life in the Fast Lane

While shopping for a new car and taking a few sporty versions I could never afford for a test drive, I caught myself speeding on the interstate. The limit was clearly posted at 75 and I was pushing 80. Then I noticed the vehicle had the capacity to do 120. Why? If the maximum number of legal miles per hour a person can drive anywhere in the U.S. is 75, why make it possible to go 45 miles per hour faster? For some it's a temptation that is too great to resist.

I got to thinking about life in the fast lane. In modern days we pride ourselves on how little time we have to stop and smell the roses. We are far too busy sending and receiving e-mails, assembling vast qualities of CD's we will never listen to and pursuing a job that isn't any fun but sounds impressive at parties. It's like driving an uncomfortable little sports car -- it's fast and fun until you wrap it around a telephone pole. By setting automobiles up to go faster than the posted limit, are we being set up for a ticket; and by setting ourselves up in the fast lane, are we setting ourselves up for failure? If life only requires us to go 75, why do we insist on doing 120?

I Believe. . .

Last night I had dinner at my friend Angelique's house. She prepared a lovely meal of tofu burgers, soy lattes, and non-dairy protein cookies -- mmm, tasty and almost palatable. It seems she had recently heard about the world of veganism -- a fascinating place that is nice to visit, but as I have learned, not so nice to stay. I admire her stick-to-itiveness. She has only consumed organic foods containing no animal bi-products, no MSG and to taste, she has done this for nearly a week now. Her skin is radiant, her energy increased and her temper short.

It's not as if I had never flung myself whole heartedly into a miracle diet or crazy pyramid money making scheme, and it's not as if I haven't fallen off those band wagons, bruised, but wiser. I think most people have put their beliefs in something, someone, and had their hopes dashed -- diets crash, pyramids collapse, love ends. Why do we give into a world that constantly barrages our senses with competing claims of happiness? How can we tell when it is all right to take advantage of something new and exciting or when to refrain and stick to the tried and true? Should we give our all or nothing, or is giving some enough. Should we try at all? When believing in ourselves, should we believe everything we hear?

How's My Wig

Three Manhattan's into a drag show that seemed to be dragging on and on, I grabbed my friend Sarah, my wig and what was left of my dignity before heading for the exit. But first, I had to make a pit stop at the powder room to reapply my face. While staring at the mirror and the unfamiliar face looking back -- the one with the perfectly arched brows, luscious red lips and protruding Madam's Apple -- I started thinking about gender differences. We expect women to wear make-up and men to wear muscle, but this was not always the case. There was a time, not so long ago, when both sexes wore powdered wigs and high heels. And there was a time before that when both genders wore matching animal pelts and ate meat off a bone. Today, however, a fella is persecuted for looking overly feminized or underlie butch, and as far as I can tell, the basics of human nature have not changed. We all want to be loved, heard and touched. How is it we think nothing of noshing on a chicken thigh, but are disgusted by a man in a dress, or a woman without tweezers? Is this the meaning of a civilized nation, or merely a lovely window dressing for primitive thought? Why do we keep insisting on placing value on what we can see, instead of what we feel.

Double Play

My friend Sarah will not drink from the top or bottom of the milk container; I only sweeten my coffee with honey which tends to settle at the bottom which means Sarah will not drink the last of my coffee. Fine by me, it's a cute quirk that I happen to enjoy because I like the extra sweet final gulp. Bobby, an acquaintance of mine is deathly afraid of mustard -- interesting I thought, but harmless no doubt. Harmless until I sat between him and the stranger who ordered a chili dog with extra mustard at the last baseball game I attended. As soon as that dog went sliding past his nose, Bobby flipped back over his seat kicking me in the face and cracking his head on the concrete. A perfect double play -- we were both out. Two stitches and a black eye later I no longer thought of Bobby's fear of mustard as cute or harmless. Certain things about a person make them interesting such as Sarah's unwillingness to take that first swig of milk. Other things make a person dangerous such as fear of condiments. I wonder, do all quirks harbor a secretly potential dark side? Should I fear the idiosyncrasies in others or accept them at face value? When does a pleasant eccentricity become a painful neurosis?

Luck Be a Bob Tonight

When my friend Pat visited Vegas she won $3,000.00 on quarter slots. When I was in Vegas I lost my way to the hotel room and ended up bursting in on a porn convention. Just dumb luck I suppose. What the hell though, I managed to get a couple of free movies and a rubber thingy I wasn't sure how to operate.

Later, after many liters of cheap daiquiris, my betrothed and I attempted to figure out the rubber thingy we now affectionately referred to as Bob. By the end of the night, Bob had been to many places few dare to venture. I guess that is what they call blind love, or at least blind lovemaking. Fortunately for all of us our adventures in Vegas had been fulfilling if not entirely profitable.

When I returned home I got to thinking about chance and chance experiences. Some chances turn out good like Pat and her sizzling sevens; others turn out to be interesting like Bob. And still others turn out horrendous as I found out when I developed my pictures and saw what three liters of daiquiris look like on a person who hasn't eaten all day. Despite this we all rely on chance to win our fortunes, to find the love of our lives, or even to cross the street. Is it safe to put so much faith in chance? Do we stand a chance without faith in something? Between blind love and dumb luck how are we ever to survive?

Internet Games

I have an acquaintance who is overly zealous in Internet chat rooms. He talks a good talk and boasts a good boast. Not wanting to disappoint, he scans in slightly enhanced photos of himself removing a wrinkle here and there and adding an inch or two where it matters most. Through the use of his savvy computer skills he has met dozens, no make that hundreds of mates throughout the country. Luckily he has a bit of wealth on his side and can afford to fly cross-country to meet his computer-enhanced dates. Neither seems to mind that the other person is shorter, or older, or less endowed than promised -- just one of those humps in the road of life I suspect. But is a random hump enough? To what lengths is a person willing to go for a little carnal gratification? For some it's the end of their arm, for others it's as far as their frequent flier miles will carry them. Is it okay to sow your oats from coast to coast, or is that considered selfish and unhealthy? What if all parties involved know the rules and play the game safely? Still selfish. . . or are some just being savvy and enhancing their own moral beliefs by knocking the way others play?

Bachelor # 3

Thanks to the advent of digital cable and its three hundred plus channels of useless "entertainment" I have found I spend much more time in front of the television than one ought to, in fact, I spend much more time in front of the TV than two or three ought to. Thanks to my many viewing hours I have amassed an amazing amount of useless information such as "stewardesses" is the longest word you can type using your left hand only, aardvark is the first word in the dictionary and given the choice of cash or what's behind door #2, I will always play it safe and take the money.

As part of my viewing pleasure I've found I am quite fond of game shows from the 70's. My favorite is The Dating Game. I've often imagined what I would ask if I were on the show: Bachelor #1, if you were a sweet treat, what would you be? Bachelor #2, if I was an ice cream cone, how would you eat me? Bachelor #3, if I had a wooden leg, would you still love me? Based on these answers I would still pick a loser, but he would be a loser who was attracted to me. What is it about another person's attraction to us that makes their stock go up? Are we so self conscious we don't trust we can get the one we want? If we had the choice between a great person we were unsure of or a so-so someone we knew was sweet on us, would we choose the so-so just to be safe?

Happily Ever After

When I was a freshman in high school, I took my date to see Disney's The Little Mermaid. What could be more fun than watching an hour and a half of impossible love and devotion played out to it's sappy, story-book conclusion in award-winning animation? The movie was happy, but my relationship ended up being a long, boring affair with nary a joyous moment. I find this joylessness to be true with many aspects of life -- jobs get downsized, families get divorced, even dogs run away. Buy how can this be? How can a fish/girl get legs and a prince, and I can't even get a decent cup of coffee?

Later in life I got the chance to view the original Hans Christian Anderson version of The Little Mermaid and come to find out, our little sea beauty doesn't land on her feet or marry a prince. She dies and becomes sea foam leaving us with these words of wisdom, "The prince's happiness is my happiness." This makes me wonder, should a person sacrifice his or her own happiness for the sake of someone else's? And if we all forsook joy for others, wouldn't we all be unhappy? With all this happiness bouncing around, where are the storybook endings?

Who Am I

In times of depression I tend to lock myself up at home and read, watch TV or listen to the words in my music selection. It's because of this that when I emerge from my seclusion I am ready to tackle the world and become an astronaut or a stable boy -- I even seek information on how to, where to and when to become the myriad of people I have decided is the new real me. Usually after a few weeks of watching Nova or reading Equestrian I have decided that perhaps being an astronaut or stable boy are not the best career choices. Eventually I stable-ize and the whole wicked process starts over again.

There was a time, before print media and electronic entertainment, when people were groomed from childhood to become responsible, self assured adults. Now we have the choice to be anything the mind can grasp. This lack of limits makes it impossible to define oneself. In times of depression or times of sanity how do we know who we are? Are we a combination of all the things we have tried to be, or are they just a warm up act for the real thing? When we are unsure of who we are, how do we find our identities?

Getting the Skinny

While doing a little spring cleaning late one April morn., I came across a lovely hatbox stuffed in the corner of my catchall room. When I opened it, I let out a muffled scream partly from fright and partly from excitement. In this hatbox was a decade's worth of skinny ties not to mention a few of the bolo versions made popular by New Kids on the Block. My, what memories those ties held in their noose like knots. . . the homecoming dances, school pictures, first dates, all marked by a tie and all laid out before me.

Looking around my clutter I noticed more modern artifacts from my distant past: the bag of "Happy Flowers" I decorated my first car with, the Wham album I used to stare dreamily at while jamming in my parent's basement and the stack of novels I've been meaning to get to. Being surrounded by all this memorabilia got me wondering. . . If a Vesuvius-like volcano exploded and encapsulated my room as is, what would future generations think of me? Would they thing of me as a god-like person because I owned many narrow ties or as just a man at the end of his rope? Perhaps they would say I had poor taste in music but was a well-read scholar. When it comes to the stuff we fill our lives with -- are we the things we buy?

Paradise

Once upon a Mexican vacation a 30-something man, his partner, and a couple of friends were having the time of their lives. They ate, they drank and they danced to their heart's content. But all was not well in their tropical paradise, for lying just below the surface of fun and fantasy lay the awful truth.

For one week each year this foursome left their homes, their jobs and their troubled lives behind and replaced them with the lives of the carefree people they wished themselves to be. But after a few coconut cocktails, the truth began inching its way onto shore. A tiff here, a scowl there, evidence of reality shown as brightly as the sunset, for even paradise has its rocky shores.

As reality ebbed its way into the lives of this vacationing foursome, they were faced with the inevitable questions every feuding couple must ask. Can we weather the storms that lay ahead of us and hold on for dear life, or should we abandon ship? Do calmer waters lay ahead or will the future be filled with tidal waves of regret? Is it possible for two people to create their own paradise?

Grants

The government gives grants for all sorts of silly studies. For instance, I read about one that, after years of research and countless amounts of money, discovered blue-eyed children were shyer than their brown-eyed counterparts. And??? Do these findings suggest we should enroll our blue-eyed babies into theatre or dance troops to try to get them to open up and express themselves to other children on the playground, or is it just another way to drain excess cash from an apparently abundant source the government has stashed away under the Silly Research file? Having read the above mentioned article I got to thinking about what kind of asinine research I could possibly do to get some of the cash that wouldn't involve science, advanced math or thinking in general.

We live in a capitalist country where he who dies with the most toys wins -- and we all want to win -- it's what drives us. "Is this true?" I ask myself, "Do things really make life worth living?" Economists would tell us so, and poets would say love drives the universe. What I want to research. . . what I want to know is. . . can money buy happiness?

Fashionable Friends

I had dinner with a group of friends Friday night to celebrate Sarah's 32nd birthday. We were all dressed in flashy duds being in the prime of our lives and having a few more years ahead of us before we trade our fabulous fashions for frumpy frocks. We ate and laughed and talked of days gone by. As the night progressed and the bottles of wine dwindled, our group split into several small cliques, each discussing a "remember when." Talk of high school dances and who married whom abounded.

Eventually our table became one again in time to say good-bye and go our separate ways. As I watched each bunch leave I thought about how long we had been friends and how we had come to know one another. Some were by my side through buckteeth and bad perms, others only knew me as a professional writer, still, I counted them all as my equals. It's funny how a person picks up friends as they go. Some stay a lifetime while others drop out along the way. It's as if our friends are fashions -- there's the little black dress that is never out of style, and there's the the shoulder padded power suit that once served a purpose but later became relegated to the back of the closet. Why is it some acquaintances are there through the seasons and others fall short of forever? I wonder, is there only room in life for so many friends?

Creative Planning

Last Thursday I went shopping with Sarah and spent money I didn't have on things I didn't need. I justified this with the fact that the weekend was coming and I couldn't possibly live without a new outfit to greet it in, plus I got paid on Monday so if I wrote a bum check it surely wouldn't clear until I had funds available. Over the years I have gotten quite creative with ways to get what I want. It's all a matter of planning. If I want a new pair of shoes, I send my cable bill on time but conveniently forget to sign the check, they send it back to me and I return it with a signature and a sincere apology all before the grace period is up -- no harm no foul, everyone gets what they want.

Sometimes though, no matter how sly I think I am, or how much energy I spend in the planning stages, I get caught in my own web. For instance, when I try to pre-prepare an argument with my boyfriend. I map the whole conversation out in my head -- I'll say this then he'll say that then I'll really tell him off. Good in theory, not so good in practice. We can guesstimate certain things in life, like how long a check takes to get from A to B, but can we really plan for an unpredictable future. What if things aren't traveling alphabetically, but rather along some uncharted path even the cosmos isn't sure of? Just because you've creatively paid your dues, will the universe grace you with a desirable outcome, or will it just tell you off?

What a Drag

Last week my friend Joel Jones nearly got arrested for drag racing. Even with a bit of Dukes of Hazard know how and a little luck he was unable to escape the law. This isn't the first time the law has intervened in Mr. Jones' life. Joel likes to live on the edge and push the envelope just a bit more than the law will allow. I suppose we are all running from something in our lives. It may not be a policeman or Boss Hog, but what about the taxman, our own boss or even the fear of stopping? We keep on keepin' on in an attempt to keep up with the Joneses. We have a drive that tells us we must work more, get more, be more, but where does it end? When is enough enough? What would happen if we just stopped? Would life really pass us by, or would we be the only ones smart enough to enjoy it? If the Joneses can't keep up with the Joneses why should the Smiths, the Andersons, or anyone else even try? Why can't we just be good ol' boys meaning no harm?

Cease Fire

Last week Sarah spent the night at my house in an attempt to break away from her boyfriend whom she had been fighting with. We spent seven hours drinking and watching old war movies on the History channel. We bonded over Okinawa, slept through trench warfare and popped corn through much of the late 60's. This wasn't the first time we had spent such a night together. She and her boyfriend have a history of their own, and since I am a close ally, she knows she can always count on me to stand by her side and open her beers. That's what friends do -- they hold your hand and help you plan a cease-fire.

As we neared the end of our movie marathon, and peace was once again restored to the world I got to thinking about history. World War I was once called The Great War because it was supposed to be the only one, then came WWII, the Korean conflict, Vietnam, and so on and so forth. It seems there has never been a time of peace. It's the same in relationships -- we break up, make up, but when will we wake up and see how history repeats itself? Will we ever learn our lesson or will we continue making the same mistakes? Is it possible to have peace without confict?

Broken Romance

I've always considered myself idyllic. My personals ad would read, "Single white male seeks same for long walks in the rain, cozy fireside chats and midnight romps." In addition to quiet solitude in a lover's arms, I've continually enjoyed engaging poetry, chick flicks and dainty chocolates. But lately I've been feeling less than dainty -- in fact, I've been feeling down right vicious. I'd like nothing more than to bite the head off a budding rose and spit it at the one who broke my heart. Of course I have too much decorum to actually do this, but it is nice to dream. Still, I wonder if I'll ever regain my passion for love. It seems once a person has been jilted, the damage is always visible. Sure he can move on and perhaps he'll meet a decent mate and have some fun for a while, but what do you do when you don't love love? Is there a 12-step program that can teach us how to regain our powers of passion, or is romance simply a romantic idea?

Burning Hearts

When I was a kid I dreamed I was a cowboy, an astronaut, a hairdresser. My friend Rob imagined himself a firefighter. We'd play together warped versions of "rescue" where he'd save a princess and I'd do her hair. As we grew older and our lives became more narrow, I abandoned my various dreams, while Rob went on to become a dashing fireman.

All was well, if not quite perfect, in our lives when Rob was involved in an accident. Though not fatal, he was injured extensively and unable to continue his tenure as a fireman. The thing is, Rob has and always will have the heart of a fireman. He now has a desk job with the department. He is still holding true to his dream. Me? I've wandered from place to place and left my dreams at every stop. Does this mean my heart isn't true? Is it possible to love more than one thing whole-heartedly? Some people dream of bright futures, others simply dream. Is it possible to do both?

Tourists

My boyfriend and I had been planning our summer vacation for about nine months. We thumbed through brochures and took virtual tours of every beachfront hotel from San Francisco to Singapore. We deserved this after all. We cut back on entertainment costs, adjusted our thermostat, we even switched to the generic brand of macaroni and cheese. Sunshine and crashing waves were going to be our reward for a job well done.

After nine months of bickering with airlines and cursing hotels, I was ready for the promise of paradise to be delivered. And it was, but not before a six hour plane delay and a one and a half hour cab ride through the slums of the island. Driving past the dilapidated buildings and unkempt children made me feel dirty. Not because the surroundings were substandard, but because I assumed they'd be immaculate -- like the brochures, like my under appreciated home. I thought to myself, do I deserve a vacation more than these people deserve clean water? Is it even fair that while I'm basking in the sun at a resort six miles down the road, a woman is giving birth in unsanitary conditions at the very spot I had just past? Sure I labored hard, but so too had these people. I wasn't sure if I should carry out my vacation or abort my plans altogether. It made me wonder, if all men are created equal, why do some have so much more?

"A" is for Age and Adultery

Once upon an English class I found myself oddly attracted to a man almost half my age; he was handsome and fun and seemed a more exciting version of myself -- what's more, he found me desirable. I'm not one who suffers from either low self-esteem or delusions of grandeur, I know exactly who I am, yet I still felt this young fella was out of my league. We met in college and bonded over Nathaniel Hawthorne's The Scarlet Letter. Not far into chapter two we began a harmless flirtation that blossomed into an intense, short lived affair. Every time we met we engaged in stimulating conversation that eventually led to a stimulating make-out session. All of this was quite exhilarating for my aging self, but like all good books, our fairy tale ended as we both knew it would.

As the memories of my rendezvous faded from scarlet to pink I began to wonder what attracted me to my playmate to begin with. I'm not one to pine after youth, nor do I have a particular "type" I lust after. There was just something about him that drove me a little bit crazy. Was it his good looks? Was it animalistic chemistry? Or was it something so complex and indescribable that not even science could explain? When it comes to laws of attraction, are there any rules? And if there are, what happens when you break them? Are you branded for life, or do you simply go on to the next chapter and hope for a better conclusion?

One Ticket for Life

I spent a good portion of my twenties in the darkened womb of the movie theatre, and like the womb, the theatre provided me with all of life's necessities: food, shelter, a place to pee and a reason for living. As one who chooses to remain numb and oblivious to the chaos of the world around me, the movies provided a release of sorts. It was okay to cry or laugh or scream because it was all make believe -- a two hour fantasy replete with music and mayhem. But eventually I would be pushed forth from the womb, kicking and screaming, and into a world I cared little about. Where was the daunting music to warn me of danger? Who was going to cue the rain so I knew when to be sad? How was I ever to find an emotion of my own without an Oscar nominated cast? These questions plagued me as I entered my thirties and realized life isn't' a movie and not every thing works itself out nicely. So where does that leave us? No director to tell us what to do, no editor to fix our mistakes. Just a blank screen and a whole lot of people counting on us to deliver a stellar performance. Now. . . can we live up to the audience's expectations? Can we give a performance worthy of the academy? And most importantly, can we give this performance all on our own?

What's Your Sign?

A friend of mine introduced me to a friend of hers we bumped into while shopping. Her name was Kari and she was a schoolteacher. Kari, I thought -- married, two kids, drives a small S.U.V. probably tan. I didn't hang around long enough to find out if Kari drove a tan S.U.V. or not, but I did realize we all subconsciously create an image for people based solely on their job titles. Dan, doctor -- tall, brown hair, early 40's, wife, girlfriend, golden retriever. Gina, executive -- thin, 5' 6" cropped hair, power suit, probably a lesbian. Romeo, artist -- I say no more, I don't have to. You've already filled in the blanks. But how much of what we assume is true? Do people become the parts they play? After all our work takes up more than 50% of our waking lives. Is reading people based on their occupation like reading your daily horoscope? Am I in my house of work?

Protesting

I once read a magazine article that said people who protested are happier than those who merely watch the news and let life happen around them. Always looking to make my world a little more jolly, I decided to experiment with this theory and protest against the evils of the world like right-wing conservatives and the makers of acid washed jeans. Feeling the rush of belonging to a group that sought to make a difference, I found myself marching for gay pride, black pride, Harley pride, poodle owners pride. I worked tirelessly with a team to make certain there really were two scoops of raisins in Kellogg's Raisin Bran.

All of this left me elated but exhausted. Somewhere in the midst of banner making and paint throwing I forgot why I started protesting. Was all this hoopla really making me happy? Did I even believe the things I shouted? Between same-sex and Malcolm X, I lost a sense of being. Sure, it was nice meeting new people with a collective idea of what was right and wrong in the world, but what about me? What do I believe? In this great bit, confusing world where the next big thing is yesterday's news, how do we keep a sense of self when we have so many choices?

Karma for Sale

I've spent my whole life doing good deeds. I stand so others can take a seat, I hold the door for anxious holiday shoppers, I even forgo my morning java fix so some child in Africa can feed his village with my seventy-three cents a day. All this good deed doing is supposedly building up in some karma bank in Switzerland so that one day I will reap the benefits of the greatness I have sown. In the meantime I suffer from caffeine headaches and fallen arches.

As I progress down this journey of life looking to the horizon for my payback and seeing nothing but empty roads ahead of me, I find myself drawn to the review mirror wondering if there was more I should have done, if there are doors I've left unopened, and are there children I could have saved? Then answer, of course, is "Yes." I have learned, through much travail, that there is always more -- more to give, more to do. If the answer is always the same, maybe the question is wrong. Maybe we shouldn't be asking at all. If seventy-three cents can't buy our way to a comfy karma, can it at least buy peace of mind.

Cult of Love

Growing up I was a very small fish in a very big pond which made my dating pool virtually nonexistent, after all everyone knows the guy is supposed to be bigger and more masculine than his female counterpart. As a 5 foot 80 pound freshman my pool was so shallow it only contained two guppies: LeAnn and Amy. Since LeAnn's mom was the school's secretary and therefore had the divine power to make my life Hell, I prayed the 3/4 inch shorter than me Amy would fall under my spell. She did and thus began a four plus year courtship reminiscent of Dante's inferno. Amy dragged me to church and family functions as well as the other seven circles of Hell.

By the time our relationship ended I had grown up physically, mentally and sexually, and was therefore feverish to surrender myself to another, gayer ocean -- one filled with a wide variety of datable creatures. As I made my way through the turbulent waters of romance searching for love with the kind of urgency usually reserved for the sinning Catholic seeking penance for unspeakable crimes, I began to wonder if the institution of Love is a religion all its own. After all, Love has its own believers and non-believers, its devoted followers and the process of falling in Love often involves sacrifice. If Love, like religion, is a cult, are we willing to devote our lives to Love's worship, knowing there will be suffering? And if we do commit to Love, will our pain be greatly rewarded, or will it all end in Hellfire and brimstone?

Heroes

When I was a kid I idolized Alexis Morel Carrington Colby Dexter Rowan from TV's Dynasty. She was savvy, suave and scintillating. She was one of those characters you loved to hate, secretly rooted for and wished you could be. I loved the way she back stabbed her way to the top and stayed there through sheer will. She could carry the weight of the world on her enormous shoulder pads and grin her Cheshire-like grin while doing it. Of course not everyone agreed with me, they were more than glad to see Crystal Carrington beat the snot out of dear Alexis in the guest cottage, or lilly pond, or wherever else the two arch enemies felt compelled to duke it out. A mere difference of opinion I figure -- some like 'em sweet, some like 'em saucy. Regardless of how you you like your heroines they always seem to have some sort of Achilles' heel, a weak spot that can be exploited. For Alexis it was her secret love of her ex-husband Blake, a bit hokey, true, but still I have to wonder if everyone has a soft spot in their otherwise polished persona? Even Superman is defenseless against kryptonite. If our heroes are heroically flawed, can we expect perfection from us mere mortals, or are we too hopelessly imperfect?

Gimme, Gimme

Last weekend, after a grueling workweek, I came home to a brand new plasma TV. It was big, impressive and totally expensive. "But it was on sale," my boyfriend informed me -- as if I was supposed to get excited over the $200.00 savings on the $4,000.00 bill. "But we don't need it," I rationalized. "our TV is perfectly fine," This concept seemed foreign to him. Why settle for fine when you can have extraordinary?

After much debate we settled in front of our new TV for a night of silent viewing. Much to my chagrin, on my plasma, larger than life, was a certain nameless actress who had recently undergone much unnecessary plastic surgery. It seemed I was surrounded by a world hungry for the next best thing. My theory is, "If it ain't broke, why fix it?" Why is it we are compelled to have something just because it exists? Can we be satisfied with a terrific TV, a fine face or a spectacular self? Does more mean better, or just more?

Bachelors of Living

Having been on the ten-year college plan for about twelve years with no degree and mounting debt, I've begun to notice a few things about higher education. Books are expensive, classes are long and the most valuable thing I've learned is how to cheat better. In a time when bachelor's degrees are the new high school diploma and forty is the new twenty, it seem being a student for life is totally chic. What isn't so chic is how education fails to prepare people for the real world. In the attempt to make students well rounded by forcing them to perform quadratic equations and to decipher Shakespeare's psyche, we've lost track of what is the most important aspect of success -- happiness. As I near degree completion and prepare to head out into the wide world of life I have to wonder if Einstein's theory of relativity is relative to anything, and if "e" does in fact equal "mc" squared, Y is there so much misery? Does higher education equal a higher propensity for happiness? Are the fundamentals of learning fundamentally different from the fundamentals of joy, and if so, why aren't we taking more classes in deciphering our selves?

Merging Traffic

Last Friday night I had a date with my friends to see the traveling production of the Broadway smash Rent. We had decided earlier in the week that we would all meet in front of the theatre twenty minutes before the show began since each of us was coming from a different part of town. I was the closest to the theatre and therefore had the most time to tinker with my evening's ensemble -- after much debate about which tie to wear, I headed out the door with plenty of time to spare.

Life was good, my hair was perfectly coiffed, my shirt was neatly pressed and my teeth were sparkling white. Everything was going as planned until I came to a construction zone. Traffic was at a standstill as three lanes tried, unsuccessfully, merging into one. As time ticked by and my crisp shirt wilted I became more and more frustrated. Was it really necessary to close off two lanes when only one was being worked on? It seemed unlikely and I was certain the world was out to get me personally.

I finally arrived fifteen minutes late and with no friends to greet me. As I stood in the back of theatre cursing my friends and unable to see act one, I wondered if merging lives was like merging traffic -- slow and not necessarily fruitful. When lives converge there are bound to be times when things don't go as planned; when this happens, should we call it quits and watch the world pass us by, or do we wait out the first act and hope the second is stellar? Should we consider these bumps in the road as mere frustrations or as signposts for future improvements? When conflicts arise, do we go with the flow, or exit stage right?

Vice Grips

My friend Tom has what I would call a slight addiction problem. Nothing serious like crack or crank or any other horrible "C" drug, he is, however, prone to buying TV shows on DVD that he can't always afford. Is it really necessary to purchase the complete twenty-disk box set of Sex and the City just to get the previously unavailable bonus disk which probably features commentary from season six's dog groomer and camera B's out takes of New York City taxi drivers? I think not, Tom thinks otherwise.

It's not as if I live a vice free life. I have been known to harbor a secret stash of home decorating magazines and unopened books featuring the words "whole self" in the title In fact, if left to my own devices, I would forgo necessary heart surgery for lunch with my fabulous friends at fabulous restaurants and have fabulous conversations featuring the word "fabulous."

We all have vices of some sort or another. It may be clothes, or books, or 12-step programs, or something more dangerous and secretive. But how do we know when a vice has moved from a curious notion to an all-consuming entity? Is it safe to have a vice -- even a petty one -- if we know that at any given moment it could spiral out of control and leave us in an un-fabulous poor house? Do our vices have a vice grip on us.

After Ever After

Last week was the Olympic trials for swimming, and as much as I enjoy a nicely built man in a Speedo, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the poor chaps giving it their all only to have their dreams dashed as they reached the wall milliseconds behind the winner. The losers dragged their weary bodies from the water only to return to their usual lives hoping next time things would be different. As for the winners -- they prepared themselves for rigorous training and lean diets. All this competition made me realize how much we compete everyday of our lives. We dress for success, train for the job and diet to snag a partner, and as with the Olympics, some of us win and some of us don't. It makes me wonder what the point of it all is. Even if you win the gold, land the job and find the mate, you still have to return to life in progress. Now what? What do we do after we get what we've been striving for?

A Would Be Life

My friend Teri is a talented singer / dancer / actress who has toiled away for years in local theatre and caravan productions for everything from Shakespeare to Mel Brooks; she's even been in a few local commercials hawking fresh produce and used cars. Her real life is one of an insurance agent and two-time divorcee. In high school Teri was voted most talented and most likely to succeed. We all kew she was goint to be a star, light up the silver screen, marry a director and have her name splashed across the tabloids declaring "Young Starlet Found Boinking Hunky Gardner." Instead, she's been boinking her chunky boss and composing her company's news letter -- not quite the success story she had planned. It seems as though fate has not smiled upon dear Teri even though she has the goods to be great, while other, less gifted actors, flourish in cinema. I won't name names, but I will say it certainly must help to have a famous parent. This makes me wonder if it's what you know or who you know that really matters? If Teri had been the daughter of an acclaimed actress would she be accepting an Oscar instead of overtime? Would she be making millions of dollars instead of a measly salary? And. . . would she put in a few good words for her old pal, me?

Hunting for Help

I've always prided myself on being self-sufficient. I don't mind my meager existence because I know I can afford it. This isn't to say I wouldn't trade my hubris for the chance to marry an independently wealthy older man who spends his time doing business in China's asphalt jungle -- in fact, I'd like it if he frequently roamed far from home. How else am I supposed to ignore his sixth toe or age spots or whatever other ailment would befall my cougar companion.

Since this wealthy prey appears to have escaped my clutches I must do whatever is necessary to make ends meet. Sometimes this involves skipping my morning brew or lunchtime cocktail, other times it means disconnecting cable once my three months free trial has expired. And sometimes, as was the case last week, I am forced to give myself my own bikini wax. This task is rather difficult as it involves many awkward angles, but I am preternaturally flexible and should have had little problem removing any unwanted hair. All was going well until an overzealous tug pulled something in my back. For two days I lay in bed admiring my perfectly coiffed landing strip and watching Animal Planet. All this time alone got me wondering if self sufficiency is such a great thing. In nature some animals go it solo while others live in packs; each grouping filling their niche and becoming perfectly adapted to their environment. But what about people? Are humans meant to be lone hunters or cohabitants? Can we be a little of each? Can a lonely hunter ever live peacefully among the embittered hunted?

Like a Moth to a Flamer

Some gay men state that they have always known they were homosexual, others say they figured it out later in life and still others deny it all together. My own story is rather dull and anticlimactic as I don't know for sure when the realization occurred. I suppose I had yearnings as a child, but I also yearned to be a fireman and to eat my weight in s'mores, but those things never came to light. Regardless of how it happened, I grew up to be an out and proud gay man who pines after fireman but who has no desire to become one.

I figure all us homosexuals begin life as little hunks of gay coal, then, with a lot of training, we become big flaming homos and later, as we discover the identity beneath the sexuality, we turn into queer burning embers trying to live a well adjusted life in a world still trying to figure us out. As I search for the answers to life's little mysteries and my light begins to dim I have to wonder if I will be remembered as the hunk of coal who turned into a dazzling diamond, or if I will become another pile of ashes left behind by those in search of hotter fires. Is it possible memories of me will stoke the fires of eternity or is life simply ashes to ashes and dust to dust?

Slip Sliding Away

Having slipped on the ice and bumped my rump, I entered the warm embrace of my house, bolted the door behind me and called Jodi to tell her of my horrible evening. Not only was I going to have a bruised tailbone caused by my own neglect, I was certain to be lectured by my editor to whose wife I let slip his exact whereabouts last Thursday evening between, "I'll be home late," and "I've got a meeting," neither of which involved the bar on 10th street. Those're the dangers of gossip I guess.

As I continued to prattle on about my day I became sidetracked by a news story about a young girl who had been injured when the airbag in her sports sedan deployed after she knocked over a No Parking sign. I got to thinking about all the hidden dangers in our everyday world where even the ground we walk on is unstable and safety devices turn bad. How is it most of us can roam about without a piano falling on our head, but still it must happen to someone? And if we child proof our homes, why do we still need emergency childcare facilities? How can we feel safe in an unsafe world?

Trash Talk

When you are growing up in a certain environment you never know you are a part of it until you are much older. I know now that I was a member of a select group collectively known as "white trash." As a child I assumed everyone had a couple of rusty old hot water heaters, Buick bench seats and miscellaneous metal items in their back yards, but one should never assume. As I began my ascent into adulthood and made out in Buick bench seats rather than receiving tetanus from their dislodged springs, I became increasingly aware that my life left much to be desired. So I moved on. I bought my own house with its own hot water heater and filled my backyard with patio furniture and plants. I feel as though my white trash days are behind me, though I must confess, I bought my patio furniture at K-Mart and my water heater is rusting around the edges. I I have to wonder, is this new life simply a thin veneer covering the fact that I am still trash at heart? Will I ever be any thing other than my beginnings? Can we ever escape our pasts, or will they always be there lurking in the back seat?

Childish Games

When I was a kid I loved to dress up in my neighbor's pearls and high heels then pretend to vacuum or cook or perform one of the many household chores ascribed to the lady of the manor. When I got bored with that I would get out my nylon doctor's bag and perform plastic surgery on Cabbage Patch. When the poor baby completed her rhinoplasty / liposuction two-fer special I'd tuck her in bed and let her rest while I went outside to wreak havoc on my Huffy. Oh, the days of youth. . .

As an adult I am freakish about a tidy house (though I prefer to clean in pants not pearls), and anal about yearly check-ups. I chalk this aptitude up to my early childhood games. The things I am inept at are considerably less fun -- arguing with my partner, dealing with death. When one of these predicaments arise I tend to smile and act as if nothing out of the ordinary is happening. When we are young we are encouraged to play house or doctor, and from this we learn our roles as functional, happy adults. But what about our roles as the betrayed cancer patient? We, as learners, are not shown how to deal with ugly divorces or terminal diseases. So, how do we know how to play the game of difficult situations when we were never taught the rules?

Sweet Treats

I, as a health conscious aging adult, am a compulsive FDA label reader. Every time I go grocery shopping I have to build in time to scan and compare the health benefits of product "A" to product "B." Once I've weighed the pros and cons of each I happily place my wisely chosen food item into my cart, check it off my list and move about four feet down the aisle to repeat the procedure again. Over and over I do this until I have obtained every item on my list. It's grueling, but worth it -- I think.

This being said, I am a sweet treat freak. Cakes, pies, cookies and pastries of all shapes and sizes leave me salivating like Pavlov's dog upon hearing a tuning fork. To avoid avoiding my cookie cravings I simply purchase my pastries at the bakery where they don't list fat grams or calories. I figure if they're not printed in black and white, they must not exist. A pretty sweet deal I think. I'm aware that my little scheme is, in all likely hood, completely false, but I figure if I've been good all day -- in diet and in spirit -- then I deserve a treat. With all this justification flying about, I have to wonder, in life, is it really sweets to the sweet, or do we all get our just desserts? Will my goodness pay off, or will I wind up alone and fat with just a plate of crumbs, a salivating dog and a fork by my side?

Mixed Messages

After a particularly grueling yoga session, I headed across town avoiding the construction on 42nd street and arrived just in time for my psychiatrist appointment. We discussed my usual personal foibles and anxieties -- I assuring Dr. Help Me my liver could handle a higher dose of medication, he cautioning I could not. He recommended I try to get more sleep, I scoffed and told him I'd get right to it as soon as I picked up my dry cleaning, had my oil changed and wrote my personal memoirs. Then I tried to regain my composure before humbly asking if he had any free samples of my prescription I could have since I was trying to save my money to purchase a new pair of "come hither" jeans that fit me like a too tight leather glove. He begrudgingly acquiesced so long as I tried to find a balance between my work life, my social life, sleep and mania. No problem. I headed "Downtown" where, according to Petula Clark, "You can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares." But on the way, I had an aching feeling I was supposed to be someplace. Then it dawned on my -- happy and successful. . . oh well, numb and medicated often do the trick. As I drove around aimlessly somewhere between inner peace and out-of-body experience I wondered, how can we be all things to all people? How can we be all things to ourselves? In a world that sends mixed messages and dictates what life should be like, is there any way to know which messages are meant for us?

Choosing Books

It is said that everyone in the world is connected to everyone else by a series of six people. It is also said that when you sleep with a person, you sleep with everyone he or she has slept with. I guess this means everyone has theoretically slept with everyone else. This could be considered a good thing when you think of all the good-looking people out there. The opposite also holds true. We must take into account all the less than beautifully blessed, not that looks are everything, but they certainly do help.

Scientists tell us there is chemistry involved in attraction -- that it's not all just random. Pheromones and moon cycles tell us who to date and when to date. All this cosmic hoopla is meant to get us in bed together so we can procreate, but sometimes you big, bang, boom your way to the bedroom just as Mother Nature planned and nothing happens.

They say you shouldn't judge a book by its cover, but can you judge a lover by what happens under the covers? I have had my fair share of hotties and luke warmies and have learned a thing or two from each. Sometimes hotties fizzle and some warmies sizzle. So how do you know if a person is romantically right for you? Do we put our trust in science and hope our chemicals don't send mixed messages, or do we trust in nature and hope she'll set the mood? Or, should we put our faith in ourselves and trust we know a good book when we read one?

Last Will and Testament

The other night while playing trivia, Sarah and I were posed with the question, "Name the one person, living or dead, you would most like to meet." I thought of the hundreds of fantastic beings with whom I could carry on a stimulating conversation -- musicians, artists, actors, there were so many it seemed impossible to name just one. As I pondered the myriad of greats, past and present, I began to question the validity of my own life. Sure, I have done a few note-worthy things like sell more plasma than one ought to in a single month just to purchase a DVD, plus I've memorized every line from the classic Wynona Ryder flick, Heathers, but are these the types of things that are going to make future generations wish to dine with me? The common thread linking Mozart, Monet and Marilyn Monroe is the fact that they all left indelible impressions the world over; somehow I don't think my impressive DVD collection or amazing credit card debt are going to write me into the annals of history. So what is the average man's legacy? When we get to the end of life, and all is said and done. . . how do we prove our lives were worth it?

Growing Up is Hard to Do

Until the age of 18, life was a sugar sweetened, whip cream covered, chocolate bowl of cherries. Each day consisted of hanging with friends, part-time work and French kissing in public school hallways. There were no tomorrows, only lots and lots of todays. That is until today turned into the day I became a legal adult. Oh, sure, I could now run away and join the military or the circus, but I could no longer blame every misdemeanor on my parents. Yes, I was a man and with that title came responsibility. Things like working 40 hours a week so I could pay my own insurance and keep tacos in my tummy became the every day norm. Gone were the days of sponging off Mom and Dad and using them as an alarm clock, secretary and personal banker.

I took my man duties very seriously -- too seriously in fact. Friends drifted away, French kissing in public became gross. How had this happened? How did I become the people I hate? It is said we should live each moment as our last, but it is expected that we will be debt free at that moment. How can we be both. . . how do we live responsibly yet to our fullest?

New Day, New Me

My typical weekend plans consist of, "I don't know," and, "Whatever you wanna do." The days ultimately get filled with fine dining, fine friends and many glasses of fine, mind-numbing wine. It is during these states of drunken euphoria that I make plans of what my next incarnation will be. Let's see. . . maybe I should be the host of some zany game show involving animal bloopers and censored explicatives; or perhaps I'll grow the world's longest toenails and compose xylophone music for autistic kids. There are so many options, and all of them equally viable.

The following morning, after consuming multiple Tylenol and a coffee the size of my appendix, I began my game show host / toenail growing education. I watch the Discovery Channel and surf the Internet for viable information of how to become the new me. After a few gruelling hours of point and click data I decide it's time to find a different version of self -- one that doesn't involve so much work. So I down a muscle relaxer with a martini and slowly realize that my life has become a series of distractions to cover the painful realization that I am just another human who will live and die and not much else. What is it with this obsessive drive to be something other than what we are? Is it a product of nature, or a deeply embedded cultural phenomena? What is so wrong with just being ourselves?

Loaded Question

The other morning Angelique and I had coffee and scones at our favorite java joint. Due to mass construction in the downtown area it became necessary for us to part six blocks away and trek uphill in the ninety-degree heat in order to enjoy our favorite caffeinated beverage. Sure we could have stopped at the two closer shops, but we were dedicated patrons and needed the nostalgia of "our" place.

While munching on pastries and discussing the ups and downs of relationships, Angelique nonchalantly asked me how emotionally attached I was to my sperm -- a loaded question to be sure. I told her I had no attachment what so ever and unloaded it all the time. Apparently she and her girlfriend were considering having a baby and thought it would be nice to have the donor be someone they knew and trusted, not to mention tall, skinny and possessing a great sense of style. I thought for a moment before giving her a definitive, "Maybe." I weighted the pros and cons in my head and came out even. I'd love to help friends in need, but a baby, even one I would have no legal right to, seemed like a lot of responsibility. This would be a living thing that was my own flesh and blood, and Angelique is a good friend who would make an excellent mother, but what if something were to happen to the baby? What if something happened between Angelique and me? Is blood thicker than coffee or is the law thicker than both? Would emotional attachment overrule common sense?

When I was Your Age

My high school years were fraught with fun and excitement; they had their fair share of disappointments as well. Things like the atrocious haircut and the more atrocious wardrobe that can best be described as regrettable continue to live on in pictures that will undoubtedly surface the moment I become famous. Since those carefree years I have come to know the meanings of words like responsibility, benefits package and designer clothes. Although I have become somewhat jaded over the years, I can't help but think there is still a youthful spirit hiding behind the bi-focals. After all, I still say, "Dude," on a regular basis and hang out in really groovy coffee shops. Do these things mask the fact that I am older, and I do know more than I once did? For instance, I'm now aware that 16 year olds don't always give the best advice, and that some things, no matter who says they aren't, are, in fact, illegal. If I knew then what I know now. . . I wouldn't have had any fun, which leads me to wonder -- is youth really wasted on the young or are they the only ones who know how to take advantage of it?

Are You Kidding Me

I've been known to tell a little white lie or two if backed into a corner -- things like, "Your hair looks great," "No, that dress doesn't make you look fat," "Of course I love you." I believe most people have told an untruth at some point or another; I also believe that little harm has come from this. On the other hand, certain lies should not be taken lightly. The ones told by cosmetic reps., car salesmen and parental units should be punishable by law. If enforcement had intervened during the committing of the appalling crimes accustomed to the above-mentioned people, psychiatrists and prescription drug companies would have far fewer clients. But where is the line between fabrication and hurtful? Is stretching the truth ever okay or is it simply a justification for taking the easy way out? What if the truth is more painful than the offending lie? If no one ever tells, does a lie become the truth?

Super

When I was a youngster I used to pretend I was Spiderman by rapping a rubber band chain around the swing set and flinging myself through the air until the ground invaded my course. When this occurred I brushed myself off and acted like the Bionic Woman and leaped back onto the bars accompanying myself with sound effects reminiscent of a 70's porn flick. That's the great thing about youth, you never run out of imagination.

As we mature our bodies grow frail and make-believe becomes a waste of time. I notice, however, superheroes never seem to go out of style, they just become new and improved with bigger chests, smaller wastes and tighter clothes. If only we could do the same. . . Or can we? With the advent of plastic surgery, liposuction, Botox, implants, body sculpting and airbrushing can we too become new and improved? Is it possible to become bionic and super sonic and all the other good "onic" words? And if we can, should we? Has Wonder Woman become a better woman simply because she has a Wonderbra? Is Spiderman more heroic because his pecs are impeccable? And would we be better people just by being better looking? In the real world, is beauty really power?

Tickets for Two

I have an insane ability to rationalize just about anything I want. Every week, Jodi and I go to the movies to stimulate our brains and keep us keen on what is going on in the world -- or so we tell ourselves. While at the theater, we eat a healthy diet of popcorn (grain), Raisonettes (dairy and fruit), Goobers (dairy and protein) and a large diet soda to flush it all down. Exercise consists of walking to and from the car, to and from the restroom and belly laughing at the improbability of happily ever after. That's body, mind and spirit taken care of in one trip to the movies. Some may say I am grasping at straws in my rationalizing but, hey, it's gotten me through the first thirty-plus years of life. Perhaps, someday reality will slap me on the thighs in the form of twenty pounds, perhaps not. Perhaps I will continue living life believing I am happy simply because I tell myself I am. How do we know where perception ends and truth begins? Do the two ever meet, or are they parallel lines in the same universe? Can rationalizing become reality?

Shock TV

While lounging around the house the other day taking some much needed time off, I found myself busy flipping through channels, absorbing all there was to see and realizing there wasn't anything to see. Just the usual cadres of real life talk shows, court TV and info-mercials promising the impossible. With nothing else to do, I found myself enraptured by a married couple that each had a secret they felt inclined to reveal on national television. After thirty minutes of bickering and chair throwing I realized a family that plays together doesn't necessarily stay together if playing involves brothers, sisters and various prostitutes and drug dealers.

When I was a kid we watched cartoons and soap operas and everybody aired their dirty laundry in their own back yard. Times have changed, however, and tattoos are no longer taboo and anything can, apparently, be pierced. In a day and age where it is okay to tell the world your sexual preference, discuss religion and express political views, is there any subject left that cannot be discussed over a polite dinner? Can we push the envelope any farther and still gain Nelson Ratings? I wonder, is there anything left that can truly be described as "shocking?"