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?"

Back to the Future

While sitting at the salon getting my natural color reinstated around the scalp area, I couldn't help but overhear some of the older clientele discussing the regrets of their lives and the drawbacks of living on a fixed income. Pension plans and social security just don't cut it with today's rising prices. Margaret complained that the company her deceased husband had worked for filed bankruptcy, and she no longer received her rightful monthly checks. Jean spouted off about how her investment banker chose several bad investments, and now she had to move in with her daughter and felt she had become a burden.

These tales of woe saddened me. "It must really suck to get old," I thought to myself, glad it was never going to happen to me. These ladies should have known you cannot count on the government or bankers or companies to run your life -- you must live it yourself -- at least that's what the romantics tell us. Surely Jean and Margaret were once young, and surely they lived a life they thought was fulfilling yet responsible. Now they sit, and once a week try to outdo each other's tales of woe. "If only I hadn't. . . " they say. But they did -- as we all have -- as we all will. They say hindsight is 20/20, and we always know what we should have done, but if we could go back and change our past imperfects, would it guarantee a perfect future?

Who Stole My Happy

There was a time when a friendly game of Hide-N-Seek or a painfully bumpy ride down a Slip-N-Slide would cover my face with a smile -- of course those games are forbidden for grown-ups. If you don't believe me, try gathering a group of co-workers for a quick glide down a wet, yellow, plastic sheet and see how many takers you get.

As adults we tend to opt for thrilling games of Sudoku and tedious crossword puzzles. I still enjoy time with friends and the occasional trivia night, but the smiles don't come as easy as they once did. They require work and sometimes, after a long day on the job, I'm just not willing to put forth the effort. Yet I crave a full belly laugh -- the kind that leaves you snorting like a five year old. How did this come to be? Have I lost my youthful spark simply because I've aged, or is it hidden somewhere waiting form me to find it? When life gets bumpy and we're feeling as though time has slipped away, how do we find our happy?

A Question of Beauty

I don't think I am the only person who has said, "I hate my hair, and I wish my abs were flatter." Some of us may be described as, "big boned," or as, "having a slow metabolism," and these statements may be true. These sayings encourage us to go to the gym and count calories or carbs or whatever else the newest fad diet tells us to count. We go to great lengths to achieve personal standards of beauty. In America it is common to have our tummies tucked and our breasts enlarged. In more traditional cultures a long neck or shoulder-grazing earlobes are a symbol of beauty. There was a time, not so long ago, when white skin was in and a pleasant amount of plump was all the rage. Now we prefer a perfectly bronzed glow on a frail frame even though we know attaining these things are difficult if not impossible to achieve safely. To what extent are we willing to go to acquire our perceptions of beauty? Is it acceptable to bind our feet to fit in fashion forward shoes, or should we modify fashion to fit our bodies? When it comes to how we look. . . are we our own worst critics?

I Heard

I love dessert, always have, but I always wait until my plate is cleared before delving into a slice of decadent chocolate cake. Sarah, on the other hand, is more content to have dessert first and dinner after -- if there's room. One thing we both agree on is that a nice glass of wine with our meal makes the whole thing better, and why not? According to doctors, a glass of wine a day is good for the heart.

Life is full of good advice such as fresh flowers are uplifting for the spirit, healthy couples should argue now and then, and owning a pet will help you live a longer, fuller life. I suppose there is some truth to these wisdoms, but what about the person who drinks a glass of wine, two shots of tequila and a Cosmo? Still good for the heart? Maybe -- but not so good for the morning after. Sometimes good advice goes bad. People get plump from clearing their plates, allergens clog up not uplift, arguments lead to litigations and little Cujos not such a cuddly canine. In life, things will happen that seem like a great idea, but wind up doing more harm than good. Is there a way to separate the constructive from the crap, the favorable from the foul, the helpful from the hapless? Must we stumble into the pitfalls others have put before us in order to learn life's lessons? How do we learn to filter out bad advice?

Tough Enough to Overstuff

My friend Jodi and I sat digesting a fat laden, artery clogging, heart attack inducing lunch promising ourselves we would never eat like that again. We didn't either, that is until the dessert tray was brought to our attention. Loaded with luscious cheesecakes, scrumptious pies and tantalizing tortes we suddenly found room in our overstuffed stomachs. We rationalized we had parked almost a half mile away and partially up hill; surely we would walk off some, or maybe even most of the calories. Unfortunately we were scarcely able to move, so we sat and had a cappuccino while our bodies broke down the large quantities of sustenance received over the past hour. Who were we kidding? We knew we wold have to have parked in another country to walk off all we ingested -- and we also knew we would gladly do the same thing next week. If we know smoking pollutes our lungs, sunbathing ages us and eating like a cow could cause us to look like one, why do we insist these things will never happen? If the options are True or False, why do we try to fill in the blank? Do human impulses overwhelm human rationale?

Hotties and Hefties

I never thought of myself as gaunt until a guy I was interested in asked me if I had an eating disorder. "No," I answered more as a question than a statement. I knew I was thin (a.k.a. -- scrawny), but sickly never crossed my mind. "What nerve," I thought. I would never ask him if his robust 190-pound frame were due to eating a small child for breakfast, why should he inquire about my eating habits? I got to thinking about body image and what it means to each gender. A thin man is weak, but a thin woman is sexy and a muscular man is hunky, but a muscular chick is freaky and heaven forbid either should be hefty. How have we come to the point where being a hottie is more important than being healthy? When did topics such as diets and diuretics become choice dinner conversations? When did our bodies stop being our own and start becoming public property?

In the Name of Love

Last night, having nothing to do and no wine to drink, I watched a six hour movie marathon on Lifetime Movie Network (or as I call it -- Ladies Murder Channel). I watched jilted women kill their spouses for reasons of infidelity, abuse, and severe cases of PMS. All of these sounded logical enough except for the fact that each woman claimed to love her husband. I found this concept a bit odd. I love my partner, but am hardly willing to hack his head off with a rusty ax to prove it. I have, however, done many another compromising items to prove my love. I've started wearing underwear and engaging in threesomes to name a few. Friends of mine have made compromises as well, though less extreme, to honor their partners' wishes, yet none have killed as far as I'm aware. I've performed several acts I'm not too proud of and for which I've blamed the Devil or Jesus, but still I wonder. . . What are we willing to do in the name of love?

I'm Late, I'm Late for a Very Important Date

I sat drinking my second glass of wine in the outdoor cafe waiting for my friend Sarah to arrive for our 7:00 dinner date. By 7:20 I decided I'd go ahead and order appetizers, not because I wanted them, but because I was growing fearful of the small crowd of people who were waiting patiently to be seated. Food came, I nibbled, and having nothing to read I stared intently at my tray of fried mystery vegetables trying to look as if I were making a very important decision.

Finally, Sarah rounded the corner fashionably late and still chatting on her cell phone. "Sorry," she said, "My mom called as I was walking out the door." "No problem," I told her and grinned knowing 7:00 really meant 7:30 to her. I wondered if I were thirty minutes late for her what would she think? Nothing much I decided. Sometimes it's okay to run behind. But what if I was her period and was thirty minutes late? Would I still be fashionable or would that be rude? How long should a person wait given a certain set of circumstances? What is the correct amount of time for your dentist, your friends, your period? When does fashionably late just become late?

Work Cubed

Last week my friend Angelique told me details and showed me pictures of her fabulous trip to Las Vegas -- here's Angelique at Cirque Du Soleil, here's Angelique eating Curry Chicken on the roof of Mandaly Bay, here's Angelique sleeping until noon. This week she showed me the paper cut she received while opening her disconnect notice from the cable company and told me she was working lats so I should go to the movies without her. What a difference a week makes. Last week it was curry and Cirque, this week it's injury and work. I had to wonder if it was worth it? I know Angelique spent all last year scrimping and saving every quarter she found in the sofa cushions and at the bottom her purse to pursue happiness in a distant place. She forwent formagio with friends and movies with mates. She made her money, made her plane and made some memories. Now she has returned to her usual life and the vicious circle continues in preparations for next year's adventure -- work, work, work, PLAY -- work, work, work, PLAY. Do three works always equal one PLAY? Can we have fun without spending our life savings, or does money truly buy happiness? Is a week in the penthouse worth a year in the poorhouse?

Convicting Convictions

The other day I visited my cousin Chuck in prison. It appears Chuck has a small insider trader problem, which his company, the law and the public at large deem unfair and illegal. Having passed inspection from Bernie, a balding, brutish guard with bad teeth and worse attitude, I talked with Chuck about life in the big house -- the daily routine, the horrible food, the progression from cellmate bitch to getting rich while still behind bars. I left Chuck with my best wishes and a dozen oatmeal cookies he could trade with Bernie for cigarettes, and extra helping of meatloaf or soap-on-a-rope.

Back in the confines of my own home I realized I could never survive prison. First of all I'm a vegetarian and the thought of consuming processed pork products is enough to make me ill. Secondly, I suffer from a terrible guilt complex and therefore could never perform an action that would result in hurt feelings or imprisonment. This complex has kept me from enjoying simple pleasures like eating a grape in the produce aisle without paying for it or lying to my parents in a ploy to get money to spend fool heartedly. Of course my guilt complex has kept me guiltless in most situations, but has it also kept me from living a rich, full life? Our convictions may keep us from being convicted, but do they also hold us prisoner to our own feelings?

Seeing is Believing

I stood in line at the checkout counter thumbing through gossip magazines I would never purchase purely on principle alone. Then I picked up the latest issue of Vogue to look at since the lady in front of me was buying enough non-perishable food items to last for fifty years in an underground cave. Later that night I sat in front of the TV eating fat free popcorn and watching the edited for prime-time version of Titanic. During the commercial breaks I restored my snack supply and watched the tale ends of sex sells advertising almost believing that if I bought the right brand of jeans I would become irresistible.

When the movie was finally over I got to thinking about all the things I had seen over the past ten hours. Elvis was alive and well living under an assumed name in a trailer park in Indiana, Christi Turlington truly is flawless, 1,500 people died, but hey, two people fell in love, and did you know you can eat what you want and still lose weight? Between airbrushed magazines, digitally enhanced video and blatant advertisement, how do we know what to trust? If we can't believe what we see, can we believe what we feel? When feelings are based on what we think we know, how do we know what we know is true?

Little Moments

I'm the kind of guy who has a routine and sticks to it come rain, shine, sleet, or snow. I go to one grocery store, get gas at a specific station and always part my hair on the right. Some may call this manic (my psychiatrist and boyfriend to name a few), but I call it efficient. It may sound boring, but a lot can happen in a grocery store or gas station. For instance the other day I bought four organic bananas instead of three, and while pumping gas I got distracted by something shiny and accidentally pumped beyond my $20.00 limit. Not exactly core shakers, yet I can't help wondering what the ramifications of these small changes will be. Will I be forced to make banana bread from the soon to be rotten extra banana? And if I do, will I drive that loaf to the homeless shelter to feed those less fortunate -- I certainly have enough gas. And if this happens will I see the joy in giving and devout the rest of my existence to charity? My guess is probably not. Still, how do we know which little moments will determine the course of our lives?

Seniors

Yesterday I received a card in the mail cordially inviting me to my 20 year class reunion. Being in my usual morning rush I dumped the card along with the cable bill and National Geographic onto the kitchen counter where it sat for three days until I finally found the time to sort through the mess. I scanned down the list of names of former class mates trying to bring forth a visual image of each. I was surprised by how few I could recall. Aggravated by my memory lapse I pulled out a few dusty yearbooks to put faces with names. For a good hour or so I thumbed through my past caught in reverie wondering who the hell these people were that signed my yearbook claiming we'd be "Forever Friends."

It seemed impossible that 20 years had passed since the bright eyed future of tomorrow stepped forth to take their places among the work force of America hoping to make it big. 20 years of turmoils and martinis, chaos and kids. Now, pushing 40 we were all invited to embellish our pasts for one another and act as if we'd never said goodbye. But the fact is we did say goodbye. We went our separate ways and led our separate lives. And as much as I hate to admit it, senior discounts are closer in years than senior proms and I am very likely entering my mid-life years. As we age and days blend into years and years into a lifetime, how do we keep our eyes bright and the future hopeful? Is it possible to hold onto the same kind of optimism that made us believe it was truly likely we'd be forever friends -- forever young? Will we feel like high school seniors when we reach our senior years?

Hope

I used to hope I'd marry rich, then I hoped I'd win the lottery, now I hope I make it through the end of the day. It's a funny thing, hope. We say it all the time for frivolous reasons, but what does it really mean? Webster describes it as trust or reliance, to expect a desire to be fulfilled. I describe it as the insane belief that the impossible will miraculously and fortuitously become a reality. Unfortunately, I still haven't married wealthy or won the lottery and as for the rest. . . the day ain't over yet.

As I get older I put less faith in hope and more in perseverance. I run myself ragged trying to get that raise, achieve that goal, snag that man. Then when all is said and done, I drag myself home, heat up a Healthy Choice and hope tomorrow will be different. Should I continue to wait for the Hope Spirits to grant my wishes, or is that a waste of time? Should I continue to work myself silly or is that a waste of energy? I have to know, is there hope in hoping?

It's a Wonderful Life

On a recent visit to New York City for a book signing tour, I found myself completely awe struck by the magnanimity of the world's biggest fruit. It seemed as though the rows of taxis went far beyond the horizon and into a wonderful place. I later found out, by mistake, that place was Queens and a queen in Queens isn't so wonderful.

As I took in the sights of NYC I was bumped into, trampled over, even urinated on, yet this did not deter me from making the rounds. I scouted the four stops on my itinerary before breaking for cappuccino al fresco. As I sat and watched the thousands of people passing me by on their way to business meetings, photo shoots, kinky sex parties, walks in the park and costume fittings I couldn't help but feel the anonymity among the masses. No one took notice of the person next to him, nor did he care to. I had to wonder if this was always the case. In a world of six billion people, what makes us special? Must we have a particular talent like money matters or kinky sex, or do we all have something to offer? Are we all understated George Baileys? Is it a wonderful life where we make bigger differences than we could possibly realize, or do we only make minor ripples in tiny ponds? Does it really matter as long as we enjoy the visit?

Memoirs of an Actress

My recently divorced friend Mona and I had lunch the other day at a posh new restaurant that had just opened next to the theatre. The menu items were all named after famous folks like Tim Curried Chicken and Jane Mansfried Pickles. "I could have been on this menu," she said referring to her days in the theatre. Mona was just becoming someone when she met and fell in love with her recent ex, Roger, at an opening night party for her then smash hit version of Rocky Horror. I could have told her the marriage was going to be a rocky horror, but I didn't.

Mona was a true talent -- still is for that matter. She can sing, dance, act and looks excellent for someone still holding on to twenty-nine. She sighed as she ordered a Fiona Apple Salad. I told her not to worry about being on the menu; she was already on a board game, -- Mona-poly. She wasn't as amused as I hoped she'd be. It appeared as though Mona had made her bed and was prepared to lie in it. "If only I hadn't gotten hitched," she said. But she had. She had been temporarily blinded by love and made a nice seven year run of it before the final curtain fell.

Sometimes love gets in the way of making rational decisions. Is it worth losing everything for a chance at love, or is true love, the kind that lives happily ever after, reserved only for movies? Is there hope for those of us stuck in real life, or are we just acting as though we believe? And if true love does exist, will we fine it before final curtain call?

A Piece of Cake

My friend Larry has had a checkered past to say the least. When we were kids he spent more time in detention than the remainder of the seventh grade class totaled, and as an adult has had more than his fair share of run-ins with the law. Still, I find him to be a decent human being -- I've just learned not to ask where my Christmas presents came from.

Larry has recently become involved with a woman he insists is the one and has asked her to marry him. This isn't the first time I've heard those words fall from his lips. Larry meets a woman, cleans up his act, asks her to be his wedded wife, then craves the life he once had where he is free to roam about and commit a crime or two at his leisure. He dumps his fiance, swipes a trinket and goes to bed with a smile. I suspect his current interest shall follow the aforementioned pattern of capture and release. Perhaps I am being too cynical. Is it possible Larry can have a wife and a life? Will having both cause too much strife? The situation is rife with possibilities. I wonder. . . is it possible to have your wedding cake and eat it too?

If You Want My Opinion

I spent all of last Sunday helping my friend Andrew sort through his entire body of artwork in an attempt to narrow the selection down to five pieces featuring hearts he intended to exhibit in an upcoming show. I'd select a few, he'd veto them, he'd show me some, I'd criticize them. After three hours of this we had a stack of twenty-seven maybes, one yes and thirty-two no's. Needing a fresh eye and a bottle of Chianti, we invited Sarah over to join the jumbled mess. Her input allotted another yes and a nice wine buzz.

As night rolled in I headed home with a tension headache that would not go away. To ease my mind I opted to watch something mindless like the news. This being an election year, there was plenty of time given to coverage of campaigners speaking on behalf of this or that and trying to persuade the audience to feel the same way they do. "Trust in us," they'd say, "we have your values at heart." Interesting," I thought. How does what's-his-name from what's-that-state know what my values are? I had spent all day with a man I've known for years and yet we were unable to come up with a solution for a simple problem, and now I'm supposed to trust the opinion of a man who had paid more money for a thirty second commercial than I made all of last year? It makes me wonder -- how much is an opinion worth? Does it matter who it's from? Should I trust a politician I've never met but who has spent years learning the ways of the law? Should Andrew trust my opinion just because I'm a friend even though I know nothing about art? When it comes to making decisions, do we need a consensus or do we trust the art of listening to our hearts?

If You Want My Opinion

I spent all of last Sunday helping my friend Andrew

All Aboard

While trying to find our way to the small, out of the way gallery where our friend Andrew was having his first opening, Sarah and I found ourselves lost. "Turn right here," she said. I disagreed and said we should turn right at the next light, she insisted the last right was the right, I insisted otherwise, so forward we drove until we found an arty looking coffee shop and decided it was close enough.

While downing a double espresso and munching on an overly dry scone I got to thinking about rights and lefts and rights and wrongs. Would Sarah's right have lead us to the gallery or to an old abandoned train yard? Perhaps my right would have been the correct choice, or maybe it would have lead to the same dead end. In relationships -- friends, family lovers -- how do you know which roads lead to happiness? Is there only one right, and if so, what happens if you miss it? Do you get another chance, or do you have to board the next train to Nowehereseville? Were Sarah and I both right, or do two rights make a wrong?

Obits

I'm not the kid of guy who regularly reads the obits, but an old school chum told me our sixth grade teacher had died. When I heard this, I shuffled through the newspaper forging the top stories of house fires, miracle cures and alien sightings in search of the recently deceased. There, below the death of a salesman -- the person not the play -- was a black and white photo of Mrs. Fulker (who had a more colorful nickname if I recall). Her whole life had been nicely summed up in a sixty-three word paragraph -- she had been a teacher, wife, member of the church choir, etc., etc. This all seemed lovely but rather mundane. Surely the woman had done something more than sing Amazing Grace and harp at twelve year olds. She must have, at some point, been a little crazy and jumped out of airplane or started an Internet port site.

As I thought of the dearly departed Mrs. Fulker, I questioned my own life; what had I done that was really worth mentioning? As a person grows older and more content with his ways, does he lose the spark that once ignited him, or do others simply forget the person he once was? When it comes to how we will be remembered, can we ensure we are more than words on a page? What will our epitaphs be?

Smarties

My friend Tom can build a house, install the wiring and plumbing, not to mention pour the sidewalks and landscape the yard. He cannot, however, fill out a check to pay for it without misspelling something. I, on the other hand, can write a love sonnet, compose a crime novel and fill out checks to my heart's content, but can't properly operate a screwdriver. Does this mean one of us is stupid? They say some people, like Gina Davis and Albert Einstein, are geniuses because they have high IQ's, but have they ever built their own homes or written a novel? We wold hardly call them dummies if they haven't, so I have to wonder what is intelligence? Is it something we can measure across the board by giving one test to everyone, or should it work more like a sliding pay scale taking considerations for personal background and awareness? Should we idolize Einstein for his theory of relativity or is that irrelevant? And what about Tom and me? Are we unintelligent because his participles dangle and my factors are factless? How do we measure smarts?

Unforgettable

Sometime ago I decided to rid all my pent-up guilt by going on a pseudo religious weekend retreat meant to cleanse the soul and make me at one with the universe. All the chanting and stargazing was lovely for about ten minutes, but I am a city boy and require background noise to be at ease. For two days I held hands with strangers, drank from communal cups and peed in the woods -- basically everything my mother warned me against. After forty-eight hours of listening to and making up confessions, I was more than ready to return to my normal life of little white lies and unkept promises.

As I eased back into my life at large, I noticed I did feel somewhat different -- rejuvenated. I felt I could breath easier and exhale completely without mumbling a profanity at whomever was perturbing me at the moment. As time progressed though, my secret past began forcing its way in, and I could feel the guilt of deeds done weighing heavily on my shoulders. I told myself the pas was the past and to stay focused on the present. This was of little help. Why is it events that occurred years ago can still remain crystal clear while my PIN number escapes me when I need it most? Why do we care about things we've done when no one else knows we've done them? How do we live with the unforgettable regrettables.

Could You, Would You Here or There

I had the option to either stay up too late drinking and dancing with friends or stay home and work my fingers to the bone for an under appreciative boss. Of course I chose the former and am now paying the price of sickness and trying to meet my deadline. This isn't the first time conundrums such as this has arisen, in fact, they occur quite often. Do I resort to selling my plasma to purchase the new Calvin Klein scent or risk smelling like summer sea salt in the middle of sub-zero ice scraping? Should I tell the woman behind the counter she has something big and green and ugly in her teeth or try to ignore it and hope it never happens to me? When faced with a tough decision I tend to measure everything against my sanity, which is always precariously balanced. Is there ever a crack in the rock or a soft spot in the hard place we can slip through unscathed and arrive safely on the other side? Must we always have to sacrifice the sake of sanity? How do we choose between the lesser of two evils?

The Art of Commitment

A friend of mine was married over a year ago to a man named Artie whom we'll call "a little different." He was artsy in an extreme way and although my friend has a bit of a wild side, she is hardly the kind of person to adorn herself with body paint and parade through a party munching on octopi innards. I recently had lunch with my old chum to catch up on old times and fill each other in on the present workings of our lives. After telling her of my plans to sign up for a Bob Ross painting course, and my recent foray into self defense classes, she informed me she quit her job as newspaper editor in pursuit of filming wild animals doing the dirty deed to splice together with home movies and Janis Joplin music in hopes of creating an art house film to win many obscure awards which will bring neither fame nor fortune. To each their own I figure, except that this new adventure wasn't her own -- this quest into film reeked of Art-house Artie.

Before my friend met her husband she was sensible, driven and a bit of an egotist. Now she is a female Artie whose sole goal in life is to shock. I wonder, when we find someone we are willing to commit to, must we leave our alter egos at the altar? Must a couple always be a "we," or is it possible to remain a "me" within an "us?" Can we be true to our partners and ourselves at the same time?

The Smell of Success

I know of a man who had accumulated such wealth he had a home on each coast, a wine selection so vast as to get a small country intoxicated not to mention a line of colognes named after each of his ex-wives. His net worth is more than I care to mention and he could quite easily live in the lap of luxury for the rest of his life on interest alone, and he's only forty. True, the man has a few years on me, but given my track record for making money I don't foresee myself eating from the same silver caviar dish as him anytime soon. I have, however, achieved certain life goals. For instance, I know the names of all of Santa's reindeer and Snow White's dwarfs, I can say, "Hello," in twenty-five languages and have the ability to mix a mean cocktail. These may not buy me a house in the Hamptons, but they do make me fun at parties. Does it mean I am a failure because I can count my annual income figures on one hand? Is there more to success than dollars and scents? How do we know when we've made it? Success -- when do we stop striving and start enjoying?

You are Cordially Invited

My friend Darren has invited me to his third wedding in the eight short years I have known him. I don't meat to sound judgmental, after all I am on my third martini of the morning, but I don't know what kind of gift is appropriate to give to a man who is obviously going through a mid-wife crisis. They say you marry the first time for love and the second time for money. But what about the third? Has marriage developed into some sort of bad habit by then? Perhaps there are 12-step programs for people who are addicted to spending vast amounts of money in honor of the first day of the rest of their two years together.

In America the divorce rate is 50% and climbing higher each year. The traditional wedding vows clearly state, "Till death do us part," and as far as I recall, I have never attended one of Darren's funerals. In a fast paced world where problems are solved in thirty-minute TV segments and entire wars are reduced to blurbs in the news, have we lost the ability to focus? Are we incapable of separating fact from fiction, fantasy from reality, like from love? Has life become so easy we have lost interest in anything lasting? Is there such a thing as forever?

Bullfight

As a general rule I like to be told what to do. It's just easier; less thinking involved. Plus, if something goes drastically wrong I can always blame someone else. This isn't to say I like to be bullied around by a know-ti-all, but an authoritative figure to point me in the right direction is greatly appreciated.

Recently I've been trying to take charge of my own life and boldly go where I've never gone before. The changes are minor, but I made them of my own free will. Things were going smoothly with my newly found freedom until I booked a trip to Mexico. Not wanting to spend my life savings on a four day get-a-way I opted to stay in a 3-star hotel and rent a car to drive myself around town rather than book any excursion with the overpriced concierge service my friends were using. This was all well and good until I got lost on my way to the bull fights where I was to meet my comrades for a day of margaritas and matadors. I found myself in a very seedy part of town I'm sure I had seen before on Dateline. Not wanting to become the latest victim in a Missing American scandal I dumped the car and hitched a taxi back to the hotel. $120.00 later I arrived safely in the hotel lobby where I quickly ordered a triple anything and put myself to bed. Six hours and four Tylenol later I awoke wondering what had gone wrong. How is it that changing our personality can be so difficult? Are we not the creators of our own destiny? And if we are, how can be grab it by the horns and not be impaled?

Bills, Bills, Bills

Upon receiving my credit card bill for the week of weakness in which I bought my family dinner, my mailman a massage and myself he entire spring collection, I realized credit is a wonderful thing -- for the creditors. By the time I add interest and late fees, I will have spent enough to purchase Puerto Rico and a luxury cruise liner to sail there. Oh, well. . . "You only live once," as my friend, Tommy says. Of course, the collection agencies have his number on speed dial.

When I was a kid my parents gave me wonderful pearls of wisdom. Words like, "Any job worth doing is worth doing right," still ring true. Others, such as, "Coffee stunts your growth," have proven to be completely false. The judgement is still out for some as in, "Algebra teaches you complex thinking," and "It's the thought that counts," are still in debate. I mean, I think about going to the gym every time I drive by it in my way to the bakery for my morning strudel, and I realize I should only dream about walk-in closets filled with designer labels, but is thinking about it enough? Is it necessary to put all one's energy into becoming something or does that close the doors to other opportunities? Should one look before leaping or in contemplation an excuse for fear? When it comes to life decisions. . . is it really the thought that counts?

Wrongs and Rights

I confess, I have cheated on a few things in life -- Geometry tests, college exams, tax refunds, nothing out of the ordinary. But the thoughts of cheating on my partner have never occurred to me. Sure, I've seen the scenarios on Lifetime movies and have watched the events unfold in the relationships of friends around me, but I could never quite imagine myself as an adulterer for a few different reasons. First and foremost I am a horrible liar. Secondly, the scarlet letter doesn't match a thing I own.

Unfortunately this sense of fidelity hasn't always worked in a two-way fashion. I have been cheated on and have managed to find it in my heart to forgive time and again. This being said, I've envisioned my mate's demise in many a gruesome fashion knowing I would be completely devastated without him. Yet I cannot bring myself to return the unfaithful favor assured by the thought that two wrongs don't make a right. Still I wonder, if they don't make it right, do they at least make it fair?