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?