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?