What Happens When Your Girlfriend Doesn't Get Her Required Amount of Sleep

What follows -- because I've been too busy and lazy to write anything in two weeks -- is a guest blog from dear Adrienne, my girlfriend, who, as you will soon see, is in a very bad mood today.

The backstory is that dear Adrienne lives in a fourth floor walkup apartment that is 2000 years old (yes, it was built around the birth of Christ), with creaky floorboards that she shares with her neighbors across the hall. These two miscreants are fresh out of college, married, unemployed, and drug recreationalists.  Because they are unemployed, the aforementioned miscreants are able to have parties on any day of the week, any day that is, that they're not screaming at each other at the top of their lungs because they married too young and are both unemployed, or too exhausted from chasing their yappy rat of a dog around their drug den of an apartment.  I saw the boyfriend last weekend, with the yappy rat of a dog cradled in his arms; he's got a beard, is on the waify side, and looks like he could be singing for Grizzly Bear.

With our cohabitation imminent (!!!), Adrienne has been selling off her belongings on Craigslist like an auctioneer on crack. Last Saturday, I helped her move her bed down the four flights of stairs and into the waiting SUV of a Long Island teacher. (My back and glutes still ache, but that's a story for another day.) Since she now has no bed, her mattress is on the bedroom floor. Last night was her first night sleeping on her new arrangement, and this is where our story begins, stripped from a furiously-typed Blackberry email that is mere hours old.

Subject: Negative nancy here

So I had to get up at 6 to move car (for first time today-have to move again at 9) so afterward I go back to apt and wander around aimlessly remembering how much noise the fucking neighbors - no that word is too friendly- a-holes next door were making. I look at my bed and see the large brown crystal that is usually on my nightstand is on the pillow next to mine. That's right. In a half-sleep stupor I grabbed the crystal intending to slam it against the wall a couple of times but must have dozed off. That's right. I dozed off until the battery in my ipod died and then the barking, stomping and fighting jolted me awake again.

So after wandering around the apt for thirty minutes and re-listing my apartment I decided I couldn't decide what to do so I put on my coat and came over here to Big Daddys for breakfast. I walk in-EMPTY!! I have the place to myself. I place my order for oat bran pancakes with the russian waitress who doesn't write anything down, but hey, how hard is oat bran pancakes and two eggs? No, I don't want the potatoes or bacon, but feel free to throw in an extra oaty. Nope, cannot do that, but how about sausage? For gods sake. Just the two cakes and eggs.

I am just opening my "Wheels of Life" chakra healing book in an effort to bring myself back to neutral when in walks an UES 20 something mom, with a three year old "Chase" and baby "Wade" in a basket. And guess what... Chase gets to pick where they sit! Yes, please, right next to me. Seriously? So then I hear "chasey, baby, how about eggies and french toast!! Mommy loves you!! Your such a big boy!! What should we do today?? Wadey goes for her four month checkup and then we are going to play and nappytime!!! Jesus christ lady, its barely 8:00. What are you on?

Then the food arrives. Two fat white as my plate pancakes. Umm, are these oat bran? No, you said regular! WTF? Ok, I will send them back she says and asks once more if I want some sausage. What the hell-do you have a box of sausage going bad back there? So now I am eating two oat bran pancakes that surely have spit (or worse in them). While Chase refuses to eat his eggies and waffles smothered in whipped cream and strawberries. UES girl has asked him if he is going to eat those eggies 14 times so far. I am counting. Oh yeah, neil young playing in background. 


I couldn't have said it better myself.

Decisive Indecision

It's a common state of the human condition, I have found, that no one is perpetually happy. I don't know anyone whose life is a steady upward curve, who is so pleased with their current state of affairs that they wouldn't change a thing. In my experience, most people have one or two things they'd change about their life if they could. I've also found that the grass is indeed often greener, but that when it comes to effectuating the change we're all considering, the idea often seems easier than putting it into practice.

For myself, I've noticed a disturbing trend in this area. Whenever it comes to making a big decision in my life, to making a change that I can believe in, as Obama would put it, I turn into Hamlet murmuring to a handheld skull: "To be or not to be, that is the question." Should I stay or should I go? Unchartered waters or status quo? I usually realize that something is lacking or I need something different in my life but when it comes to figuring out whether the other side of the black curtain is going to make things better or worse, I just can't decide. And if there's one thing that makes me miserable, it's living in a gray area betwixt two worlds. I absolutely hate it. It's like my mind is split in half and I'm paralyzed by uncertainty. Terrible feeling.

Let me see if I can come up with a few examples. When it was time for me to decide what to do with my life in my early twenties, post-college, I couldn't decide which direction to go. They say it's nice having options, but at the time, it was absolutely maddening. Half of me wanted to volunteer somewhere, maybe join the Peace Corps, and live a simple life, one that was consistent with my values and political beliefs at the time. The other half of me wanted none of that meager living and the certain poverty that would come later. That part of me wanted to travel, wanted financial freedom, wanted a serious career that would justify and reward the hard work I had put into my education for 18 years.

So what did I do? Well, first off, I delayed the decision for a couple of years so I could think it through. I took two years off, backpacked in Europe, and got a little taste of that meager living that I was seriously considering. I talked about my future with my cousins, uncles, and with my grandmother in Italy, who had seen a few things. Some of them hadn't pursued an education and were struggling to make ends meet. It's not pretty, they said. You can't help anyone before you help yourself, they said.

When I got back to the States, I picked up my old summer job in the produce department of a nearby supermarket and another job covering high school sports for a local newspaper. (Journalism was another career I was contemplating.) The supermarket job was for money. The newspaper job, which paid almost nothing, was for love. I got to write. They gave me a sophisticated film camera, which I barely knew how to use, and let me take pictures for the stories I was covering. They even used some of the photos I took. Two of my favorites were one I took of a baseball player for a local semi-pro team who was arguing with an umpire after a called third strike. I caught him mid-rant, with his mouth open. It came out great, though it would have been better with a zoom lens. The second one was a picture I took of a bunch of Special Olympian athletes splashing in a sprinkler during a very hot summer day on the track field at the University of New Hampshire. That one they blew up and used to cover the entire top half of the sports page in the next edition. I remember how much pride I felt when I saw my name underneath the picture. "I took that and I barely knew what I was doing. Holy shit. And they USED it!" I felt the same pride when I wrote about local sporting events and saw my name on the by-line. At first, I wrote them like stories, with way too much descriptive language. The editor made me tone them down. "This is a newspaper," he said, "not a fiction class. You need to simplify things into small, digestible pieces for people to read."

I think back to that time sometimes. It was a transition period, and like I said, I felt miserable a lot of the time because I didn't know what I wanted to do with my life professionally. I felt like the newspaper job was just a placeholder, something to make me not feel like a total loser because I had graduated college and was stocking peppers and cantaloupes in a supermarket. But now I wonder what have happened if I had listened to myself a bit more, had a little bit more confidence in myself, and gave other potential vocations a fighting chance. Because I really enjoyed the writing. I didn't take the photography part seriously because I'd never done it before; in fact, I'd never shown the slightest interest in cameras or taking pictures. The camera was too big and too damn complicated to learn. I'd gotten lucky with a couple of shots they'd decided to use. What I cared about was the articles I wrote. What would have happened if I'd tried to become a permanent employee on the newspaper and worked my way up? Or moved to something bigger later, something digital, once that world took off? I wasn't short of opinions, that's for sure. During this period I wrote a satirical piece to another newspaper when the first Gulf War started in 1991. It was a blog, essentially. I cast myself as a lonely bachelor who opposed the war when everyone in the world was supporting it. I still have it in a plastic folder, along with every newspaper article I wrote, including in college, and every picture I took. I'm glad I saved them.

Life is a one way street. Not too original, but it's one of my favorite sayings, taught to me by my father. (Dad never was too elaborate in his provision of advice, but I've learned that his simple nuggets often were more profound than three hours of heavy counseling by my mother.) Life is a one way street means that there's no looking back; we have to live with the decisions we make. Given the sad state of affairs of the newspaper business, I could just as easily be living in a cardboard box now as have my own nationally-syndicated editorial page. As the Tootsie Roll owl once said, "The world may never know."

I bring this up because lately I have been contemplating some changes por mi vida, in two areas: (i) what I want to do with the second half of my life work-wise, and (ii) where I want to live. For some time, I've had the stirrings of change deep in my colon about my day job. It's not that I don't like being a lawyer -- it's actually fine a lot of the time. It's challenging, I get to do some writing, albeit of the watered down, non-creative variety, and I'm well paid, which allows me to do other things that I enjoy. But damn, I've been in this rut for awhile now. I don't feel inspired at all. I don't feel like where I'm at is where I want to be. And I've never loved being a lawyer so much that I want to go to bar association meetings, jerk off with other lawyers about cutting edge aspects of the practice, schmooze and make contacts, blah, blah, blah. I don't read about Oliver Wendell Holmes in my spare time. I don't even like watching lawyer shows on television. Fuck all of that. When I have free time, I can think of 1000 other things I'd rather be doing than anything law related. Same for getting on the board of some stupid ass company or non-profit so I can put it on the firm website and hassle my friends and colleagues for donations every fucking year. That's what lawyers are supposed to do though. Shake the tree. EMBRACE the law. CLIMB the ladder to the glory of partnership, more money, and beyond (which is what, exactly? A bigger house?). I've got be honest. Time is the only truly limited quantity in this world, and I'll be damned if I'm going to expend any (or very much) of mine on law-related activities outside of work. I like the law, I'm good enough at it to make a living, but I'm not PASSIONATE about it like some people. I don't eat and breathe the shit. It's the last thing I want to think about when I get home. I'd rather be doing this, working on my other hobbies, or watching a good movie.

Not to mention that the profession is stressful as hell, particularly when I'm swamped with work and being reamed by demanding clients. It's also full of conflict, arguing with pricks on a daily basis (sometimes even within my own firm), and basically deciding who is going to get what pile of money at the end of the day. And even when you succeed, they still bitch about the bill. As if it was easy to get them their fucking money. As if I found it ENJOYABLE. The law can be interesting and challenging, but it can also be repetitive and dull. The law doesn't keep me warm at night. And as far as loyalty at my firm goes, well, that only extends as far as the "value" I add to the firm. That's the new catchphrase: "value added." Clients want value, so now we're all forced to dance for our dinner and justify our existence, both within and without the firm. In a lean economy, we're also forced to schmooze within the firm, so we can pry out of the bony hands of nervous partners some of the work they've been hoarding for two years for fear of getting shit-canned themselves. All these rainmakers who make the big bucks, who were supposed to be the business generators, well, they've made a lot less rain in the past 3 years. Now we're all thirsty.

Sound fun to you? I go through phases when I think stacking peppers and cantaloupes wasn't so damn bad after all. By now I could be managing a store for $100,000 a year, have weekends off, and live a more sane life. Or be in upper management and have everyone shit themselves when I come sauntering in to run my finger across the top of the cash register checking for dust.

Daydreams are nice, but reality eventually sets in. The bills come. A trip to Vail is offered. A new camera lens hits the market. And I want, want, want. I like new things, new experiences, seeing new places. Unfortunately, at the age of 41, I have trapped myself in a lifestyle, the very quicksand that those "Why Go to Law School" books I read before I went to law school said I would face sometime down the road, right around my midlife crisis. I'm nothing if not punctual.

There are thousands of unhappy lawyers out there. (Poor poor us.) Many of them, apparently like me, stay in the profession because of the money. It's easy if you never had something to not miss it. It's harder to go backwards to not having when you once had. This mix of want and need and dreaming and malaise has created the same uncertainty and stuckness I experienced twenty years ago. I have a split mind once again, which I can barely tolerate. What to do, what to do? Well, for the past three years or so, I've kind of been doing the same thing I did when this happened before: I'm waiting until an answer becomes more clear in my mind. I'm waiting until the clouds part. My answer the last time was to take the Road More Traveled and go to law school. I can criticize that decision now, but in the grand scheme of things, I probably would do it again. I'm risk averse when it comes to money and financial security and that hasn't changed. It's kind of why I'm stuck now. For all my bitching, I'm fairly certain I won't be eating cat food when I'm 70. But what if I don't make it to 70? I have to acknowledge the thing inside me that is ready for a change, some kind of change in my career, some kind of professional inspiration. We shall see where it leads.

The second big area of indecision for me at the moment is where to live. I have lived in New York City for the past 18 years. I've lived in some decent places, like where I am now. I have also lived in some tiny, run-down apartments that would make you cringe. Apartments that were so old, the paint was crusted over from 2000 landlord slatherings and the shower tiles were buckling from neglect. Apartments where the kitchen could only be called a kitchen because it had a refrigerator and a stove in it. Apartments with impossibly thin walls and ceilings where I could hear my neighbors yelling, fucking, and playing shitty music at all hours of the day. Basically, I have lived in a hotel for nearly half of my life. (More than that if you count my college years.) Why have I done it? Why, to be in New York, of course! Those of you who have never lived here, who have only visited, won't understand this, but outside of Paris, New York is the only city in the world that could make a person want to endure this kind of bullshit -- the cramped quarters, the noise, the stink in the summer -- just to live here. And I have wanted to live here. I have explained why before and won't belabor it now. The energy, the choices in food, the mix of people, the random activities within arm's reach, the feeling I get just by being here, all of these things, just to name a few, make New York special and addictive. Not everyone wants or enjoys the city life, of course, but for those like me who do, it's incredibly hard to think of living anywhere else.

But lately, that's exactly what I've been doing: thinking of living somewhere else. This feeling, too, has been gestating awhile, though not for as long as the one about my job. I'm not sure of its origin. Many of my friends have left New York for the suburbs. Most of them did it for their families, because they have young kids. Some friends have departed because they lost their jobs or they see a better opportunity somewhere else, in another part of the country. For myself, lately I've been getting sicker of the bullshit and craving another experience, some extended peace and quiet. My last three trips, besides to Italy for my grandmother's funeral, have been to Utah, Burlington, and Vail, all distinctly nature-oriented. I got to hike and ski. I got to breathe clean air. I got to hear the sounds of silence. It was beautiful. I have been craving the outdoors for some reason, and I am NOT the outdoorsy type, far from it. But it's like something in me is telling me, okay, you've been eating red meat for awhile, it's time for some vegetables, or you're going to get sick. The problem is, I'm not a vegan either. If I jump to the country and hate it, then what? I'm stuck in a fucking house with nowhere to go unless I plant my ass in a car. That's one thing I've loved about New York, you can walk anywhere at any time and get home easily. You are always minutes from home, no vehicle necessary. Not so in the burbs.

On the other side of it, I confess that I'm tired of city living in many ways. I'm tired of hearing my neighbors in particular. Just once I'd like to go to my own bed with 100% certainty that I'm not going to hear ANYTHING all night until I decide to wake up. That never happens when you live in the city. Some douche might decide to slam his drawer or use his treadmill at 1 a.m. Tough titties, you'd better have some good earplugs or a ton of patience. I am distinctly lacking in the latter. I'd also like some SPACE for my shit for a change. I'd like to buy a ginormous 100-pack of Charmin's, the kind that will last me and my ass until 2012, and not worry about where the fuck I'm going to put it. I'd like a real home office, an entire room devoted to nothing but my computer, printer, and ergonomic chair. I'd like more walls to hang my pictures. I'd like a garage that I don't have to rent. Maybe one that will fit TWO cars. Or a ping-pong table!

I think I'm saying... sigh... that maybe, possibly, implicitly, kind of, perhaps I'd consider the idea of... living. in. a house. Ugh. I've never had one of my own before. I swore I'd never own one. To much work and not my speed. So why now? Well, a big reason for staying in the city -- meeting and having a life with someone -- is now off the table, thanks to Adrienne and where I think we're going. And apartment living with two people -- which we are about to undertake -- is a bit crampy. I could barely stand it here by myself. We'll see how it goes, but I have a feeling we're going to need more room at some point. And truth be told, house living sounds and feels a lot less lousy with her around to share it with. (And Jer too, of course. He can't talk, but I think he'd like a nice yard to shit in every once in awhile, sans leash.) Not a ringing endorsement, I know, but I need to ease into this. We'd be closer to the mountains, so I could ski more. Getting to my parents' house on holidays, etc. would not induce an embolism. I think it would be less stressful in a lot of ways. There's a lot of upside.

I would definitely miss the city though, I love Williamsburg so much. Plus, I think of myself as a city person, not a Dockers-wearing suburbanite. God, even the thought of that makes me want to vomit. I don't know what I'm going to do. If I get a house, it also probably means I won't ever stop being a lawyer either, and any such plans are on hold until retirement. I've done a little surfing to see what you get for your money in the environs of New York City and it ain't pretty. Let's just say it's not inspiring me very much, and I don't have the bank to afford the kinds of places that DO inspire me.

So, to sum up: two things I'm thinking about changing in my life. Both involve contradictory feelings in their own right, and both are in opposition to each other financially. Short of me suddenly acquiring the power to teleport, or winning the lottery, something's got to give.

I should probably think about this some more.

Tweener

You'd think that by age 40, I'd have my romantic shit sorted out. That I'd be able to tell the difference between a mirage and reality, that I'd know when it's time to get off the single train and hitch on to one that carries two, that I'd understand what I'm doing. But I don't. I have ideas, sure. I have instincts telling me to do one thing over another, to go in a certain direction. The problem is, I've stopped trusting my instincts because they've led to questionable decisions in the past, decisions I'd rather not repeat, because, well, I'm 40 not 25, and I don't have the time, or frankly, the energy to waste anymore.

I used to be someone who jumped into relationships. All it really took was someone I was attracted to, who, for some inexplicable reason, was attracted to me. Not just on a physical level. It could be a sense of humor or something in the way she conveyed herself, but what I'm saying is all I really needed to jump into a relationship was some form of chemistry. Something that hit me when I was around her. Or, let's face it, the prospect of new and frequent sex. And then in I'd go, like a moth to a flame. And without fail, a few months or years later, there I'd be, Hamlet holding a skull in front of his face. "To be or not to be. To stay or not to stay. To go or not to go. That is the question." For as sure as the sun doth rise, the thoughtless and carefree way I'd entered into the relationship would blow back in my face like a Bush foreign policy. It was only a matter of time. Before long, I'd realize that one thing or the other wasn't working as well as I'd hoped, that the egg was missing its yolk, that the relationship had no soul. What started out as fun, a lark, an adventure, hadn't remained so. There I was alone when I wasn't alone. Torn and angst-ridden about what to do. Wondering how it all had come to pass. Had I been attracted by the wrong things? Had she? What was it? And why had it happened that way? Why hadn't she or I said "No" after date number 3 or 4 when it would have been so easy, all those months or years ago?

Not to say that my relationships have been a waste of time. Quite the opposite. Maybe it sounds like that's what I'm saying, but I'm not at all. Regardless of how long or short my relationships have been, I truly cared for, and learned from, the women with whom I've been involved. I guess what I'm saying is that more often than not, I've kept re-learning the same lesson. Over and over again. Instead of progressing and evolving as a person, I kept making the same mistakes with very similar people, based on the original sin of my decision to enter into a relationship.

I have a theory, one that I've culled from years of experience and conversations with friends, married and single, women and men. It goes like this. Quite often, too often, what we're most attracted to is dictated by the most dysfunctional part of ourselves, the part we keep in a dark room behind a locked door. And, like it or not, it goes back to our childhood and what we became used to as children. Maybe a parent was completely absent, as a result of a divorce, a simple disappearing act, or perhaps an untimely death. Maybe one's mother or father favored a sibling, or you just remember it that way because you were an out-of-control freak of a child who required loads of attention. Or maybe your parents tore each other a new one every night over dinner, trading barbs and criticisms and you're this and you're that, but no... rather than divorce, they decided to stay miserable together and make you miserable in the process. So you became used to fighting and conflict in relationships and now, as an adult, you're perpetually waiting for the other shoe to drop. No one can make you happy because you don't even know what the hell happiness looks like. And if it taps you on the shoulder, you don't trust it very much. Or maybe your parents or peers in school made you feel so worthless or unattractive that deep down you don't believe anyone could truly want you. So you either don't date at all, or you date and then sabotage whatever you find with distinctly counterproductive behavior.

There are hundreds of examples. People typically sum all of this up in one word: Baggage. And the funny part is, the people who usually use that word, baggage, are the ones who think they have none. They say "I don't want any baggage in my relationships." "Leave your baggage at the door, pal." "She had so much baggage, I couldn't deal with her." I don't like the word baggage because to me, it's a negative word that always connotes having to lift something heavy and undesirable. To me, baggage is another word for the human condition. Few of us had perfect parents or childhoods. Fewer of us have tried to sort this shit out and become more self-aware and self-actualized before we finally commit to someone. But so MANY people think they have great relationships and they have no baggage at all. That is, until something happens, seemingly out of the blue, an affair, a loss of a job, a mid-life crisis, the death of a loved one. Then it's a watershed and all those repressed emotions and baggage come to the fore. I, for one, think everyone carries something around, even those seemingly perfect people you see who think they have it all, know it all. Most of those people, in my humble opinion, think they have no emotional issues because they're not self-aware or honest enough with themselves to admit that this is the case. Maybe it doesn't affect them on the surface, maybe it does. But the fact that no one is happy 100% of the time in this world, that people are continually impacted and upset by life and circumstances and react accordingly, says something. Just because you're moving up the professional ladder and have achieved success or seem to have a great marriage doesn't mean you don't have something churning under the surface, a sleeping dragon you don't want to wake up. Look at Eliot Spitzer. Look at Bill Clinton. Look at your attractive, happy neighbors. Look at your siblings, your cousins. Unless you're living an exceedingly charmed life, it's impossible to live in this very imperfect world without being pockmarked by a few asteroids. Life is a school and those asteroids are your teachers. To me, it's not a question of whether some people have baggage and others do not. It's a question of whether two people are willing to help each other lift the other's bags, or whether those bags are just too fucking heavy or the wrong color.

Then again, it's possible to overthink things, isn't it? Blink certainly suggests that's the case. Sometimes the instant feeling is the correct one. The tough part is distinguishing between that feeling and the one that's dictated by your bagg--, I mean human condition. Why does that girl make my heart race? Why doesn't the other one? And is heart racing the true yardstick of love and future happiness, or should we be looking for something else? If so, what? I used to pursue the former. As I've gotten older and a bit more wise, it seems to me that most successful relationships are more about friendship, communication, sharing, and being on the same page in life. They're about finding someone who has your back, someone who's uncalculating, who loves you for you, and who isn't going to run off as soon as a prettier and more successful butterfly comes along. But why are we still drawn to the butterflies and the head-over-heels and the zing? Why do we still demand it? Is it from societal conditioning? From Hollywood and Cosmo? Is it innate, a hand-me-down from our Cro-Magnon ancestors? Who knows? From what I can see, that want doesn't ever leave, and people seem to expect it even after years of being with someone. Maybe not from the person they're with, but when they get it from other people, people who are not in the relationship and therefore have nothing to lose, it can be a powerful draw.

What's my point? I have no idea. I think it's in there somewhere.

The Warren Harding Effect

Ohhhh, Valentine's Day is upon us once again! I love it all. The pomp! The circumstance! The frolicking! This year, V-day falls on a Saturday, preceded oh-so-appropriately by Friday the 13th. If you've been reading this blog the past couple of years, you know that Valentine's Day is one of my favorite days of the year. And most likely, you also know that I've been high on Valentine's Day even though I've been single and alone in the nearly three years I've been doing this.

Well, I have news for you: I won't be alone this year. I only mention this on Friday the 13th because I am superstitious as hell and really enjoy sabotaging myself. I'll write more about that subject another time. Today, what I want to talk about is the Warren Harding Effect. What is the Warren Harding Effect, you ask? I'm about to tell you. I didn't know about it myself until I read the book "Blink" by Malcolm Gladwell, which I highly recommend if you're into learning about how the mind works and why our snap judgments can be incredibly accurate or mislead us into folly. There's a chapter in the book that's devoted to how we, all of us, give the benefit of the doubt to physically attractive people, which makes us overlook some obvious character flaws. When someone is really good looking or charming, we get blinded. It's primitive and visceral and hard to avoid. Ladies, I'm talking about Mr. Hardbody. Mr. Tall, Dark, and Handsome. The Charmer. The guy with a wink in his eye, even when he's not winking. The smell good man. The dude with the perfect hair and day old stubble who makes panties drop just by walking down the street. That guy. Gentlemen, I'm talking about Ms. Hotstuff, the minx who looks so smoking hot that you feel like crying when you see her because you're never going to get close enough to do her laundry. The girl with the sculpted glutes, the tight hamstrings, the floating boobs, the flawless skin, the combination of which would lead you to commit a felony just to spend 10 minutes alone with her. The girl who doesn't even SEE you, because she's wearing heels and her eyes never wander below her chin. That girl.

When we see Mr. Hardbody and Ms. Hotstuff -- or, more typically, people who are a few rungs below them on the hottie ladder -- we are hypnotized and it affects our judgment. For all you "deep" people out there who claim to be above this, please review your history and tell me that you never got jelly-legged over someone you were attracted to. It happens all the time; it's natural. We see things that aren't there. We fixate on that sexy smile, the one that's seemingly focused on us and only us. We fill in the personality gaps ourselves. We assume they have a sharp sense of humor, wit, intelligence, and compassion for others. They are the ideal and if we could capture them, attract them somehow, we too would be elevated to bask in their carnal powerwattage. We are more compelling, interesting, and attractive just by our association with these glittering jewels.

Of course, it's all a delusion. We're blinded by beauty. For, sometimes -- not all the time of course, but a lot of the time -- these people are not what we think they are. They're just people, genetically gifted, yes, but just people. People with flaws, sometimes serious ones. So why do we attribute great things to them before we even know them?

It's the Warren Harding Effect.

In Blink, Gladwell discusses Warren Harding, our 29th President. Harding is commonly regarded as one of the worst, if not THE worst President in U.S. history, though Bush is going to give him a run for his money one day. He was completely incompetent. So how in the world does a man like that ever become President? (Okay, silly question.) Gladwell provides an answer. He may not look like much to you, nor to me, but in his day, Warren Harding was considered a very handsome man. That old coot you're looking at was yesterday's equivalent of Mitt Romney: charming and attractive. No scratches on the surface. He LOOKED Presidential, it's as simple as that. And no joke, women who'd just earned the right to vote through the 19th Amendment to the Constitution (which Harding supported), thought he was dreamy. Which is ironic, since by many historical accounts, Harding was a poon-hound who had several extramarital affairs.

Much like today, partisan politics predominated back then, and it was party bosses, not voters, who decided Presidential nominations. When the Republican Party -- apropos, yes? -- was looking for someone to nominate, most of the other candidates had too many enemies or were deemed unsuitable for one reason or another. Enter U.S. Senator (R-OH) Warren Harding. Harding looked the part and he was so dim, he'd never pissed anyone off with a loud opinion. The Republicans met in one of those smoke-filled rooms and chose him as a compromise nominee for the 1920 Presidential election. He won in a landslide, the largest in history, served two years, and died of a heart attack in 1923. During those two years, corruption in his administration was rampant. His Secretary of the Interior accepted bribes and illegal loans and ended up in jail. Another cabinet member was convicted of accepting bribes; another skimmed profits and accepted kickbacks from the Veterans Bureau, and directed underground alcohol and drug distribution. He too, went to jail. Two aides of the aforementioned helped them destroy evidence and then promptly committed suicide. All in just two years.

And you thought Bush was bad?

The moral of the Warren Harding Effect is an old one: Beauty is skin deep and we're often blinded by it to our detriment. So, on this Valentine's Day 2009, let us make a pact to FIGHT the Warren Harding Effect. Let's agree not to be blinded by beauty, charm, and a tight ass. Let's look a little deeper. For I see a correlation between the Warren Harding Effect, absurdly unrealistic expectations among today's dating masses, and the loneliness that many people feel on this singular day of romantic love. So, please, for the love of Warren Harding, stop undressing Mr. Hardbody and Ms. Hotstuff with your eyes! Stop picturing them naked! Stop fantasizing about them in the shower! Instead, draw your gaze past these two self-absorbed airheads and take a long, meaningful gander at Mr. Troll and Ms. Witchwart. No, a little lower. Down there. Yes, that's it. And the other normal people standing in Hardbody's and Hotstuff's aura, look at them. Sure, maybe they're not what you thought you were looking for. But that's a GOOD thing, trust me. The genetic medians, most of us, need love too. And maybe you'll be surprised. Maybe, just MAYBE, they'll have what you need because they're far more equipped emotionally than Mr. Hardbody and Ms. Hotstuff to provide it. Or maybe, if you're more open-minded, you'll get lucky and meet someone you're very attracted to, who has all those important qualities that the diamond couple is sorely lacking. Can life get that good? Yes.

Happy Valentine's Day, everyone!

The Cheese Stands Alone

I learned a couple of things this weekend. First, don't make blog promises you can't keep. I promised to catch up on all my doings the past couple of weeks and instead of sitting down to the computer this past weekend, I ended up hanging out with my parents and old high school friends whom I haven't seen in years. Ergo, vis-a-vis, I got nothin' for ya. The second thing I learned is that I shouldn't promise to write about a specific subject at a specific time. When I do that, this starts to feel less like a blog and more like a job assignment and that suits no one, especially me. Besides, whenever I force-write something, it invariably sucks. I've tried it before and it doesn't work. I have to feel inspired and inspiration has its own calendar. So... we'll see.

Getting back to my high school friends, nothing marks the passage of time more starkly than when you encounter people you haven't seen in years. I have some great friends from high school, friends who knew me at the most awkward and dorky time of my life, when my identity was still in its larval stage and I didn't know who I was, where I was going, or how I was going to get there. (As if I do now.) Every single one of my friends could tell you an embarrassing story about me that would make me cringe. And I could tell one about them. That's the beauty of our relationship. We have a shared history from the years we've known each other, a history that can't be duplicated and that's deepened over time. It doesn't matter that I can count on one hand the number of times I've seen these people since college ended 18 years ago. Whenever we get together, it's like nothing has changed, other than our bodies. We have grayer hair, less hair, and in some cases, no hair at all. We have the crow's feet coming in. We move a little slower, suffer injuries for no apparent reason, belying our prior athleticism. Nearly all of us played two or more sports in high school: track, baseball, soccer, football, cross country. Now we're all weekend warriors who pull back muscles shutting off the alarm clock in the morning. (Okay, that's just me.) None of us have gotten fat or let ourselves go, which is a little disappointing because we all want to feel superior to SOMEBODY.

I hate the word "reunion," because it sounds so damn old. Reunion is what my dad has when he goes back to UMass every 10 years. I like "reunite" better, so let's use that. This weekend, I had two separate reunitings with old friends, both of which were bittersweet. On Saturday night, I met up with CB, an ex of mine from high school/college -- the woman who took my virginity in fact -- her husband and MT, another friend of ours. CB now has two beautiful kids, a nice house with plenty of land, and a pretty settled life. I'm embarrassed to say that even though she lives a stone's throw from my parents' house, this was the first time I'd visited her since she moved there 10 years ago. It was also the first time I'd seen her kids since they were born (they're 7 and 4). Bad, bad.

Now, it's one shock to have your brother or sister spawn a facsimile, a little person who looks and acts kind of like you. It's another to see the child of someone you once dated -- you once slept with, let's call a spade a spade here -- running around and playing in her yard. It's very strange. I'm looking at these tiny faces, little people with identities all their own, eyes, mouths, hair taken from one of their parents, and I'm thinking, Gee, in an alternate reality, these kids could have been mine. Well, not these EXACT kids, of course, but similar ones, slightly different versions who look and act more like me. I saw them running around laughing and playing, and I thought how different my life could have been had I made different choices, wanted different things. I didn't consider this with any sense of regret, mind you. I wouldn't change anything. It was more of a "what if" imagining, with all these adolescent memories flying by, all the time we spent together, all the things we talked about and experienced before our our relationship ended. Now, 22 years later, here we are, living totally different lives. Me, the single life, the city life, and her, having what she always wanted, a stable family with kids.

But it wasn't just her.... It seems that everyone I was close to in high school is living the traditional suburban life. On my way home to New York yesterday, I met up with five of my male friends, one of whom I hadn't seen in almost 20 years. (Damn, that's a long time; I'm getting OLD.) Every one of them is married. Only one of them has chosen not to have kids. I'm the only one who's done neither. The Cheese Stands Alone.

On the one hand, it feels a little weird to see everyone going the marriage and family route, like it was preordained. Mandated by law. That I'm the only one who hasn't done so stirs up this outcast emotion, a primitive, tribal feeling that I'm not one of the clan anymore. I fell off the Happy Truck. I'm the exception, the outlier. Not get married? Whoever heard of such a thing? To not procreate? How will the clan survive? We cannot allow this mutant to continue being a part of us. He must be cast out! Out, out, damn mutant!

On the other hand, I felt proud of the fact that I'm living a different kind of life, that I didn't just jump into a likely-to-fail marriage with the 2 or 3 women I kicked the matrimonial tires on before departing. I've never blindly accepted marriage as the next logical step in a relationship. It's a badge of honor that I'm thinking things through and fighting the loneliness in order to make an intelligent decision about who I'm going to share my life (and split my assets) with. It hasn't been that easy to stay single and childless while everyone else in society pops kids out like gumballs and screams at me that my choices are not acceptable. I'm flawed for not giving in to the pressure of coupling up and adding to the population. I'm lazy. Irresponsible. Selfish. Immature. Undeveloped. Yesterday, dear friend J., who I love because he always speaks his mind and lets you know what he's thinking, was surprised to hear I have no girlfriend. "Wow man, you have relationship issues." Well no. I have bad/mediocre relationship issues. Bite the bullet and get married? No. Until the right person puts a gun in my hand, I'll keep the bullet in my pocket.

I view their choices with the same skepticism they view mine. No disrespect to my friends or anyone else who may read this, including Sister T., who is getting married next Saturday, God bless her, but to me, there's something mindless and delusional about how many people approach marriage and having children. I've written about this before, so I won't belabor it. For every person who tells me I'm too picky and I've got commitment probs, I can name someone who married by default, out of some preconceived notion that they needed to do so, that they needed to bear children to uphold some kind of need within themselves. Someone who viewed marriage and kids as the only alternative in life, the only potential option for them, like college. It was a foregone conclusion that they needed to get married. Marriage is good for you. It's like a vitamin. A shot of espresso. A high colonic. The sooner you do it, the better for everyone. Get on the bandwagon! C'mon!

Um, why?

Maybe I'm a contrarian at heart. Maybe I'm just a stubborn prick. But I don't get it. I don't feel this great, magical pull that all of my friends seem to have felt, this desire for the suburban life and the spawning of more human beings to populate the earth. As they were asking me about my life in New York and why I want the life I want, how could I explain to them in a polite way that to me, the knee-jerk obsession with having kids seems to be an attempt by people to replicate themselves and create a purpose in life. Not sure why you're here or what to do with yourself? Tired of working all day for the man with no idea why you're doing it day after day? Have a kid! They'll warm your heart because they'll look like just like you (or your partner), and they'll exhaust you to the point where you won't have the time or energy to entertain existential angst. You'll become a parental drone, raising a duplicate of yourself to be the best new version of you he or she can be. Nothing more to worry about, here's your purpose in life!

How to explain to my friends that the thought of doing this, of following the herd like a mindless sheep, without giving any thought or respect to what it is that I feel and like and enjoy now, makes me dry heave? How to tell them that I'm perfectly happy with my life the way it is, with the freedom to wake up on a Saturday, walk around naked, read a book in peace and quiet, take my bike out for a spin in my neighborhood when the mood suits me (after getting dressed of course), shuffle off to a show in the city, eat and drink as much as I like at restaurants and bars that close at 4 a.m., not 1 a.m. and cab it home? How to tell them that instead of living in a 6,000 square foot house with a swimming pool and retractable roof like buddy D. just purchased, I prefer my 1 BR condo in Williamsburg and the minimal upkeep it requires? How to explain to my country-living friends that where I live is as important to me as anything in this world, that when I drove past the New York skyline on the BQE last Friday, I got goosebumps and tears in my eyes? And that's not the first time that's happened. How do I tell them that whenever I fly back to New York from anywhere and I see the Chrysler Building, the Empire State Building, the nondescript skyscrapers and buildings and concrete, I smile because I know I'm home? Would they understand if I told them that if anyone took New York away from me, I'd be miserable? That I can't imagine living anywhere else? That I'm more in love with this city, the excitement of this place, and the life I have now, than with any notion of pursuing the traditional family with a three bedroom house and acre of land? How could I explain that the suburban life -- porches, lawns, driveways, pesticides, ranches, colonials, tudors, painting the garage, getting the kids ready for school, PTA, Little League, living among people who are mostly the same: white and upper middle class, bars and restaurants you need to drive to before they close at midnight, people wearing L.L. Bean on a night out on the town -- sounds boring as fuck to me? That a life in suburbia, the life I was born into and grew up with, was great as a kid but feels like death to me now? That I'd rather live among blacks, browns, yellows, and whites and experience real life, see something new every single day on the subway ride into work, instead of slurping the whitewashed, sheltered, routine, done-it-1000-times, pre-packaged formula that everyone else is drinking?

No, of course I couldn't say all that. That would have been tactless and uncouth. And unfair. Who's got the better life? Who cares? It's not a competition. It's about being happy, and that's completely subjective. Besides, no one's 100% satisfied with their life every second of the day. I get a hankering for some grass and clean air every so often. That's when I leave the city for a few days. But the feeling passes. My love for New York hasn't left in 16 years. Suburbia is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.

For the record, most of my friends are happily married and like their lives, just like I like mine. It's not like they're looking to switch places with me. That was nice to see. The stuff I'm describing was in my head, thoughts I had while seeing literally everyone of my old friends live the same kind of life, a life that's different from mine. We spent most of our time talking about old times, the stupid shit we did when we were younger. The stuff that should have killed us but somehow didn't. When we started reliving past events, it was funny how other people remembered details that I'd either forgotten or never knew.

Example: on March 11, 1986, a day that shall live in infamy, I skipped class to go skiing up at Gunstock, NH with six of my friends. It was a balmy day, foggy and overcast. The warm weather had melted the snow just enough so that overnight, it had iced over. On the first run of the day, I headed down the mountain at a really fast clip. I remember laughing and feeling giddy that while all those other fools were studying, we were free and happy, enjoying ourselves outdoors. Halfway down the hill, I turned to the left and my right ski caught an edge in the ice, hurtling me towards the woods on the left side of the trail. Struggling to keep my balance, I tried to turn back to the right, but my skis wouldn't catch. As a last resort, I tried to fall down to stop myself, but I was going too fast. I went off the trail and flew face first into a tree stump.

Yesterday, R. told me that he was watching from the bottom of the hill and when I hit the stump, my head snapped backwards so violently, he thought I was done for. I blacked out for a second, and when I opened my eyes, I looked down and saw blood dripping from my mouth like a half-closed water fountain. The inside skin below my lower lip was pushed up, as if someone had shaved it clean. That's where my lower teeth went through. Only a thin layer of skin separated the inside from the outside of my mouth. The gash took 16 stitches to close. It's a miracle I didn't lose any teeth or kill myself like Sonny Bono. The ski patrol dude finally came. He said "That's a mighty deep laceration you got there son." Then he put me on a stretcher and took me down the mountain. It was a dizzy, bumpy ride.

What R. reminded me of, and what I'd long since forgotten, was that after all of this, I went to school the next day. I have no idea what I was thinking. I had this huge, swollen lip that jutted out a mile from my face. I looked like one of those Amazonian tribesmen in National Geographic, the ones with the enormous bottom lips. I wore these thick red stitches underneath, and I was forced to drink my lunch from a straw because I couldn't open my mouth fully or eat anything. You think I would've taken a day off to let myself heal and avoid the stares and humiliation, but no. I was a total masochist. I hated missing school. The irony was not lost on R., though, that I hadn't minded cutting class to go skiing the day before, but I insisted on being there after I'd nearly decapitated myself. He was right, it made no sense. Sister J. took a picture of me the day after the accident, just to capture the memory. I look like I went a round with Mike Tyson. I'm flipping her off, but my middle finger is only half-raised. My heart wasn't in it. Twenty-two years later, I'm glad she took the picture because it's the only image I have of myself in that sorry-ass condition.

We sat outside the Border Cafe in Burlington, MA yesterday for five hours, drinking beer and reminiscing over stories and memories that I won't bore you with, at least not yet. Finally, after we'd lingered over lunch and into the dinner shift, it was time for the party to end and for us to go our separate ways. It was hard to leave. R. urged me to spend the night at his place and watch the Sox play the Yankees. I could call in sick today, couldn't I? Oh, I was sorely tempted. But we're not kids anymore, are we? It's not as easy as it once was to cut class and go skiing.

A Valentine's Day Card From Me To You

I'm gonna find myself a girl
Who can show me what laughter means
And we'll fill in the missing colors
In each other's paint-by-number dreams
And then we'll put our dark glasses on
And we'll make love until our strength is gone
And when the morning light comes streaming in
We'll get up and do it again
Get it up again
-- Jackson Browne (The Pretender)

Here it is again everyone! Valentine's Day -- or, as I used to call it when I was younger: ValentiMe's Day. She only comes once a year, so get her while she's hot!

As has been well documented, I'm a crusty old codger when it comes to Christmas. That day has lost all semblance of meaning for me in recent years, with all the rampant capitalism, frenzied tourists, and gift obsession. So you'd think the same would be true about a sticky sweet day that celebrates love and romance. Particularly since I've been single longer than I care to mention.

But try as I might, I can't be cynical about Valentine's Day. I just can't. It's not in this Christmas Coot to bash The Day of Cupids and Hearts and Chocolates. I just can't join those V-Day haters, the black-wearing boycotters who want to turn the day into a funeral dirge. Why? Because I love Valentine's Day. Call me silly, call me crazy, call me deluded, but I'm incredibly protective of this day and what it stands for. Whether I'm involved with someone or not, Valentine's Day always makes me feel optimistic and a little goofy. And I don't really know why, because I'm a cynical bastard when it comes to most things. I'm always looking for the angle, the agenda, who wants what, what's the real thing behind the fake thing. You'd think I'd throw Valentine's Day in with all the other hypocritical horseshit that flies around me on a daily basis. But I can't. I don't want to. (Why did Richard Gere screaming "I got nowhere else to GO!" in An Officer and A Gentleman just pop into my head?)

In my mind (or my heart, I should say), there's still something pure and innocent about Valentine's Day. It's a day about an ideal, of how we'd like things to be. It's a day about love, in all its happy forms. What's wrong with that? I'd like to know. So here I go....

The soft spot I have for V-Day originated in grade school, when I, like most of you, was introduced to it through the carefully orchestrated ritual of exchanging Valentine's Day cards with my classmates. Remember? It went something like this: You took a ginormous piece of white construction paper, folded it so that one end came up about two inches below the other, and then you stapled the left and right sides shut with something like 30 staples. Then you drew a cupid or another Valentine's Day-oriented picture on the front and wrote your name in the two-inch strip of space at the top. Then you taped the thing to the front of your desk, so that the top was open. This, my friends, was your Valentine's Day mailbox. Your conduit to love, so to speak.

At some point during the course of the day, most likely while you were still on your late morning snack high, your teacher would say: "Okay, now we're all going to exchange Valentine's Day cards!" And everyone in your class would gather up the 27 Valentine's Day cards that they wrote out on the kitchen table the night before, to make sure no one in the class was forgotten. My recollection is that these "cards" didn't even have envelopes. They were these flimsy pieces of paper that came in cellophane boxes of 24 or 36, which you just folded in half once you were done writing "Happy Valentine's Day" inside. The cards had boy or girl themes on them, and you bought them at the local drugstore. Ours was called "Freedom Drug." (How's that for a drugstore name? Kick ass.)

After your teacher gave the card exchange signal, you and everyone in your class would slowly walk around to all the desks in the classroom and slide Valentine's cards into each student's mailbox. Everyone got a card from everyone else (or was supposed to). This is so cheesy to admit, but I remember going home, pulling out the one or two cards I received from girls I liked, and then staring at them for an hour. In my head, I pretended that the cards they'd given to me held some special meaning. I'd read their generic words: "Happy Valentine's Day, T.!" or "Be My Valentine" -- words they'd most certainly written to every single one of my classmates, boy and girl -- and I'd squeeze every last delusion out it, like a drunken pirate ogling a treasure map.

Did anyone else do this?

It was all so innocent, how we treated each other on Valentine's Day back then. No one was left out. Everyone went home with a card from everyone else: kids you liked, kids you crushed on, kids you despised, kids you couldn't care about either way, everybody. For a day, it was nice. It was unity. It didn't matter that the whole thing was orchestrated. It just felt good.

So I think that's where my good feelings about Valentine's Day started. And surprisingly, they haven't died on the vine over the years, like so many other things. Go figure.

That's not to say I feel great about V-Day every year. Some years, it feels like nostalgic salt on a wound that's been open way too long. But that's the exception. Usually this day has an extra charge to it, an extra zing in the air that makes me feel that anything is possible, that anything can happen. And when you think about it, anything CAN happen, right? RIGHT?

So if you're single, lament this day not. Embrace it. Appreciate the love that you have in your life, the love of your friends and family, and breathe in that adrenalizing feeling of anticipation, of expectation that someone great is coming your way soon. Because they are. Don't be sad. Because for you and me, the excitement of meeting a stranger and unwrapping new love is still ahead of us. For us, the electricity of possibility, of hope, of bizarre and twisted sex, is in the future, not the past. Ask your married or attached friends if, for one day, they wouldn't trade their tired, complacent, and boring partner for the possibility of someone new, exciting, and different. Just for one day. Oh, they'll probably lie, but we both know what they'll really be thinking.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone!

Guilty As Charged

"Guilt is like a bag of fuckin' bricks. All ya gotta do is set it down."
-- John Milton (The Devil's Advocate)

I've been thinking a lot lately about guilt. I've come to the conclusion that it is an utterly useless, but quintessential, human emotion. We're bombarded with it from our earliest days on earth, it seems. In an effort to raise us to be upstanding future citizens, or suitable carbon copies of themselves, parents use guilt as their primary weapon of choice. Parental guilt works on two levels, conscious and unconscious. On the conscious level, our mothers and fathers use guilt openly, usually to accomplish some obvious objective, like picking up our toys or stopping us from murdering our siblings.

On the unconscious level, parents pass their character flaws, fears, hopes, and resentments on to their children without even knowing it. They do so in too many ways to count. One parent might make their son or daughter their best friend and confidant because of an unhappy marriage, thereby robbing them of a responsibility-free childhood. Another may do it by berating their child for being too heavy or too shy. Another may simply abandon their child, financially or emotionally. All of the above involve parents selfishly putting their own needs first and instilling guilt in their child as a result. Kids end up feeling that if they do x, y, or z they will be loved, that parental love is conditional and can be taken away. Love and security thus become shifting sands, which makes for quite the anxious Johnny and Sally. And it's a vicious cycle. Kids get it from their parents, who got it from their parents, who got it from their parents, and on and on. Familial guilt is an ancestral curse that can't be lifted without a conscious awareness of its operation in the mind and a hell of a lot of work.

But that's for the therapists to sort out. What interests me at the moment is how childhood guilt negatively manifests itself in adult personalities and relationships. When you start to look for it, you quickly come to see how pervasive guilt is in everyday life. How nearly everybody is both its wielder and its victim. As an adult, guilt takes a new form, having metastasized over time into anger, pessimism, depression, or feelings of inadequacy or incompetence. Nothing's ever good enough, no matter how much a person accomplishes, how many friends they have, how much money they make, or how far they've gotten in life. If you always think you did something wrong, or that there is something inherently wrong with you, how are you supposed to feel good? And so we get people making bad life decisions. Jumping into relationships to feel complete or fulfilled. Turning to booze or drugs to numb internal anguish. Divorces, broken relationships, depression. Not pretty.

When you bother to look, you see guilt everywhere. At work, it's criticism that's not constructive or well-intended, but rather, the kind that's excessive and mean-spirited and designed to tear a person down so the purveyor can feel better about himself or herself. In a church or mosque, religious leaders use the ole GNG (Guilt N' God) to get you to pray more, give more money, vote a certain way, or in extreme cases, engage in a murderous crusade or jihad against an enemy who is, you guessed it, GUILTY! of all kinds of transgressions conjured up by those very same religious leaders.

In the military, you've got all kinds of behavioral conditioning going on from the earliest days of boot camp. There's no way to put human beings in life and death situations and get them to kill strangers without it. So they appeal to "duty," "honor," "sacrifice," "patriotism," and "pride," to attract recruits. Here's an excerpt from the Marine Corps website:

Who are these young men and women who choose to put others before themselves? They are selfless individuals - optimistic, and filled with a sense of duty to themselves and their country. They choose to follow in the footsteps of those who came before them, and to defend both our nation and its honor.

Can you see the guilt working its magic in there? What they're really saying is "We're better than the average person because we're serving the nation and they're not. We're willing to risk our lives for the good of the country, and they're not. They're guilty for benefiting from our blood and our sacrifice without lifting a finger. Those who serve with us are NOT guilty because they are willing to die for a cause. Be one of us and you too will not be guilty, you too will be honorable." I'm not picking on the Marines. Every branch's website has a similar theme. And I'm not slighting the military by pointing this out, either. All I'm saying is that the military, like other groups, uses guilt to control people. I'm no history professor, but I'm sure the same is true for every military power that ever existed in history, from the Greeks, to the Romans, to the British, to Napoleon, to Hitler, to the Chinese and Soviet Armies. There is no denying that guilt is a great human motivator.

In fact, if you read any of Bin Laden's or Al-Zawahiri's writings or speeches, you'll see that guilt is at the very heart of Al Qaeda's philosophy. It's dripping with it. Islamism mixes guilt with moral relativism and a bastardized interpretation of the Muslim duty of jihad, to glorify -- and attempt to justify -- the mass murder of innocent people. In my view, there is no clearer demonstration of the destructive power of guilt than the suicide-bomber and our ill-advised invasion of Iraq. Distilled to its core, the use of guilt is really an appeal to self-hatred. You're making someone feel bad about something they've done or haven't done in order to goad them into doing something you want. To me, appeals to jihad and patriotism are two sides of the same guilty coin. Any time the goal is killing, you can bet your ass that guilt has its finger on the trigger.

People are even using the PLANET to make us feel guilty. We're on to inanimate objects now. Apparently, we're fucking the Earth up with our carbon emissions, strip-mining, and cowfarts. (Okay, that last one is NOT on us.) We need to do something NOW, they say. We need to "save the planet for our children and their children," says Big Al (big props on the Nobel Prize btw, Al.) So now, we're also supposed to feel guilty towards people who haven't even been born yet! Where does it end? Brief environmental aside: The irony is, the Earth is going to be just fine no matter what we do. It's the human race that's going to be fucked. Mercury, Venus, and Mars are future versions of where we're going. They're totally deserted and completely uninhabitable. But the planets themselves are still there, aren't they? They did just fine, and so will our Mother Earth, long after we've microwaved ourselves into oblivion.

Guilt is so deeply-ingrained in us, that we don't even know we're using it or being subjected to it. So, as an experiment, play a little game with yourself this week. Listen closely to your conversations with your parents, your siblings, your friends, your lovers, your exes, and your pets. Follow the bouncing guilt ball. Pay attention to how our politicians are using guilt in their debates and election campaigns. Make no mistake, politicians are the Jedi Masters of guilt-mongering and deflecting. You'll see that every damn word out of their mouth is blaming or attacking another person or party for something they did wrong, or something they didn't do that they should have done. You're bad, I'm good. We know what we're doing, you don't. We deserve your money and your votes, not them.

Once you've heard all that guilt, you'll probably want to down a stiff drink. Afterwards, maybe you'll decide that you don't need to respond to people's guilt trips anymore. Maybe you'll conclude that you don't need to attack to get what you want out of people. If enough people do this, maybe we'll start having healthier relationships and just maybe, a little less conflict in the world.

So, like Pacino said, put down that bag of fuckin' bricks.

In conclusion, I'd just like to say that if you thought this entry was too touchy-feely or presumptuous on my part, or just plain unsatisfying, I'm very sorry. I didn't meant for that to happen. I feel really badly about it. I'll try to do better next time, I promise.

Party Crasher

I had a unique experience last Saturday night. At least, it was unique for me. The night started off innocently enough. Katie, Sharon, and Katie's friend, Frank, met me for dinner at Planet Thailand in the 'Burg, then the three of us (Frank left) ventured to a pub on Bedford for an apres dinner beer. Sharon got all froo froo and ordered Scotch.

Connected to the pub by an open door was a separate room with a stage, where a guy in pointy shoes and a maroon v-neck played the acoustic guitar. A few feet away, his middle-aged partner banged the drums with a fur-tipped stick in his left hand and what looked like a container of Advil in his right hand. Weird, but somehow it worked. We enjoyed the music, but there was no air conditioning in this part of the bar, so after ten sweaty minutes we couldn't take it anymore and decided to call it a night.

I trudged back to my building, and once there, found my favorite doorman, Ayodele, holding the elevator for me with three people waiting inside. When I walked in, I thanked them all for waiting, and quickly noticed a scantily clad dark-haired woman standing to the right of the door. She wore a white miniskirt that barely reached below her bummy bum, coupled with a tight black t-shirt that accentuated her, uh, substantial front features. How to put this? She looked like an off-duty stripper. A smiling, friendly, approachable, so-you're-saying-there's-a-chance stripper. When I saw her, I was positively giddy. Given that I typically share my elevator rides with fifty year-old couples and their leg humping poodles, this was a significant improvement. The doors closed and Ayo, myself, Sexy Hot, Sexy Hot's friend (whose cuteness was, sadly, eclipsed by Sexy Hot's aura), and another doorman, who wasn't working that night, rode up the elevator together.

"Where are you going," I asked Ayo, who usually doesn't take elevator rides when he's supposed to be working.

"Ohh mon, dare's a partee on da terd flor."

"Really? Wow. And you're all going?"

"Oh yeah, yeah," he said, as the rest of them concurred.

"Well, I guess my invitation must still be in the mail. I never got it."

(Raucous laughter ensued at this witty quip from yours truly. Okay, it wasn't raucous, but everybody laughed, including, most notably, Sexy Hot.)

"Man, you should come. There's a lot of fun people there." This from the off-duty doorman. I don't remember his name but he was wearing a blue Mets cap with the bill flipped up, so let's call him "Mets Guy."

"Oh, I don't know.... I wasn't invited, and I won't know anyone," I responded to Mets Guy. Sometimes I am Eeyore incarnate, folks. Thing is, I can be a little self-conscious in crowds, so I'm not really one to wade into social gatherings where I don't know anyone at all. Not unless it's absolutely necessary. Much like Rain Man, I need a social buffer. Accordingly, I rarely crash parties, and on those few occasions where I have, I've never gone solo. It's always been with two or three friends. But when we got to the third floor, and Sexy Hot said "C'mon you should come," beckoning me with a wave of the hand and a come hither look that I won't soon forget, Eeyore ran off to play with Tigger, and I forgot all about his sorry ass.

"Alright," said I, my grin as wide as a billboard. Really, how could I say no?

My spontaneity reaped instant rewards as we exited the elevator and I watched Sexy Hot turn and slink down the hallway, all bare legs and high heels. Then, looking up, I saw this gaping, oval hole in the back of her shirt. She was so exposed, I could count every one of her perfect little vertebrae, which, I noted, snaked down oh-so-nicely to the top half of a tattoo on her lower back. Sigh. Shake head. Rinse well. Repeat.

We arrived at Party Central, and I could hear the music pumping hard through the closed door. Sexy Hot pushed it open and, resisting the urge to do the "What Is Love" Chris Kattan dance, I followed her and the rest of the crew inside, where I saw bout 20 people in various stages of drink and dance. They were a mix of young, silicone club chicks and dudes in the proverbial untucked shirts and jeans, though, remarkably, I only saw one set of stripes on this night. Solid navy blue was the preferred color for those gents who weren't wearing ironic t-shirts. On the whole, it seemed like a friendly crowd. Even though I didn't know a soul there except the doormen, I didn't get the "What the fuck are you doing here?" vibe you sometimes get with strangers. So that was nice.

Sexy Hot grabbed my wrist and led me behind the bar to share a shot of Patron. After pouring our shots, she sprinkled some cinnamon on my hand. I don't do tequila shots too often, but I told Sexy Hot that I thought the proper accessory was salt, not cinnamon. "No, trust me, this is good," she said. So I trusted. (Seriously, I would have snorted the cinnamon if she asked me to.) We clinked, we drank, and I felt the hot burn slide down my throat, hit bottom, and mix with the two beers I'd had earlier in the evening. Two checks on the Saturday night drink trifecta: hard liquor and beer.

Having shared a shot with me, Sexy Hot asked for my name, which I gave her. I then asked for hers and she told me it was "Aphrodite." Immediately, my stripper/pro index shot up two clicks, right through orange and well into red. But I nodded politely, as though "Aphrodite" were a name that I hear every day. To my credit, I resisted the temptation to say something inane like "Well, heh heh, you definitely look like an Aphrodite, heh heh." Then Sexy Hot walked me over to the sangria bowl and poured us two plastic cups full. It was pretty good sangria, so I stuck with it the rest of the night. Drink trifecta complete: wine, hard liquor, beer. Cue in Sunday's train wreck hangover, seven hours and counting.

After a few sips of sangria together, Sexy Hot must have felt she was done making New Guy feel welcome, so she left to mingle with her friends. We didn't cross paths for the rest of the evening, but hey, it was fun while it lasted. When she left, my stripper/pro index clicked back to an innocent green.

With Sexy Hot gone, along with 75% of my interest in the party, I strolled around the apartment looking for some chat. I saw hints of a Mexican theme, hanging ruffled streamers and disco balls colored an optimistic yellow, blue, green, and pink; the words "F I E S T A" stuck above the bathroom door; and the final touch: a multicolored donkey pinata hung from the ceiling in the back of the room. Donkey swayed back and forth to the music, doing a last, lonely death waltz, as he awaited his inevitable fate. To the left of Donkey were a set of stairs, which led up to an overhead loft. Underneath the stairs, Hector, a professional DJ and the owner of the apartment, studiously manipulated an array of complicated equipment that looked like it came straight from a studio. There were sliders and keys and mixers and speakers and synthesizers and turntables and other DJ shit that I can't even describe. In the middle of it all stood this color computer screen the size of a small plasma t.v., where Hector stored his playlists and arranged the music. Above his equipment, there were framed gold and platinum records of certain artists he'd helped in some capacity, including Toni Braxton and some rapper whose name I didn't recognize. Hector was totally cool and a very gracious host.

I asked one of the doormen about the Mexican theme and learned that I had crashed a birthday party for Hector's girlfriend, who was not Mexican. At about 1:30, Hector turned the music down, and they brought out a large cake with lit candles for Hector's girlfriend who's name escapes me. (I'm pretty bad with names.) I think it was something like "Naisturn." Anyway, we all sang "Happy Birthday" to Naisturn, and then we cheered and clapped at the end. It was a bit surreal applauding for a stranger who I'd just met an hour ago and whose name I didn't know. At that moment, I remember thinking "This is bizarre. What the hell am I doing here?"

A few minutes later, they blindfolded Naisturn and put a small wooden bat in her hand. She took a few half-hearted swings at the pinata but couldn't hit it square. I personally think she subconsciously didn't want to hurt the donkey. That's what happens when it's there for you. Frustrated, she handed the bat to one of her girlfriends, a butchy-looking hardass in a white tanktop, who, earlier in the evening, I'd seen drinking Patron straight from the bottle. Classy broad. Butchy took one hard swing at the pinata and decapitated it. As the stash of candy fell to the floor, Butchy patted herself on the back for an assassination job well done. To be fair to Naisturn, Butchy wasn't wearing a blindfold when she took her vicious swing at pobrecito asino.

By 2:30 a.m., I'd had my fill of watching Sexy Hot and her silicone friends dance and strut around the room in their minis and heels. With the unfortunate recognition that I had to work the next day, I thanked Hector for his hospitality and took my leave upstairs. I can't tell you how sweet it was not to have to ride the subway, flag a cab, or walk a mile to get home. All I had to do was walk down the hall, push a button for my floor, and there I was, mi casa, within seconds. Building parties are fun!

One of the doormen told me that Hector likes to throw a sweet bash during Halloween. I told him to tell me when it happens, so I can crash that one too. I just have to see Sexy Hot in her debaucherous costume.

C-Blocked At The Cellar Bar

So... I'm at The Cellar Bar tonight, in the Bryant Park Hotel, attending a firm function on behalf of newbie law students who, one day, will be inducted into the lawyer fraternity. We're drinkin', we're laughin', we're having fun times. There's some music playing just low enough for us to engage in friendly conversation. After doing my duty with a few of the newbies, I start to take a look around. It's a good turnout for a Tuesday night. Dark, low light. Turning towards the bar, I notice that one of the bartenders is wearing this impossibly tight leather-cinched thingamabob stretching down from her chest down to her waist. I don't know what those things are called, but it looked positively medieval. You see them in those period movies from the 1700s. They're basically a body vise -- really good at pushing boobs up to stratospheric heights but really bad for female circulation. I had no idea how she could breathe through that thing. I literally could have done an "OK" sign around her waist. So, I noticed that.

Because I hadn't had any dinner and was starving, I began looking for a food source. That's when I noticed these attractive waitresses walking around with hors d'oeuvres trays. They were wearing the same boa constrictor uniform as the bartender and were serving crispy crabcakes, small hamburger sliders, miniature quesadillas, and some salmon and mango combo on a stick that I couldn't decipher. One of them in particular caught my eye. She was very tan, had dark brown eyes and a 1000 watt smile. Latin. Nicey. An hour or so into the evening, I was really starving and the food just wasn't coming around fast enough. So a colleague told Ms. Latin of my plight and urged her to bring out more food forthwith. Shooting me a very friendly smile, she said "I'm coming back out and you're next." I'm next! I'm next!

True to her word, she brought out some fried cheesy poofs, three of which I popped in my mouth and swallowed whole. Over the next 45 minutes, Ms. Latin kept the food coming, bringing out mini-burgers, quesadillas, and more cheesy poofs, which I devoured like a caveman. Not to worry, I washed the appetizer smorgasbord down with several Grey Goose and sodas. So grateful was I to Ms. Latin in fact, that on one trip out, I decided to start a little game. For every flavored shrimp and cheesy poof I removed from her tray, I would ask her a question that she would have to answer. Sounds like fun, no? In my buzzed condition, I certainly thought so. Not much in it for her though. I wouldn't even have thought to initiate such antics but for the fact that well, Ms. Latin was giving me the smileys. Maybe it was all in my head. Maybe she was giving the same smileys to every other dude in the place. Perhaps, but I don't think so. I'm fairly cynical about such things, and even I couldn't help but notice. The vodka definitely helped attune my vision. In any event, she agreed to play along with my silly game.

Question 1, accompanied by a piece of spicy shrimp on a plastic sword was, predictably, "Where are you from?" Answer: Colombia. Okay, Colombia. Never been there. Not much to go on. So I pondered. Then Question 2: "What part of Colombia are you from?" Yeah, real original. Quit your cringing, please. I was just getting warmed up. Answer: Cartagena. Okay again, not much to work with there. I saw that movie with Russell Crowe and Meg Ryan, what was it called? Oh yeah, Proof of Life. I don't think it was about Colombia, but it could have been. Can't really go anywhere with that. Drug trafficking and kidnapping don't exactly make the best cocktail conversation. Indeed, a true Colombian might take offense.

I was in the process of preparing Question 3, and by now, we're two more GG&S' into things, when she swung by again. All the Horz Durvrayz are beginning to look the same. For Question 3, I was going to ask Ms. Latin if she was single. I was getting too drunk, and it was time to cut to the chase. Problem was, I was surrounded by work colleagues who were themselves quite enamored of Ms. Latin and eager to chat her up as well. So, during a pause in their pathetic bombardment, I leaned in close to ask her Question 3, and here's what happened:

MARRIED COLLEAGUE J.: "Hey, do you like turtles?! Wanna see a turtle?!!" He holds up his cell phone, which yes, has a tiny picture of a real turtle on it. It's a picture or a screen saver or something. On his cell phone. "Yeah, this turtle was E-NORMOUS!" Chattus Interruptus.

MS. LATIN, being polite: "Really, wow... that's a very nice turtle. Very nice. Is it real?"

MARRIED COLLEAGUE J.: "Oh yeah, it's real alright. It was HUGE. Great turtle."

MS. LATIN: "It sure is."

And with that, Ms. Latin took her empty tray and departed to the back room.

Life comes down to a matter of moments, people. And when that moment passes, it's O-V-E-R. You're done. No second chances. I wouldn't have that good an opportunity to have talky-time with Ms. Latin the rest of the night. Ten minutes later, she came by and said "Have a good night guys." When she left, I gave Colleague J. the C-Block Death Stare.

Now, I love Colleague J. He's a great friend of mine and a really good guy. Wonderful man with a nice wife and incredibly cute kids. (Not to mention the fact that I know he's going to read this.) But man-oh-man-oh-shevitz did he C-Block me tonight. Cut me right off at the knees, did he. With a goddamn turtle on his cell phone. He couldn't shut up about the fucking turtle.

I am so sick and tired of being C-Blocked by my friends, particularly the married ones, who have no business even opening their mouth in situations like this. I can't tell you how many times this has happened to me in my adult life. In fact, I could write a book on how many times Best Friend P. has C-Blocked me alone. We go back a long time, so there's a lot to work with. I recall one time at a party, Dear P. told an ex-girlfriend of mine he wanted to take her into the closet for ten minutes. What a pal. My friends are so damn loyal, they even try to C-Block me with my own girlfriends. How awesome is that? I was quite displeased upon hearing this bit of news from the ex, and I certainly let him know it in very assertive language. He denied it up and down, of course. (Lie, lie, and lie some more is the C-Blocker's motto when called out.) Bygones though. He's still here; she's long gone.

The C-Block can take several forms. Sometimes it's an Intentional C-Block a/k/a The I Don't Give A Fuck. Usually conducted by some stranger, a jerk you don't know very well, or someone you know really well, but who doesn't give two shits about your relationship. The reason for the Intentional C-Block is pretty universal, however: the chosen target is just too attractive, too significant, too worth it for whatever reason, to pass up. So let the best man win. The irony of the Intentional C-Block is usually it's so damn obvious that no one wins. Subtlety rules with the C-Block.

Which brings us to The Discreet C-Block a/k/a The Slip N' Slide. This one's the most insidious. You, the poor victim, have no idea what's happening until it's too late. You're standing by the bar, talking to a lovely. Before you know it, some putz has slowly, carefully, discreetly wedged his ass/elbow/arm/back/messenger bag between you and the lovely. Now he's got pole position (pun intended) and you're sucking a straw by yourself, staring at the striped pattern on the back of his untucked shirt. Game over.

And last, but not least, there's The Clueless C-Block a/k/a The Accidental. This type of C-Block is a pure mistake, an unfortunate confluence of circumstances. Negative serendipity. That's what we had tonight. Dear J. did not engage in any intentional wrongdoing. No sir, there was no mens rea on his part. No evil intent. He was simply feeling the turtle, and he wanted the world to know. Turtle Love got the best of him.

So, even though I am seriously tired of the C-Block and will take greater, ever more drastic measures to avoid it in the future, I can't be mad at Colleague J. He didn't do it on purpose. Besides, I really love turtles.

Do You Come Here Often?

Hi there. Is this seat taken? Thank you. Dana, right? Yeah, I noticed you on my television the other day. You were standing on the podium in the White House Press Room, answering questions from the press corps. They are totally annoying, aren't they? Seeing you was a pleasant surprise! I had been expecting Tony Snow, or some other Presidential representative from Fox News. (How's Tony doing, btw? I hope he gets the treatment he needs and recovers soon. Even though I couldn't stand his smarmy attitude on Fox, he was a tolerable Press Secretary. He had backbone, not like that wishy-washy little bitch Scott McClellan.)

Anyway, when I saw you for the first time, I thought you were positively radiant! What color are your eyes? Gray, yes they look gray. Really stunning. They're the color of gunmetal, almost. "Your eyes possess the powerful vibrance of a firearm, he said." How romantic; I'm such an idiot. Anyway, the other day I was watching you -- on t.v. of course -- I haven't been stalking you, don't worry. I saw your gunmetal eyes dart from reporter to reporter as you responded to inane questions, like "Why are we still in Iraq?" and "Is Guastavino, er, I mean, Attorney General Gonzalez going to resign?" and "What is the President going to do about the mess at Walter Reed Hospital?"

Fools, all of them! How dare they ask such stupid questions in your presence? No, I don't normally talk like that. I've just been on this medieval kick lately. I think my head's in a time warp, it happens once every 15 years. Don't mind me.

It was amazing to me how you were able to parry the reporters' inquisitive barbs, answering but not answering them at the same time. I was SO impressed, Dana. Really, you are a master already, and you have not been at this very long, have you? Watching you control those animals like a lion tamer really turned me on. Your short, Dorothy Hamill-esque blonde hair waving to and fro as you turned and pointed to a new questioner, not really caring whether it was that piss ant troublemaker David Gregory, the ass-kissing John King, or the Big Lady with the Bad Questions, Helen Thomas. You had such a "je ne sais quoi" attitude about it, the whole thing was totally hot. Are you French by any chance? Wait, Perino's Italian, isn't it? Cool.

Then when you fixated on one person, your hair would stop in midair and cascade down, framing your beautiful face and those lovely cheekbones. You are a genetic marvel, seriously, Dana. Do you mind if I touch your hair? Oh, it's positively luxurious, very thick. Thank you for letting me touch it.

I've always had a thing for women with short hair. I don't know where it started, but I think it began with my prepubescent crushes on Pat Benatar and Toni Tennille in the 70s. Big crushes. Pat singing "Hell Is For Children" onstage, she was so pissed off and kick ass. And then, when I was in the mood for something softer, there was Toni with the Captain, he of the ubiquitous blinding white flared dress slacks and dark blue blazer, both of which complemented his Captain's hat and sunglasses. (Always with the sunglasses. For years, I wondered if the man was blind.) Toni was so sexy. Her thin, shapely legs darting out from a tasteful sundress as she sang a love ballad or catchy pop tune. So tan, with that bob haircut and beestung lips that opened to reveal impossibly white, white teeth. "You'd Better Shop Around" was one of my favorites. I've been shopping around for years, and "I Still Haven't Found What I'm Looking For," ha, ha. How many men do you know who could put Captain & Tennille and U2 together? I'm just that good, Dana, just that good.

No, I like long hair too. So if you grow it out, you'll still be attractive to me, don't worry. Ooh, that was presumptuous of me, wasn't it? Three Grey Goose and sodas, and I think we're getting married, ha ha. Still, I couldn't believe it when you walked in here for a drink. It was total kismet. Do you believe in kismet, Dana? I do! I mean, what are the odds? How often do you make it to Williamsburg? Not that often, eh? I'm not surprised, the neighborhood's a little rough around the edges. Not really a place for a classy lady like you, is it?

So let's talk more about you. Where ya from? Where'd ya go to school? Typical New York City-first-meeting-interview-b.s., I know. University of Southern Colorado? What was your major (cough). Communications with a minor in political science, I see. Nice. I was a poli sci major myself, yeah. Where am I on the political spectrum? Oh I'm pretty conservative. Yeah, down the line Republican. Pro-life, pro-death penalty. No contradiction to me, no way. Pro guns, I mean is the Second Amendment dead or is it alive? Five words: From My Cold Dead Hands. I'm anti-taxes too. The government already has the shakedown going on us, the upper middle class, hasn't it? I feel like I'm working my ass off for nothing. They take my money, and where does it go? Who the hell knows? Have you seen my tax dollars, because I haven't! They're probably spending it all on abortion clinics and defense lawyers for those Guantanamo terrorists, the bastards!

What else, oh, I'm pro family values, definitely. I think kids should be raised in one home by a man and a woman. Not by a divorced couple. Not by two men, or two women, or by a man and two women, or a woman and two men. Have I covered all the nuances? Marriage also should be between a man and a woman. I'm soooooooo anti-gay. No, not just anti gay rights. Anti gay. There literally should be no gays in the United States at all. Either they learn to be straight, or out they go, to Holland or Germany, where that shit is tolerated. Yes, it's an extreme view, I know, but that's just how I feel about it. And isn't that what God said in Leviticus? That "Man shalt not lay with another man" and "Thou shalt not allow gay people to propagate and obtaineth rights in thy future country pursuant to thy ratified constitution?" I haven't read the B-I-B-L-E in awhile, but Pat Robertson says it's in there. Yes, I have a few gay friends. I live in New York City, after all. No, I haven't told them about my views. I'm still in the closet about it, so to speak. Ha, ha! Ssssh.

As for foreign policy, I'm a big fan of the United States playing a robust role in the world. I just love that word, "robust." It sounds like it means, you know? RO-BUST. Wonderful word, but I digress. I'm a big fan of Guantanamo too. It's working, isn't it? No attacks on U.S. soil in 6 years. I mean who wants those Islamofascists in American jails where they can organize and cause more problems?

Needless to say, I voted for Bush twice, his father twice, and Reagan once. Why only once for Reagan? I was too young to vote before then. Sheesh, how old do I look, Dana??? Ha ha ha! Yes, the gray is coming in, it sure is! Oh, you're fun!

Yes, I was totally on board with the Iraq War and all that. I mean we all thought the guy had weapons of mass destruction. Even the French and the Russians thought so, am I right? Hussein had to go. The guy gassed his own people and did other bad things. Sure, some mistakes have been made. Okay, maybe a lot of mistakes. Abu Ghraib was a bit of a bump in the road. It'll blow over though. We'll throw some cash at it when the war's over. Bygones. Money solves a lot of problems, dudn't it? Seriously, does anyone remember My Lai? It's war, for crying out loud! Like Rummy, I mean, Defense Secretary Rumsfeld said, "You go to war with the army you've got, not the army you would like to have." When he said that, I thought to myself, you GO Rumsfeld! He's EXACTLY the guy we need in our history right now. War is not predictable and you can't foresee everything. Rumsfeld understood that. But they ran him out of town on a rail like a villain in a Clint Eastwood western, didn't they? Fucking liberals. Ooops, pardon my French there, Dana. Must be the Grey Goose talking. I normally don't swear like that. I'm a good boy.

You know, I even keep a blog online where I talk about some of these things, raise consciousness and all that. It's an information war out there, isn't it Dana? But you know that already, don't you. Making people aware of the issues is very important. Otherwise, this country's going to keep going down the shitter and those liberal commie a-holes are going to completely take over. Then where will we be? They've already got control of both coasts, the media, and Hollywood, plus or minus Charlton Heston. (Loved him in Planet of the Apes!) What's next? No, we've got to keep fighting them. Fighting for control of people's minds, on the radio, on television, and online.

What's my blog address? Uh... Hmmm... why am I not remembering it right now? How embarrassing, heh heh. Let's see, why don't I give it to you later, I'm sure it will come to me after a few more drinks. You look so sexy when you raise a dubious eyebrow, has anyone ever told you that, Dana?

Okay, okay. Here it is: www.mind-wanderer.typepad.com. I hope you don't find it boring. Where did I get the name? Well, I like to write about things that I think about, things that are in my head at any given point in time. And my writing tends to be more of a free write these days. Not too much editing. I have other things I like to do, and I can't spend an entire day editing every thought. Let the readers sort it out. My mind tends to wander a bit, hence the name. Yeah, it's not that original, I agree. But it's not easy to come up with a blog name when you have a world of options in front of you, literally every combination of words in the English dictionary. That's why I never got a tattoo. I could never decide on one symbol that I wanted to look at for the rest of my life. Too many options.

Just ask my father. One summer in the mid-1960s he gets hammered while he's on leave with his buddies in France and gets a tattoo of a naked woman on his upper arm. Wakes up the next day, sees what his drunkeness hath wrought, and promptly goes out and gets a tattoo of a big, black American eagle to cover up the nude lady. Have you ever seen a black eagle, Dana? I haven't. Now he looks like he was once a member of Hell's Angels, minus the long hair and extra body weight. One year we're walking around southern Italy on vacation and a kid comes up to my father -- dad's wearing short sleeves -- and the kid asks him if he had spent time in prison. My dad started laughing. I couldn't understand, but he explained that it was the tattoo that made the kid ask. Not for me, Dana. Not. For. Me.

Anywho, what brings you to Williamsburg? Just checking out the scene, okay. Yes, I've noticed a lot more European and Asian tourists here lately. Some travelzine must have increased the size of their Brooklyn section. Listen, why don't we get out of here and grab a bite at Dressler, on Broadway. Unless you're a steak woman, then we could hit Peter Luger. Do you like meat, Dana? Two raised eyebrows now... Okay, you don't eat meat. Dressler it is. Then maybe afterwards -- I don't live too far from here -- we could go back to my place, put on some Cure or Morcheeba and see where the night leads, eh? Whadayasay?

Or, and maybe this is just the vodka talking, I don't know, but I really feel a connection here, don't you, Dana? We're all looking for that special connection, aren't we? I mean, we have so much in common, you're a Republican, I'm a uh.. Republican (wince); you have beautiful gray, predator eyes, I love beautiful gray, predator eyes; you have sexy short blonde hair, I love sexy short blonde hair; you work out, I love women who work out; you're a Taurus, I'm a Virgo; you're in Williamsburg, I'm in Williamsburg.....

Why don't we run away together, Dana! Let's throw off the shackles of this hell-hole world, with its wars, poverty, billable hours, political infighting, human trafficking, road rage, graffiti, bulimia, drug abuse, celebrity obsession, and dysfunctional relationships, and just run away! We'll get in a car and drive west, like the pioneers did. When we get to California, we'll get plane tickets and fly to an island somewhere, maybe Hawaii, or Tahiti, we'll live off the land, until I can open a restaurant or a bar with my 401(k) savings and--

What? You're married? Oh. I didn't see the ring. For some reason, I never look at a woman's hands soon enough. Old habits, I guess. Wow. Are you happily married? You are. Hmmmm, okay. Well listen, it was nice chatting with you. Enjoy Williamsburg, and seriously, keep fighting the good fight. We really need you out there on the front lines. And please, give my best to Tony.

P.S. HAPPY APRIL FOOL'S DAY!