I remember the picture of Mary Lou Retton on that Wheaties box.  That bright winning smile, an American icon of winning and success.  I remember, too, that my father used to come home from the turkey ranch, stinking of shit.  The stench was so bad that it was difficult to be anywhere near him until he had washed and changed out of his work clothes.

I don?t think he ever saw that Wheaties box but he went to work every day, whether it was to that turkey farm or some other menial job.  He worked, brought home the paycheck, and supported his wife and kids.  I don?t know if he ever dreamed of doing anything that would land him on a cereal box or in a magazine, but I do know that working in shit was worth it to him.

Some times I think about some of the people I know and their dreams.  I don?t know that many people, but there are lots of people with dreams in LA so I?m bound to meet one here and there.  I wonder to myself what it is that is so terrible about their lives in Iowa or Illinois, etc., that makes them so desperate to chase their dreams out here.  What is it that they are chasing? or running away from?  Maybe they worked in horse shit.  I?ve seen horse shit, and they come in bigger piles than turkey shit.

In LA, images are flashed at me everyday about what I ought to be.  I ought to be a party kid on Sunset, my name on every guest list.  I ought to be a playa in a jogging suit with 14 carat electroplated bling.  A baller, an outcast, a greaser, a neo-hippie, a Democrat, a wheeler and a dealer.

The message is that I ought to be someone other than me.  I?m a reasonably open-minded person, and I?m open to the notion that I ought to be someone aside from me, but it?s not clear who ?me? is.  If I knew who I am, then it?d be a cinch to not be me.  I see parts of me in the billboards and the images, but I?m not sure if I came first or I became them.  If I dig deep into the center of myself, that warm spot two inches below the navel, I find that the one thing I am absolutely certain of is that I don?t want to work in shit.  That?s a start at least.

Golden orange sun hovering in a crisp blue sky.  Long slanted shadows at midday as if the morning lingers on into the evening.  Burgundy leaves cracking underfoot, the sound cutting through cool, dry air.  Summer was so long ago, seemingly a dream forgotten just yesterday.  Fall is in full stride and winter approaches steadily on frosted tips.  Another New Year lurks only a few steps behind.  What will we have to show for another year gone by?  Will we mark an exceptional year, one we?ll never forget and cherish with happy memories?  Or will it fade into the fog of all the years before?

To be a saint is a full-time job, and I admit that I?m already otherwise gainly employed.  Thus, to those I?ve offended on purpose or not, to those I?ve slighted in ways large and small, I apologize.  The lady whose fish-print dress I snickered at, the homeless beggar I pretended to ignore, the child whose lollipop I stole, to you and you and you, most of all, I submit my remorseful regret.  If these humble notes do not satisfy the anger and shame and distress I might have caused, please excuse a simple working man who, to the saints, must one day make amends.

Luster fade from eyes unseeing. 
Body wilted soon departed.
What words pass through parting breath? 
Too much undone?
Or Good load of fun?

I enjoy curling up with a good novel on a Sunday afternoon, or saving the world (again) in the latest blockbuster video game.  These are simple pleasures that I enjoy but I rarely make the time for because there?s always a list of much more important things I ought to be doing.  I could be reading a self-help book, washing the car, balancing the checkbook, or putting in an extra hour at the office.  I could be doing a whole lot of other things that are productive rather than lazing around and doing something I enjoy.  There is always another rung on the ladder to success that I could be climbing, but where do those steps really lead?  Will being productive make me happy?  Maybe, or maybe not.  I do know that chocolate mints go down well on a lazy Sunday afternoon, and that turning each page in a good book makes me happy, even if it does make me feel a little guilty? for being happy.

From memories fade the fondest days.  Had I known that this was the last before the parting of ways, would I have lifted the setting sun and held back forever the passing of the day.

Indelible moments etched in glass:

Crystal clear were your eyes, dancing with each happy sigh.
Careful mirth across your face, as those golden hours went too quickly by.

But even glass melts under the press of time.

Those precious memories, so sharp that day, melt now with each rising sun.  I grasp at each drop to lock it tight, but through desperate fingers those treasured moments fall to puddles on the ground.

Reflections of that cherished day evaporating under the unforgiving sun.  Away to nothingness go your warm embrace and that knowing smile.  With despair I rail against the fading of that fondest day.

To have met and laughed, and to have seen and admired from afar and near.  Then to depart the best of friends, with the brightest of beginnings, and the promises of infinite tomorrows.  But the promises will be left unfulfilled and those tomorrows will never be today.  The beginnings are the endings and the writer left with the ink still un-dried.  One comma out of place in the promissory note and we null and void the fairy tale before it's written.  To live and hope for the rainbow in the sky and fearful that it's just a chance illusion after all.

That rare and exceptional day is today.  It is not tomorrow or the next day.  It is not the day of the beautiful sunrise or the day you earn praise from your peers.  It is the day you wake up to, the day you draw breath and feel your way to the bathroom with sleep sodden eyes.  Aye, every day.  Today is a precious commodity, a beautifully rare day you will never have again.  Wait not for tomorrow's promise, live today.

In an uncertain world where the unexpected must be expected and we are kept on our toes to be mindful of hidden dangers, the one constant not dictated by man or it's various contraptions is the great equalizer, the one inevitable, certain outcome of all who is and will ever be, is Death.  Yes, Death, the boogeyman that lurks behind every dark corner and whose mere mention brings an unnatural chill to the warmest hearth.

Boo!  I am Death and I haunt you in every unguarded moment of your life.  I turn grown men into sniffling children and the most gay affair into a pallid play of uneasy silence and long stiff drinks.  Fear me for I hold the ironclad chains about your wilted neck and by my permission do you make false merriment and see the light of another misery drenched day!

Thus do we seek distraction when we hear the rattle of Death's chain.  Thus do we plainly ignore the prudent and the obvious.

If Death is the inevitable and the unpredictable, why should we fear it and hide from it?  Why should we not make it a part of our lives and live with Death as a constant and faithful companion so that we can live freely?  Know that Death is always at hand and accept it, live with it, but live happily and carefree.  Be prepared every moment for Death's final embrace but do not live under it's shadow.  Talk about Death.  Talk about your final wishes.  Make a will.  Make the journey of life knowing you have a companion that will never leave you and take good care of him.  And if "Death" doesn't suit you, give him a new name.  "Harry" or "Enrique" or "Sir Loin of Beef"--you wouldn't be the first person to give a nickname to a part of your anatomy.

Coming home from work, traffic snarled as usual, I'm given plenty of time to look around.  What I see is a cityscape of asphalt and concrete, brilliantly backlit by the setting sun.  A golden, orange shine touches every surface, gleaming gemstones shimmering in the early evening haze.  Golden hour.

Against this shifting magical landscape of fiery obelisks and long purple shadows, a river of cars crawl along at a snail's pace.  Behind the windshield of every vehicle, a long face settled in for the long drive home.

Hours and days do we spend commuting back and forth between our jobs and our familiar homes.  Hours and days do we spend with a long grim face, eyes forward and blank, watching for the red glow of the tail light in front of us or waiting for that green light that tells us to go, go, go.

What thoughts wander through your mind when you find yourself behind the steering wheel making your way through the bleakness to the warm hearth at home?  Are you one of the many whose mind wanders about a gray fog, the only emotion brought on by a sudden change in the light in front of you?  Are you thinking about the troubles that weigh down on your shoulders like a vise?

What short little lives we lead and what time we waste not tasting it and making it more enjoyable.  Take those empty gray hours and fill them with a little bit of that golden sunshine just beyond the hood of your car.  Think about all the good things that have happened to you today or this week.  If you've had a particularly bad time of it lately and nothing happy comes to mind, smile anyhow and enjoy the sensation of living.  The act of breathing, of seeing, of feeling the warm light stroking your skin--those are things not to be missed because they are the essence of living.

If you're the surly type with no sense of romance or imagination and you stomp on snowflakes and mow down dandelions, smile anyhow, 'cause it's infectious and it'll make my day that much better.  And in case you've forgotten how, let me demonstrate.

Now, that's a happy man!