2004-08-12 - 5:49 p.m.

Recent evidence is giving weight to Sartre�s whole transparent consciousness idea. The theory that true free will allows us at any moment to become any of an infinite amount of possibilities: the housewife becomes a hooker, the business man becomes a homeless clown. Given the right impulse Arnold Swartzeneger could, at any time, decide to restructure his life to include professional backgammon tournaments.

Consider the fact that I, a man known more for his goofy faces than his poker face, actually played and won in a Texas Hold �em Poker tournament. I�ll grant you it was amongst friends, but with eighty dollars on the table and a few friends who put a lot of weight into bragging rights, so much so that the modified bowling trophy that goes to the winner once replaced a girlfriend�s picture in the headlining spot on his mantle, I give a little respect. Especially since, a year earlier, I had to ask the gentleman sitting next to me if I could re-raise in the same round. I don�t think he was happy when I knocked him off the table this time around.

It wasn�t so long ago that all I knew about Nomar Garciapara was that, if you lived in Boston, you called him No�maar. Now, I can actually keep up with my brother-in-law in a discussion of the future of the Yankees in the post season, considering their pitching woes that could well hinder them in a seven game series, even with a new era Murderer�s Row. (I also beat him in a hand of poker that made his eyes buldge out of his head so far I thought we�d need to get him a pair of coasters.)

I still have my whiskey on the rocks for special occasions, my screwdrivers for almost literal half hearted attempts at health, and my wine for the days I�m too hung-over for tequila, and too ticked off not to have a drink, but all in all, when attending a well dressed bar, manned by a well dressed man, my answer to the question �Cocktail, sir?�

�Bud.�

It used to be, when the waves of emotion smacked down on me, I�d turn up my stereo and cry into the speakers so my roommates wouldn�t hear. I�d lay awake at night with a splinter of a thought jammed in my head, forcing me to dissect it against the white space of the ceiling. I still tell the stories. Stories that are bothering me, things I can�t make sense of, but I�ve stopped asking for advice. Or rather, I stopped pretending that I�d take any advice. I take two deep breaths, and the tears stop, so I can continue playing darts. I sleep, and sometimes even remember my dreams.

Like the forces that bumbled into action and generated the blue butt on a baboon, there was no predestined grand design, it just kind of, happened, and I almost seems to work. Growth, becoming cold, becoming old, redefinition based on new locale, or new male role models, minor brain tumor, or none of the above.

I usually like not knowing where I�m going, adds a bit of adventure to the festivities. You may be off the beaten path, but you know where you�re eventually headed, so if the scenery seems a little off, you just remind yourself of the light up there that you�re following.

When you don�t have a star to follow, and you come to a street sign reading �halfway to somewhere,� is there an accomplishment there? Do you stop and celebrate, or just keep walking to where ever the road winds?

If it weren�t impossible to stop walking, I�d probably rest and enjoy some beans and franks.

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