The Legend of Damien Starchild

Damien Edgar Hosanna Starchild was born into a traveling hippie commune during the late 1960s, a lanky street urchin with shaggy dark hair, known at various times for riding his bike up and down the strand in Santa Monica, selling frisbees down at Laguna Beach and Newport, skateboarding at Cow-Cow Corners in Corona Del Mar, playing volleyball at Seal Beach, napping on nearby golf courses, loitering in smoothie bars and yes, taught from an early age to play bongo drums and strum ramshackle acoustic guitars while sitting on orange crates, camping out near where the tourists spend their money, earning his keep via make-shift performances with minimal rehearsal time, subsisting on so-called veggie burgers (stuffed with real meat) and egg burritos, scarfing down ramen noodles with M&Ms for lunch or breakfast, a brooding iconoclast drawn to bright colors and supple textures (an OCD issue, ditto to hoarding tendencies), preoccupied with all manner of pill bugs, butterflies, logos, buttons, bottle caps, marbles, seashells, flower petals, box tops, and given over to stuffing his random "street findings" into a bright red-rainbow backpack, having forsworn all manner of illicit drugs, having rebelled against the dominant paradigm of free love, disco dancing and souvenir-vending - educated by the wind and the streets with help from his part-time protective mother-mentor, Martha Belle-Agnes-Louise ("spiritus liberatus") who signed him up for all manner of tennis lessons and poetry seminars sponsored by the local park and recreation department. Having endured for years on end the deprivations that all-day frisbee tournaments and raucous hippie craft fairs can induce, Starchild grew into a brooding adolescent; lacking a definite career path, and having few good options to choose from, he settled upon the metier of a make-shift performance artist, causing a scene among his fellow non-conformists with a nod to the obvious and the predictable, and so, after watching multiple re-runs of The Brady Brunch and The Partridge Family, decided to jettison his long curly hair, using a cereal bowl and his own pair of left-handed scissors (how they teased him about that!); he took to wearing muted tie-dye shirts with matching dark socks. His plan worked to the extent that people took notice and could not help but gawk and gasp at his egregious fashion choices; he became a creature out of no-man's-land, secretly proud of his "mismatched threads" and his outlandish blend of faded neon and neutral colors, which his fellow hippies deemed as "drab" - "square" - "reactionary" and "tasteless". D.S. reveled in these epithets. And, wanting to push the envelope even farther, he taught himself how to be austere and serious, how to saunter around like a fop, how to tilt his head skyward like a snob, how to wear dark sunglasses, exhaling slowly, how not to smile his goofy smile in the midst of the typical "peace and love" greetings that he was so tired of receiving from every Biff and Buffy and MoonUnit that he came across.  Oh, he was quite the confused sad-brooding sack, alright, but in California it takes decades (sheer decades) to mature, as they say...And so, he became, like many another ex-hippie, runaway Amish child or disgruntled Scientologist, intense but not scary-looking, always staring, dazed, preoccupied with the tiny little details of life in the glamour-ville, Lotus-land demi-monde of the oh-so beautiful people. (Perhaps the real issue was simply that he had become near-sighted and needed glasses.) He would often walk backward or sideways just to be contrarian; he collected campaign buttons from the 1950s, bounced around the Sports Arena before Springsteen shows, became a devotee of dime-store comic books, old Life magazines and obscure Rosicrucian philosophies.This same Starchild, as you have also heard, was witness to a terrible crime many many years ago, on a day where something went terribly wrong out of the blue, without warning, one of those otherwise perfect days on which Damien saw something transpire on the idyllic side streets of a residential neighborhood near Santa Monica which changed his life forever. Leaving work early with a mega-large smoothie in his hand, he found himself counting flower beds and sidewalk cracks until he stumbled upon a weird scene: two men in the midst of a fierce argument in a driveway: two guys, one waving his arms saying 'What about the shipment???", the other, holding his head with both hands, wailing, "It got lost, man, I told you fool - it's overdue..." Something about "shipment" and "stash"  and "Manny don't play that way!" then a car speeding by and noises like firecrackers and then the two men lying prone on the ground - with Starchild smiling his goofy smile, not realizing what had happened. And then, in shock over the sudden chaos, the carnage. a few neighbors peeping their heads out of windows, with no one emerging (everyone knowing more than they would later admit) and Starchild making his way over toward the crime scene...It became an instant blur; he seemed to walk in slow motion. A dog was barking behind a fence. A woman motioned to him, shaking her head. No. No. Don't go any further. And then, suddenly, without warning, the figure emerging from a side-gate at the house next door,  an elderly man with a gray mustache, using a cane, his strange, foreign-sounding elocution or enunciation (whatever that's called): slowly repeating, almost hypnotically: It's time for you to leave, my friend. It's time for you to go. I don't like what I see, mi amigo. And I don't want you talking to no cops.  And then, having mentioned the police, the man let forth a stream of crude expletives not worth repeating, pausing only to cough up a long rattle of phlegm. Damien noticed a steel-eyed glare behind the fake smile.  You have seen too much - eh mijo? Now is NOT a good time for you to be here. In fact, I don't EVER want to see you around here, my friend. In this area. In this city. On this street. What-ev-er you think this is, what-ev-er you think you saw... NEVER HAPPENED! Can you dig it - little hippie boy? Damien had enough street sense to realize, even during such an incredibly awkward moment (and there were many more to follow), that his only option was to run like he had never run before - which he proceeded to do - through side yards and over fences, through garages and sewer pipes, heading eastward across the overpass until he could see the campus of UCLA hailing him in the distance.  In the span of a few hours, he had became a marked man. There's a lanky little frightened hippie boy...yeah, man... just "some weird dude with a tie-dye shirt,  dark socks and a rainbow visor - and a nervous goofy look on his face" hiding in the bushes somewhere, wishing that cell phones had been invented. It was not so much a matter of placing a call, you see, as it was a matter of finding safety on one's home turf. But that sense of safety had now been shattered, and Damien found himself shivering in the 85 degree heat. When the squad car eventually pulled up beside him, he was climbing over some ivy bushes trying to find his way to the 17th green on that favorite  golf course of his in the town of D_______ (which shall remain nameless)...That had always been his sanctuary...But the cops had need of some "eyes and ears" and Damien was their man. He soon found himself in drab, austere, uninviting, nondescript, icy-cold interrogation room - ostensibly a basement warehouse of sorts  - being mulled over and prodded by two ever-so-calm-and-patient detectives, who sat there sipping their coffee, grilling him for hours on end about "what he knew and when he came to know it..." Fortunately, for the cops, Damien was an easy-sell, as long as they brought in junk food contraband such as Dorrito chips, bubble gum and Mountain Dew. He had nothing to hide. He just sat there wondering: when are these grey suits going to let me get back to my "restless, peripatetic, itinerant routine...?" as he called it. But that hoped-for return to the beach, the strand and the comic book stores was, alas, not in the cards for poor Damien. He realized the awful truth at the moment when Detective Zygote asked him if he had ever visited the "snow belt." Snow belt (?) - as in where those people on television in places like Buffalo, New York and Duluth, Minnesota spend all of January, February, March and sometimes April digging out from an onslaught of white, fluffy powder droppings from the sky? Yep. That's what we're talking about...  "Hey kid, you interested in seeing what a long winter is like - heh, heh, heh? Would you like to make a little foray to Blizzard Springs, North Dakota - heh, heh, heh?" Damien brought out a note from his doctor that he always kept in his organic wallet, a withered parchment palimpsest with faded scribble markings all over it advising against exposure to "inclement weather" and "oppressive climates," and signed by Dr. Quag.  Zygote took one look at this obvious forgery and cackled: "Inclement weather...that's a good one. Look my man, let's get real for a moment, shall we? Are you trying to tell us that you've never dealt with cold weather before!?!" "Well actually sir," Damien began, using his best sotto voce young-hippie-lost-in-a-basement routine, "I'm not supposed to live more than 20 miles inland of any coastal region on account of A.) my allergies B.) certain metabolic irregularities involving digestion and respiration C.) my vertigo and related balance issues operative at altitudes exceeding 500 feet above sea level and D.) a hunch I have that hippies or the offspring of hippies are not so entirely welcome in the heartland of the Midwest portion of these United States." Zygote put a stale cigar in his mouth (yes, there was a time when stale cigars were still used as props) while his partner, Detective Benza, a man known for his sharp bristly crew cut, five o'clock shadow and bulging neck, started scribbling his own set of copious notes on a legal pad (breaking four pencils in quick succession) before looking up and glaring at Damien very abruptly and very intently, exhaling stale coffee breath into the young urchin's face followed by a stream of carefully chosen words. "Now look," he began, "we need you to start dealing with this very real situation - Mr...ah...Mr. Starchild, is it? What we're alluding to in these proceedings is not simply a change of venue, if you will,  i.e. of make-shift domiciles in various undisclosed locations. What we're talking about here is a change of identity - for your own protection - y'understand. You're going to require is a new name and perhaps a new direction in your life - if you can handle such a thing? Are you up for the challenge?" Damien stuttered a cough along with a shrill wheezing noise such as he was used to making when overwhelmed by stress, fatigue and general despair. "May I please call my lawyer, Phil" - he begged. "He'll know what to do."

Once Upon a Time in CCD Class

It all goes back, I suppose, to that guy in CCD class with the half-goofy smile, half-quizzical look on his face, an avuncular, inattentive fellow with freckles, big teeth and a clean-cut head, on the verge of growing his hair out long, this being the early 1970s; he was your typical teenager-in-waiting with no discernible interest in religion, theology, philosophy or spiritual matters in general and no intellectual curiosity extending beyond what the snack would be on a particular Saturday, but he did have a way of "getting a rise" out of people so as to garner his daily fifteen minutes of negative attention. And so on this routine occasion, like a patient monk chanting a single mantra to charm an obstinate brick wall, he kept asking the nun who was substituting for our regular teacher, in the midst of a discussion of the most important event in human history next to the creation itself: How do you know? How do you know? What if it weren't that way? How do you know for sure? -  How do we know? repeated the nun with bemused incomprehension. Yeah, said the kid. How do you know that all this stuff really happened? The nun was beginning to reach for the answer to the easiest question ever asked, when Bobby Blaylock preempted her: It says it did in the Bible, stupid! said Bobby. He had no patience for fools. But how do you know for sure? We just do, Timothy. Trust me...we do, said Jean Anne. She was impatient for the art project to begin. And in truth, the art project was usually the best part of CCD class. I just want to know, Timothy declared, how we know that someone could die and then be alive again and then never die after that. And then...I mean because of that, we wouldn't have to die either. After we died the first time. How does anyone know that for sure?-  They saw it with their own eyes, Timothy, Jeanne Anne said. Really. Who had time for this nonsense? It was bad form somehow to drone on about such settled pieties. The point was to just deal with it. Chin up. Smile. Put a brave look on life. God has a plan for you... She was almost giggling at this male tendency to pick apart unbroken objects, whereas Bobby B. simply could not restrain himself: Hey genius... there were witnesses....Okay? They saw Jesus, knew him, hung out with him, saw him rise from the dead; they wrote it down, moron. It's all there in the gos-pels. We got four of them, is that enough evidence for you? Bobby was indignant. He couldn't stand questioning-for-questioning's sake. The nun told him not to call other people morons. Timothy knew somehow that he was on a roll. But what if....he paused - let's just say they didn't see it for themselves...what if they just heard it from other people. Then would it still be true? - Then wouldn't some of the information get garbled or something? He was almost being shouted down at this point, but the nun had found a teachable moment. I think perhaps what Timothy is telling us is that we need to have faith. We may not know (with absolute mathematical certainty if you will) that this or anything else in human history actually happened, but we have a strong sense that it did. Timothy did not make any more comments. Someone in the back of the class said, I forget who, raised his voice somewhat anonymously and declared to no one in particular: that faith might start to feel pointless if not enough people saw the reason behind it. The nun was beginning the art project at this juncture and I was the only one who heard the comment that has been haunting me ever since. Flash-forward to what I remember as the last CCD class I ever attended at the end of my 8th grade year, when I was embroiled in a conversation about the perfection of the universe with the leader of the guy clique...Much like a typical doubting teenager, he was taking the bold (if well-worn) position that the universe was - to all appearances at least - hopelessly flawed and seemingly random in scope, with no apparent goal or design...and that this made it hard not just to conceive of a Supreme Being, but feel obliged to commune with such a power, with any kind of feeling of gratitude, obedience,  reverence or humility. I was arguing the point that human nature was so "messed up" and "self-centered" that we were not in a position to accurately judge of the status of evil in the grand metaphysical scheme of things. The mixture of good and evil was necessary to maximize the dramatic potential of our individual destinies and to bring out the absolute best in us through a series of mysteriously-planned but precisely calibrated hurdles and challenges. My opponent's name was Gus - who had his peanut gallery backing him up, Gus who gathered minions around himself, Gus who wore well pressed shirts with big starchy collars, Gus who just laughed in my face as if I was spouting outdated science. Our teacher at that point was a former hippie, quasi cultural Catholic, and part-time Buddhist who had an open mind and couldn't resist a good debate.

The Tyranny of Cool

At the oppressive party made more unbearable by the surrounding cadre of extroverts effortlessly chatting away through yet another round of spontaneous merry-making, Simon made his way around the large room, picking up random objects - little trinkets, souvenirs - twirling them about in his hand; when that failed to assuage his anxiety, he would sample the available chairs or stand perched in a corner taking in the dimensions, half-hoping to not drawn attention to himself and half-needing Terrence and the Old Soul to stand guard nearby. It was a typical Saturday night affair, the effete young crowd feigning energy and excitement, fervently gesturing to one another as they gossiped about professors and other local celebrities, dawning those affected voices that drove Simon crazy, so needlessly advertising their rarefied intelligence to anyone who would listen. Did you hope to take Dr. Werner's seminar on modern warfare? You really should. You really must. But then, of course, you'll want to do his sequel course on power-dynamics and peace-making in the age of terror. You'll be hooked - but don't go near psychology - it's  ticking time-bomb with the present chairperson...I've got an internship for the summer (how about you all?) and after that I'm doing a semester in Rome...Actually the three of us are...If you have the chance, do come see us at our summer retreat in Vermont - will you? There's a killer band playing tonight down in P-town. I went shopping today as best I could, but it's nothing like New York. Oh look....someone should really introduce those drips to a controlled substance or two. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Ha. Yes and ha, ha, ha, ha, ha. Holding court as usual amid all this chatter was someone named Drew or Drake or Donald or Dudley - one of those dashingly forward individuals always at the center of attention and who seem to have the last word or the punch line for otherwise tepid banter. The big D could be heard, at various intervals, dispensing advice, issuing edicts, making snap judgments on education, style, fashion with his nothing-if-not-glib, off-the-cuff remarks: Oh don't take that course - it's a dud. You should really hang out more with Ken - he's just your type. Everyone needs to stop wearing purple as of now. Yes, doll, I'll have another shot of that. Ha. Ha. Ha. After about an hour and a half of such boorish, faux-raucous conversation and canned laughter, having foraged to excess at the the appetizer table, while sipping and spilling punch, Egg had planned a delicate exit - like an photographer whose camera (in this case a psyche) has reached its limit - yet, inexplicably, he found himself stalling, half-paralyzed, for fear of offending Olivia - a girl that he secretly sought to impress through his powers of endurance - i.e. his ability to withstand unbearable situations such as others would think completely harmless. Olivia was one of the few there who were able to convey a genuine sincerity even when seeming to agree with the inane/recycled/predictable opinions that the cool ones saw fit to bounce around. But Simon (nickname: Egg) refused to join in - making a point of being off in the corner sulking with his supposed coterie of like-minded dissidents. Before dissecting the male specimen that was sucking up so much of the air in the room, he made a point of referring to a disturbing trend that he had once again noticed while searching downtown for a rarefied poster of an Andre Derain landscape.... So first I go to Brewsters Prints and they DON'T have any Andre Derain....not a single landscape or portrait or harbor image....And no they can't order one ....And no I can't order one online because such a poster has never been made and does not exist. Can you believe it? -  You've have a rough day - said Terrence quietly.  - Yes a rough day, but to make matters worse here I am ambling from shop to shop in search of any late-impressionistic work to hang on my wall and I walk past not one, not two, but five (count 'em) five women of substance - you know... beautiful, vibrant, charming, intelligent, attractive, well-groomed females paired up with absolutely degenerate, bummy, loser guys. -Oh, said Terrence, absent-mindedly. That's..........not good. - You're finally catching on? - C'mon Egg - you're sounding quite melodramatic with your idealized angelic women on on side each paired up with a devilish male.... -  Sure...you can laugh if you want to...where do you think this beauty and the beast stereotype comes from? Huh? Huh? - The beast must have something special to offer her... said Terrence. - The beast is an illusion - a sham - a walking travesty - that anyone can see from a mile away. Why does it bother me so much? - Because you wish you could be the beast. - Fie. Fie. Don't be ridiculous. - Because you want what the beast has.  - No. No. No. That's not it. This cutting-edge specimen of manbeast has nothing to offer - that's my point.  We're talking ratty, disheveled, arrogant, egotistical males of the type that will drag anyone they meet into a large black hole. - Oh - that kind. - Yes - that kind. -Well - I still think your missing the key insight - said Terrence. - Terrence - are you really going to try to sell us on your bizarro-universe concept of love? - No Egg. You're forgetting the wildness factor. These male specimens as you call them offer up danger and mayhem in doses that guys like us can never hope to achieve due to our self-repressive, civilized tendencies. -So because they have "reckless" and "irresponsible" written all over them - that's enough to trump any of the regular common human decencies that someone else might bring along? - Basically, yeah. - And to make matters worse - here we have Exhibit A holding court across the room - and hoodwinking even the smartest of the bunch people like Oliv--- Oh I don't know said Terrence,  with his usual contrarian streak - he has a certain energy to him.  -Yeah - he's quite charismatic, chimed the Old Soul. - I take that back - said Terrence. - What? - Well - what I just said. Let me revise that somewhat. It's the wildness quotient + the fantasy. It's both of those together. - The fantasy? - Yes - people seek the danger as part of their fantasy....they crave the adventure that can never be - the one-sided scenario that ignores the complexity of things.... ....they chase after this flame - which seems to promise the fullness of life but in reality a desire for self-annihilation. - -Back to your theories Terrence! Guys your torturing me! - Bottom line is - cautioned Terrence - the women love him....And this is going to sound weird to someone like yourself Egg - but what they love about him is the chaos factor... -The chaos factor?  - He's the wild horse they all want to ride upon.... the freight train they want to chase after... the cheetah that they seek an encounter with... -Argggh! - Stop with the metaphors - please Terrence! - It all taps into the fantasy - which requires that a person chase after death.... Do I make myself clear? - Not really said the Old Soul - but I think I understand you. - Well it just goes to show you said Egg - how Mick Jagger is responsible for this complete degradation - this utter farce - the tyranny of cool. - Mick Jagger? Is that what you just said? - Well - who else would you blame? Casanova? Jagger - he's the one who started this ball rolling - as it were - with his decrepit degenerate example.

The Looming Legacy of a Living Legend

Oh I want to talk to you Marci had said and suddenly Chloe had departed and Fiona was nowhere near getting to speak with Billy or for that matter R.J. And so the two started walking, meandering really around campus and the conversation invariably steered its way back to the subject of Fiona's famous aunt, the same woman that Terrence had found himself smitten with in the most non-amorous terms possible, that same mysterious, outspoken professor/provocateur who had stirred up so much controversy over the years calling attention to the atrocity that was manbeast, thereby raising the spectre of the ongoing "war" between the sexes (a term she saw as entirely fitting) and dredging up the entire chasm of worms on the viability of healthy male / female interaction compatible (that is) with universal female autonomy on a future planet earth. Marci, like others, drawn to Bourgeois-Pain's charismatic reputation, kept going on and on about her vast accomplishments, uttering gushing praise at every turn and grabbing Fiona by the shoulders almost while dancing across the quad: Oh I just love your aunt, don't you just love her, and what she's done and what she's meant for us - you know - uhm - us as ....women. It's not just her amazing teaching career and all those books and speeches, those amazing speeches, and who she's known and where she's been...it's more than just her worldview ...It's her living example, her aura...  I just love her.... She's our local superstar - our living legend. And to think I've grown up here and heard her speak and been in the same room with her...without ever appreciating what she's accomplished...  And now it hits you - all of a sudden? And Fiona looking off across to her Aunti's favorite spot, where she had imagined a memorial statue or better yet, a wildly abstract symbolic sculpture might be erected someday. - Yes Yes Marci, I'm very proud of my auntie - but you don't need to act like a groupie. She's had enough of those.  You've met my auntie. You know what she's like. Marci was shaking like a leaf at this point.  But I'm so embarrassed to think that I've actually seen her up close, basically ignoring her (!) as just some other adult (with interesting braids, no less) when I should have been there just soaking up wisdom from her lips - bowing down at her shrine, taking notes on her style, her art, her fashion sense...  Oh Marci please.  Don't be such a lackey. She would really hate that.  As you should know, my auntie's really quite normal, not-so-intimidating or mysterious - even somewhat ordinary - well - almost - in some respects - except for - of course - certain incidents.  You sound like you're carrying around all her secrets, Fiona. Well - I want in on this action. I want some gossip and I want to you to bring me to her so that I can thank her - And even bring Terrence and Simon. I'd love to see her reaction to THOSE SPECIMENS.  - That's probably not a good idea. - She'd flip. Right? Am I right? She'd absolutely freak. Oh I have to see that! - Well, considered Fiona - they are relatively harmless. And my auntie has reliable radar when it comes to hapless males. A certain type of specimen actually amuse her - contrary to popular opinion. already - Oh, but she's not You don't understand. I never realized how much she's done...Doesn't it make you want to follow in her footsteps? My auntie has paid a high price for her labors. You don't realize that she endured a very unhealthy upbringing along with my mother and almost got sucked up into that as a young woman before her great rebellion. But what about her love life - her greatest paramours? Marci, please. Are you trying to reduce her to just that - like she's some tabloid celebrity? No- but I'm still curious. Yes, Marci - she was in love - she had love affairs - Is that so unusual? But with men? Yes - with men - back when she was young. And she tells you about it? Well - I've pieced some facts together with help from my Mum. And what does she think of your father? Oh - she wants nothing to do with my father - I mean he's a total fop as far as she's concerned.  So she hates him then? He's like a vile manbeast specimen! Do tell...do tell.  No, no, no, Marci - it's not like that. She really has nothing against him - you know my dad ....uhm.... she just finds him ridiculous and irresponsible. He is stupidly irresponsible (with regard to my mother, not me) which is irritating (to her, my aunt), but not as bad as certain other vices that attach to your typical man. Angry's not the word for her. She's BEYOND that, she's so BEYOND everything really - like the Buddha. But there must be baggage - Marci interjected. Yes. Yes. Baggage. She's only human after all....she's very hurt by people and their inane decision-making...Then perhaps she's sad - about people misunderstanding her. Yes. I think that's part of it.

There Once was a Man Who Loved Cats...

There once was a man who loved cats, a retiree of sorts, with sad green eyes and a hollow stare, who sat on his porch for long stretches of time shuffling cards and sorting bingo chips while the cats came from all around to seek him out: Abyssinians, Aegeans, Persians, Ragdolls, Exotics, Brazilian and British short-hairs, Siamese cats, Savannahs, Niebelungs, Tabby cats, Calicos, Oreos... People walking by or children passing on their way home from school could not help but pause to take in the scene and count the numerous breeds and colors.  This was perhaps just another "quietly desperate" fellow - one who had lost his job  in mid-career because of a certain "incident" that shall go unmentioned here,  involving a breakdown of sorts, accompanied by shouts, curses, tears and delusional thoughts. But to see him now, the man was quite calm, mellow, docile, beyond serene, sipping his lemonade and making unbroken eye contact with visitors to his porch be they humane or feline. In lesser numbers, the humans sought him out as well - for advice - as someone who had failed and suffered magnificently - as if speaking to a person who had electrocuted himself or fallen from a great height and lived to tell...Attempts were made to resuscitate the poor man's career, but he resisted, biding his time, enjoying the strange publicity that revolved around him and his cats. Standing guard over his cats, especially at the time of day when the young ruffians were about, he would shake his cane at the worst offenders and feel old before his time.

Randomness Happens...

Time is ticking before the big event, and there you are, brooding upon the drama and uncertainty surrounding the possible outcome....you mark off the upcoming "golden moment" on your calendar that theoretically will alter the status quo, disrupt the dominant paradigm, chart a new course, change things for the better, usher in a new phase of existence, make real communication possible etc. etc. So you roll this future contingent over in your mind, map it out step by step, imagining a thousand possible permutations of the same event, including what you plan to say and how that special person or persons will respond, but somehow it never goes as planned. Maybe it's that one chance you have to meet up with a potential soulmate or kindred spirit...you wait for your cue, anticipating violins playing or confetti and balloons falling from the ceiling; you look around for a sign, but by then it's already happening. You're talking to that person, making full eye contact.  Pleasant banter ensues, relaxed body language, laughter, smiles, nodding of heads, culminating in a shared and lasting mutual attraction, but then when the moment finally arrives, you find yourself becoming tongue-tied in mid-sentence, another person intervenes, the conversation stalls, someone faints, a stranger hands you a bill and suddenly you're out the door back in the shadows because the sequence that was supposed to unfold fails to materialize... Or perhaps, alternatively, the impending encounter is one that is fraught with tension, controversy - because the necessity of the case makes it more of a confrontation than a happy rendezvous...you are making an intervention so to speak with someone who annoys you, someone you typically try to avoid, whose very being grates upon your nerves...but you consider that you alone have an opportunity to change the dynamic and bring this person on board, to mitigate their rough edges, to pacify their vexing stridencies. There is no guarantee that such a ploy on your part will succeed, that the person will be permanently moved, altered, transformed for the better. In fact, the odds are against you; it's a long shot, but one with the same kind of what-if appeal that drives certain people to read - and sometimes lose themselves within - long romantic novels...On such a day, for whatever reason, perhaps the mild weather, perhaps because her morning tea was so unexpectedly delicious, Fiona - having  mulled over this dreaded  "event" in her mind, scoping out the sequence of awkwardness as would likely transpire - was, now that the day have arrived, strangely calm; she felt a sudden burst of serenity overtake her. She felt magnanimous toward others, even accepting of those most likely to annoy or offend her (which was most people). She was not one to suffer fools gladly and yet for some reason,  lacking her usual cynicism regarding the sad state of the world, a trait she no doubted inherited from her famous aunt - the notorious Katherine Bourgeois-Pain, she now found herself inexplicably giving in to strange feelings of docility and acceptance. When the familiar plebeians passed her way, she barely flinched; distracted shoppers, one-track-minded pedestrians, coquettish girls, well-dressed matrons, delivery boys, androgynous melancholics, slow-moving old men, aimless college students on extended summer break taking all-day lunch breaks- all failed to incite any kind of reaction - and this was a good sign, as she sauntered past this crop of "diverse individuals" in search of her adversary, that singular, woebegone, awkwardly over-confident, would-be prophet with a gift for driving her mad. It occurred to Fiona that little Billy Figgs was in some respects the most dangerous specimen of the male persuasion that she had ever allowed herself to fraternize with; yes, this was true. She had, it seemed, quite consciously made a point of collecting an assortment of hapless, starry-eyed males as friends....she had been around nice, clueless guys for so long that the other varieties of what her Aunt referred to as "manbeast", namely those alpha-male, type-A control freaks, corporate CEOs, sales execs, martinet-militarists, brigadier generals, back-slapping politicians - even muscle-bound, spoiled athletes - seemed like comic-book parodies or stock characters from old  B movies. Fiona had expected the worst from Billy, had anticipated in advance his desperate brand of faith with its unnecessarily rigid, feverishly dogmatic approach to every issue, his tiresome need to feel righteous, smug, and condescending like some forgotten minor deity with a chip on his shoulder....What she did not see coming was any admission on Billy's part that his own world-weariness had in fact caught up with him....Of late she had heard him invoking the doctrines of the medieval Cathars and Albigensians of the 12th century - counseling people to avoid romantic entanglements, admonishing strangers to forego their usual public-displays-of-affection, to sever existing ties with boyfriends and girlfriends, to dissolve any and all relationships that gave any inkling of having been tainted  by lust or fraught with the fatal seedlings of sensuality and concupiscence. Where did that leave him and Gabby Grailsmith as a couple - Fiona wondered. Was this some ridiculous preparation for a bogus apocalyptic scenario in which young single adults would gather in the cornfield? It was perhaps entirely logical for Billy to assume that the world had already ended, but that the finale had been delayed. Fiona had wanted so very much to denounce him as a fraud, a fanatic, an aberration of what true spirituality represented. She had planned to corner him as he made his way from diner to donut shop.  Billy - listen for a second... Things cannot go on like this with you and Gabby running wild in the name whatever crazy concept of God or religion you happen to be advocating. Therefore, I am cordially inviting, or rather, I am hereby demanding  that you void your membership in the Prophecy Club - and that you sever your affiliation with the Esoterica Society and the Higher Consciousness Continuum. She knew how empty her words would sound in the zealot's ears. They would have no more impact than a fly buzzing around his head or a leaky faucet dripping. With her reputation - as Billy called it - for outworn, new-agey, hippie-dippie, secular-feminist-spiritualism (whatever that means)  she had no more clout than a construction worker trying recruiting lost souls for an opera company; the fact that it was Fiona telling him all this would only raise a smirk, or perhaps a silent glare. Oh yes, of course,  if R. J.  had not handed down any kind of imperial decree or executive order, had not given a thumbs down on this one, or thrown Billy and Gabby under the bus or sold them down the river - which it was safe to say, he had not, then they were permitted, nay encouraged to continue their crusade...Amazing, truly, how much space Billy was taking up in her thoughts...But his presence continued to elude her...It was simply not meant to be...she would not be having the big encounter today despite her best laid plans...Instead she heard horns followed by a loud crash; a hideous fender-bender was erupting a mere two blocks away. A few concerned citizens rushed over immediately to survey the damage. Moments later, as if to add distraction upon distraction,  Marci and Chloe came barreling out of the gelato shop sharing the same  cup of frozen wonder, happily oblivious to the sudden commotion. Walking higglety-pigglety in a zig zag fashion, they laughed uproariously - in the midst of one of their "giggle fits" - striding virtually arm-in-arm, slurping, shrieking, moaning, yelping like two wildly uncivilized girlie-girls,  happily gossiping about two or three "dreamy guys" who held them spellbound for the past day or week or full moon.  Oh brother - Fiona gasped - overhearing their mindless chatter. Why did they let themselves descend to this level? Was this their way of letting off steam?

Snobbery

Strange to think that here in the modern world, as they say, with everyone having been declared equal, both at birth and before the law, alike in dignity no matter what the circumstance, equivalent in standing, commensurate in outlook, celebrated as participants and full-fledged also-rans, careful observers may discern a low-flying series of petty snobberies and vendettas, i.e. randomly arrived-at pretexts for feelings of intense superiority and preeminence, such that they are now driven by a subterranean set of ambitions, to escape the anonymity of statistics,  secretly, even desperately pining for avenues by which to stand out from the crowd, for a more benign form of social hierarchy - an official weekly mapping out, no less, of "winners" and "losers," complete with updated rankings and bell curves. Alongside the wellsprings of good-will and compassion, side by side as it were with sentiments of sharing and cooperation,  those old, unruly, unsavory, primordial demands make their appearance, demands for naked attention and garish recognition, for  awards, titles, prizes, entitlements, perks, special privileges - under the facade of humbly interacting with one's fellow citizens as fellow citizens.  Notwithstanding these forbidden thoughts, it was unavoidable that along with such desires, there should be fears as well - fears of "falling behind," of "not measuring up," of being found out as "deficient" in some crucial regard. As if to guard against gnawing insecurities, or to insulate themselves against any snide-yet-subtle comments from various self-appointed elites, people continue to do as they have always done in setting up little bubbles and enclaves for themselves to thrive in - by arranging it so that their best features, their interests, tastes, avocations,  possessions, acquisitions, shopping patterns, etc. would be highlighted to optimum advantage making it so that "those who are not like us and of us and with us...of our type and our ilk"  shall be, will be (how does the saying go?) - oh, let them be anathema. Chloe (who had grown up in this milieu and was a fine observer of human foibles) saw it as "one big game" (as she explained to her friend Fiona) in which the participants must continually vie for leverage and/or supremacy in myriads of little ways without (and this is crucial...) coming across as snooty or pretentious. Drama and intrigue carries over from high school - wouldn't you say, doll? Fiona would remark with her sardonic wit. It's sad to watch people get burned in middle age, sometimes just a repeat of what happened to them as teens. Needless. So needless... But tell me something that I don't already know... Chloe would reply in a voice of contempt that evoked her investment in this topic and perhaps her fear. It was still a dog-eat-dog world out in the suburbs, but the rhetoric of egalitarianism left no room to acknowledge the bestial cravings of the would-be victors in pursuit of their spoils. And so it happened on a bright summer morning in late June that a certain gathering took place - call it a "casual brunch" or a "sumptuous pot luck" among the established up-and-coming families in town, neighbors and friends of a select group mingling cheerfully and comfortably, while sipping libations and sampling home recipes. Nothing unique here: the usual spread, new furniture to announce, a debate about paint colors for dining rooms, someone's deck project or gardening plans, the loud banter interspersed with laughter or playful gibes, the preeminent ladies of the group proudly yet tacitly displaying some new item of clothing or jewelry, the men transfixed on sporting events, golf tournaments, betting strategies, hockey, basketball, the upcoming playoffs. It was all very safe and familiar until an unusual couple strode in and immediately turned all heads their way....because...well...for starters something about how they were so damnably well-dressed and polished and coiffed without even trying, not that they were dressed up at all really, but just well-put-together which could not help but place into stark contrast the nondescript attire of the other guests. Husband and wife, these sudden debutantes, with their amazingly well-behaved daughter, seemed bemused by the scene before them - like aliens from another planet - they waltzed in - perfectly poised, comfortable, and were summarily introduced, the husband that is, as someone or other's second cousin (?) or brother-in-law of Danny's uncle down in Florida (?). No matter. It was that look on their confident faces that said it all - that sardonic smile combined with a glance of partial elan and partial wonderment. The woman was literally accosted by two queen bees who pummeled her with compliments. Oh I love your necklace. Would you like a drink? How old is your daughter? Where did you get that? She was immune from everything - it seemed, from their opinions, their gossip, their subtle digs, their middlebrow sensibilities (Don't be shy...Come on in... join the party...We'll introduce you...)  This couple glided through the midst of them, greeting everyone with perfect tact, sampling appetizers, accepting beverages that were handed to them without complaint. The husband spoke effortlessly about the latest sports highlights while his spouse made vague positive comments about the size of the place - its "clean decor"  its "modern kitchen space" its "very nice big yard"- but the effect of all this was maddening. The way this woman looked at these surroundings - unable to hide a certain puzzlement, unable to repress a twitch on the cheek that was not quite a raised eyebrow. It was not a matter of money - oh no - far from it; everyone there was well provided for. Income was not the issue here. Trust funds, stocks, bonds, health care, spending cash - no cause for complaint, no reason to feel upstaged based strictly upon a financial ledger. But there it was - that feeling of inferiority, creeping out, permeating the room, fomenting ripples of mild, unconscious panic, first among the ladies and only secondarily among those men who could only surmise for the moment that the air felt stuffier,  thinner than usual. One comment in particular had the effect of an explosion when this well-put-together arriviste (for lack of a better term) - her name was Eve or Eva for the record... when this "Eva" casually mentioned to the others the name of a favorite clothing designer in response to persistent questions about what she was wearing. She named the designer as if to say, oh don't you know him? But then, adding insult to injury she gravitated to a print on one of the walls and began speaking rhapsodically at first, before catching herself, about an artist she knew who made similar sketches....And what do you do? - they asked as if expecting to hone in on some hidden secret. She "worked" at "such-and-such," she said, offering only a casual disjointed response, "in the arts...with patterns and colors...buildings... homes...rooms...design projects..." And what were they to make of that? Her mention of names and places and books only served to confirm what the women had expected - that she was from some far-away exotic place and had actually touched and tasted the tapas of experience that they had not even begun to have dreams about...