Imagine not being able to sit down.

We probably all know someone confined to a wheelchair, unable to stand up. But imagine that you couldn't sit down. I know it sounds far-fetched, but it's actually happened to me, more than once.

I have a recurring back pain that is so intense that it's landed me in the emergency room in the hospital more than once. It's shocking and debilitating: I actually had to crawl to the car once to have someone take me to the hospital.

There's apparently nothing that can be detected: I've had an MRI that found no deteriorating disk or cancer or whatever, just this lightning strike in my back that makes all movement, up or down, impossible. All I know is that, once in a while, something in my back "goes out" and I'm left in severe pain and unable to move about the way I'm used to doing.

(Those of us who have suffered these episodes know what I'm talking about; the rest of you just have to take our word for it. It hurts a lot, on a level that Doan's pills don't alleviate. It's way down, bone-deep, nerve-deep, and you've never felt pain like this before.)

Anyway, when I've had these "lightning strikes" in the past, I've noticed that I'm only relieved of the pain when I'm lying down or, when I force myself to stand, on my feet. When I'm standing, I do have to hold to anything nearby, whether a railing or a friend or a countertop: anything to keep me upright and, hopefully, not about to experience a "knife in my back" that will drop me to my knees. Where this came from I don't know. I think it may stem from a weight-lifting accident early in my adult life, but I can't be sure.

But my point is that, when this is going on -- and it does come and go, sometimes lasting a few days, sometimes months -- I can't sit down. I can lie down (maybe with a heat pad or ice: I'm never sure which one, if either, does any good) or I can stand, with support, and even try to walk around (very carefully, very slowly). But I can't sit down. It's just too painful to stand back up.

Think of the times every day when you sit down. For breakfast? What if you had to eat it, in your own home, standing up? You get into your car to go to work -- but, uh oh, you can't do that because you'll never be able to stand up once you get out of the car. You'll be bent over and in pain. (Your body bends itself to compensate for the pain, trying to get away from it, and it's not something you can control: you really are bent over, and still hurting. And people look at you.)
You can't drive -- the worst -- and you can't sit once you get to work.

So maybe you call in sick: "I've got this back problem. I think I'll be okay tomorrow." But you're not going to be okay tomorrow, and you have to call in sick again. People at work are probably starting to wonder if you're pulling some kind of scam.

In the meantime, you can't sit down. You can take to your bed, which you don't want to do, or you can stay on your feet all day, which gets kind of wearing on your feet and legs. Suppertime comes and goes at home: you can't join the family at the table. You stand at the kitchen counter, leaning against it, in pain, and try to smile.

You think again about all those times you sit down during the day: in the car, at the office, over coffee, at dinner, etc. You can't do any of them because not only is the sitting painful but the getting up is likely to send you to your knees. (And you're already crawling to the bathroom at night when you have to go and then lifting yourself onto the toilet, where the pain is unavoidable but no less present.) You think of yourself as some kind of mutant who can stand and lie down but not sit. And you're wincing all the time from a pain no one else can see.

And that's part of the problem. A back ailment can't be seen. A person in a wheelchair has a visible disability. So does a cancer patient with an obvious wig. As does an obvously overweight person. But a back problem -- like depression or schizophrenia -- is invisible. Your family and friends and colleagues just have to take your word for it.

It hurts, you say. Real bad!

We all take for granted so much of our human existence. It's only when something goes wrong, when we're deprived of a sense (sight, hearing, etc.) or an ability (movement) that we realize how tenuous is our hold on what we call being human. Being deprived of the right to sit is, admittedly, minor compared to those folks in wheelchairs -- especially since, in my case, it's temporary (I do get okay finally) -- but it's a reminder that we shouldn't assume an inalienable right to anything. It can all be taken away in a flash. A car accident, an illness, a bad decision, even a bad gene.

I'm sitting down right now as I type this, but there was a time, only a year or so ago, when I couldn't have done it. In fact, there was a time I was lying on my back on the floor of my office, my laptop computer on my lap, a heating pad on my lower back, thinking: Shit, I'm going to have to crawl to the bathroom again. I hope no one is watching.

Suppose you could only lie down or stand up but not sit. Think about it.

Value what you have and take nothing -- repeat, nothing -- for granted.

We all pay full-price for something.

In these troubled financial times, with people being laid off and our 401ks tanking, we're all looking to cut costs. Maybe not that European vacation or that Alaskan cruise. Not this year. Maybe not even that snow-blower we'd been planning to buy. Not even a new pair of jeans, for God's sake!

But there are things we all pay full-price for, regardless of hard times. (Joan Rivers used to say, "Does anybody pay retail?" What she meant, of course, was that she not only got clothes from sponsors for nothing but that she also shopped for bargains.) What do you pay for without trying to finagle the price down?

Clothes I think you can always find on sale, unless there's a particular brand you just have to have. Even cars: almost all the car companies are ready and willing to make you a deal on whatever you want just to get their inventory sold and off the lot. Houses? We all know what's happened to the real estate business: if you want to buy a house, this is the time!

But some things never go on sale, and still we buy them. I'm thinking small right now: Boar's Head hot dogs. Made without additives. Tasting so much better than the name brands and only carried in certain stores with good deli departments. What else? Well, for me it's bicycle repair. I know that sounds kind of odd, but when I need a tune-up on my bike, I can't dicker: their price is their price, take it or leave it. And I want to be sure I'm riding a bicycle that's in the best shape it can be in: after all, there are just those two thin tires between me and the pavement.

What else?

I guess I would continue to pay full-price for movie tickets, but only if it's a movie I really need to see on a big screen instead of renting it later, on DVD, and watching it at home. (I'll pass on the $5 bucket of popcorn.) A meal at a restaurant that is so well-established that it doesn't have to offer a discount to lure in new customers? Maybe, but it has to be really good -- and probably a special occasion. (Even better if someone else is paying.) I'm more tempted these days to try a new one that's advertising a special in the newspaper.

For some of us, it's spa and gym memberships: the way we pamper or exercise ourselves. They do have specials but usually only for new members. For those of us who need that group-exercise kind of thing (I'm not one: I do it alone, at home), that's an expense we just have to pay. Maybe, for the ladies, a special spa treatment that you can't get at home and that makes you feel better about yourself. Worth the whole price? You bet. (Get your mate to buy you a certificate for your birthday. He'll be thrilled not to have to shop.)

By the way, let's rule out the very rich, who can afford to pay whatever for an ocean-view mansion and a second home in Italy. For them money is nothing because they have so much of it. They usually pay retail for everything; no dickering. (Or maybe they do, but what they end up paying is still beyond any rational scope: ten million for a place that, last year, might have gone for twenty million.) They live in another dimension, only marginally related to our own.

I went into a store recently that sold sports equipment, thinking that I'd like to buy a snorkel outfit that wouldn't allow any water into my nose and mouth. I'm not a water person -- don't even know how to swim -- but I'm intrigued by all the fish and other creatures you can see when you lie in the water (with a safety vest on) and look down. I saw one that guaranteed no water would be backed up into my snorkel -- which feels to me like drowning -- so I paid more than I wanted to. I've yet to test it, but if it works, it's worth the money.

On the other hand, I'm a book person and own hundreds (many of which I'll likely not live long enough to read). But I paid full price for almost none of them -- even the paperbacks. Books are one of our society's great recyclables. Most of us don't keep lots of books around after we've read them, which means second-hand stores always have a substantial stock on-hand, often for just a dollar or two apiece. One of my old friends, though, buys only new books -- in hard cover.
Why? I don't know. After all, a book isn't like a tool that we tend to re-use over and over; once it's been read, we're probably not going to open it again (unless it's a coffee table book with lots of pretty pictures). But as I think about it, here's one possible reason he insists on buying books new: he likes the looks of them on his shelves at home. And maybe he likes visitors to see that not only is a literate person, he's also not a cheapskate like some of his friends (namely me).

So what do you think is worth the money?

That particular piece of clothing? That car? That item in the grocery store? That service? Maybe that haircut from the only person in town who understands your hair and your head? I think what you're willing to shell out the big bucks for says something about you; it's up to you to determine exactly what.

So there really are things we'll pay full price for, but we should size them up and be sure they're worth the extra expense. Go for quality when it matters. Otherwise, shop around.

And shopping for bargains is kind of fun -- or so my female friends tell me.

Sit-down dinners may be a thing of the past.

I hesitate to suggest this, as I remember serving meals to my children around a common table, where we talked about this or that from our days. But, if I'm honest, I have to admit that the nightly meal together started to fragment when my daughters and then my son began to have other things to do about that time of the evening. What dawned on me, finally, was that the old routine of a dinner at six p.m. just didn't fit everyone's schedule.

What I think changed is the way we think of our children. In the old days, meaning when I was a kid, there were no after-school activities. If you were on the football team, maybe you had a practice, but that was it. Nowadays, our daughters may have after-school activities, too. Soccer practice or softball. Things that didn't exist way back when.

Our old notion of everyone sitting down to dinner at a certain time has had its day. We all now come and go on different schedules. Which I think is, in some ways, good. Grab what you need to eat and be on your way! Go, girl!

It does, though, throw the whole concept of an evening dinner into flux. That one time of the day when we sat down, as a family, and talked about things. We families of the new millienium who don't sit down with each other for dinner anymore have to wonder: What is lost? What is gained?
Well, what is gained is the ability of each person in the family to control his or her own in-take of food. Our kids are left to their own judgments as to what to eat or not eat. And when to eat it.

What is lost is our control over what our kids eat. We parents hope it's something healthy -- not just endless Big Macs or tacos. But we have to let our kids have their say, right? On the other hand, we can say: Come home and I'll make you a good meal that includes veggies. I'll know that you have ingested at least some things that are good for you. You don't have to sit down with us and eat it, but it's here. (Hey, we can cook it and cover it with foil, right?)

What is also lost, more importantly, is that time around the table. Granted, not all those times are pleasant, especially as our kids grow into adolescence and then adulthood, but they are still times spent with family, talking. And, if you think about it, maybe those most difficult discussions with growing children are the most important -- even if they devolve into shouting matches -- because they are still all about family.

What does family mean to this budding young man or woman? How much allegiance does this young person feel to the family? Let's get it out in the open, over meat loaf and mashed potatoes, and deal with it. Let's have these hard talks right here at home, with everyone, including young siblings, present. I think these conversations are going away, and I don't know another place they can happen. The dinner table may be the last place for a frank discussion with our kids.

And be honest: When was the last time you and your teen-aged children sat around a table and talked about anything important?

For that matter -- to up it a notch -- how long has it been since you've had everyone in your family -- from grandparents to your kids -- around a table at one time? Last Christmas? Thanksgiving? Never?

And if you did have one, how honest was the conversation? Maybe it was all polite, which is good, but maybe it turned into something not so pleasant but, in its own way, necessary, as the different generations had their say.

I do think that sit-down dinners, among families, either immediate or extended, are going away. After all, it's easier to just take everyone -- from grandma to great-grandson -- to the nearest "all you can eat" place, and avoid not just the clean-up but the confrontations and even just the awkward chitchat that occurs when you're all marooned in somebody's house, and there's no escape. You've got the family all together, or what's left of it. Now what? Talk? Escape? Maybe reconciliation? Love? Or is that hoping for too much?

Sit-down dinners may be going away not just because they're a lot of trouble but also because we don't want to deal with old family issues. And those kinds of get-togethers, within our family or with our in-laws and other relations, make it hard to avoid them. We may just be an avoidance sort of people these days: life is hard, so why make it harder?

But family is what we have to deal with, for better or worse, and sit-down dinners are where we all have to deal with them. It's when we're face-to-face across a table of good food, and what better setting for a settling of differences? I don't propose or oppose them, but I think we should decide for ourselves if and when we want to have them. Or not.

The sit-down dinner is an institution of our society, and it's up to us whether to maintain it or not. There are pros and cons on both sides. In the end, it's up to us and those we love.

Let's think about numbers -- big numbers.

Most of us think of a million as a million dollars -- a lot of money. Even before the TV show "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" there was an earlier version called, I think, "The Millionaire", which wasn't a game show but was an actual series in which random people suddenly were given a million dollars. I can't recall the details, but the idea was that the words "million dollars" meant a lifetime of ease from debt and also the purchase of lots of luxuries.

Of course a million dollars today isn't what it was then, when most of us have to shell out a quarter to a half of that just to buy a good-sized house in a nice neighborhood. We probably all know any number of people who are worth, on paper, a million dollars and who still complain about the cost of life and who don't live lives of luxury. A million bucks these days isn't what it used to be.

But these days the President and the Congress are throwing around numbers in not just the millions but the billions and even the trillions (to bail out banks, etc.). Whoa! Time to back up.

What, exactly, is a million? Not the dollars, but the number. (All you math majors can check out now, as you have a very clear idea of what it means; this entry is intended for those of us who are math-challenged. Go have a cup of over-priced coffee and check back later, okay?)

A million of anything is a thousand thousand. Let's suppose you have a thousand dollars in your checking or savings account. You know that it's a single dollar times a thousand. Or a hundred dollars times ten. If you have ten hundred dollar bills, you have a thousand dollars.

Let's imagine you spend that thousand dollars on a big-screen TV, assuming you can find one for that price. Now let's imagine you own a store that sells them, and you need to have at least a hundred in-stock to sell to others. That would be a hundred times a thousand, which would be a hundred thousand dollars you've spent for those TVs. (Of course you plan to sell them for a few hundred more each: your profit.) But you would have to sell all those and re-order again and again and again -- ten times -- before you would have bought, wholesale, a million dollars worth of TVs. A million is a thousand thousand, right? You would have to have a thousand of those TVs in your store to have a million dollars' worth. Can you imagine a store with a thousand TVs?

Now let's jump it up a notch -- a very big notch. Forget your store; let's talk the United States government. Not just TVs but tanks and planes and missiles and the upkeep on troops in foreign countries, not to mention Social Security payments to retirees and Medicaire payments and grants to states to keep up the highway system, etc. Now we're talking not millions but billions.

So how much is a billion? It's a thousand million. Not ten million (10, 000, 000) or a hundred million (100, 000, 000) but a thousand million (1, 000, 000, 000). Take a moment to think about that. One billion is a one plus nine zeros.

The U.S. government deals in billions, not millions, and a thousand here or there is pocket change.

But let's go back to a thousand. You have a thousand dollars. Assume you have them in ones. Spread those out on a table. Dollar by dollar, you would fill up a good-sized table and be spilling onto the floor. Laid end to end, those thousand dollars would stretch the length of a football field and then some. (They're each a little less than six inches times a hundred yards: you can do the math, right?)

Now mulitply that a thousand times -- a thousand football fields of one dollar bills -- and you have a million. A million yards, a million dollars, a million whatever. We're talking big numbers, no?

So what's a billion? Now we're talking about how far stars are away from us. A thousand million miles. What about dollars our government is spending? They're talking a thousand million dollars to help banks or failing car companies or to prop up this program or that one. But a thousand million, right? Spread those dollar bills out, end to end, and you're to the moon and back more than once! Whoa!

Okay, not to condescend, but to review:

Here's what a thousand looks like: 1, 000.

Here's what a million looks like: 1,000, 000.

Here's what a billion looks like: 1, 000, 000, 000.

Have you ever seen such a number?

But it doesn't stop there. We're now talking about hundreds of billions to bail out big banks and maybe the automotive industry and possibly other big businesses.


Here's what a hundred billion looks like, in dollar figures:

$100, 000,000, 000.

But that's not the end of it. Our government is committed to more than that in the future to try to clear our debts and get us back on the track to prosperity. And, again, I'm not leaning left or right -- Democratic or Republican -- on this, just reporting what I've heard. All I'm trying to do is keep us all aware of the numbers.

Are you ready for this? We've talked thousands and millions and even billions. Are your ready for trillions?

A trillion is a thousand billions.

Take that in before you look at the next figure.

Ready?

Here's what one trillion dollars looks like: $1,000,000,000,000.

That means a thousand thousand thousand thousand dollars.

What does your bank account look like?

I am not advocating spending or not spending, regardless of the amount. I just think it's important for us all to try to imagine the amounts of money being spent -- and to be sure it's spent in ways that benefit us all.

On the other hand, aren't the numbers themselves kind of dazzling?

By the way, do you know what comes after a trillion? It's a quadrillion, which would be a thousand trillion. If you can imagine that, my hat's off to you.

Hoping it never comes to this, here is what it would look like, in dollars:

$1, 000, 000, 000, 000, 000.

Let's hope we never see that figure except in our worst dreams!

In the meantime, I'm still hoping to become a millionaire.

Mariage doesn't fix anything -- or anyone.

It's so tempting to think that if we tie the knot, get married, then we, the two of us, are somehow locked into a till-death kind of pact. But -- surprise! The guy can leave any time he wants and take your dreams with him. Yes, he's responsible for the children he's brought into the world, but there aren't any cops or courts who will track him down. You, the woman, had the kids, and you are the only one responsible for their up-bringing. Not fair? Of course not. But try to get sorry ass into a court of law. Good luck!

My point -- directed to the ladies -- is that marriage doesn't fix anything. It also doesn't fix anyone. If you linked up with a loser, and if you had kids with him, you're on the hook for those kids forever. Where is he? Who knows? And if you find him, what are the chances he'll be prosecuted? Not good.

Probably because they're, on the whole, the kinder-hearted gender, women often seem to be more optimistic than men. They think that a little loving and attention will bring that good-looking but irresponsible man around and make him understand what's important. Well, sometimes it works. Other times, the problems you knew about in your spouse from the time you met him just can't be fixed. The rascal who knocked you up and then fled may never come to his senses and realize his obligation and come back to you and your shared kid. The husband who hit you will never admit that he's violent and needs to deal with it. Men are too often moral cowards when it comes to personal responsibility. Sad to say, but generally true. (Yes, me too.)

Just to be fair, some women are, too: I've personally known at least one who drained my bank account and left me liable for expenses I didn't know I had. I gave back a couple of cars to the bank and rode a city bus to and from colleges classes for a year. As I look back, all the signs of who she was were apparent from the beginning but, like most guys, I'm not very good at reading them. (Guys are simple creatures.)

And I don't think men spend much time trying to "fix" women; they find one they want, and if she turns out not to be what they thought she was, they go find another one. No fixing involved.

So anyway, if you accept the premise that usually it's the man who skips out and leaves the woman with kids and maybe debts, then it's time for some very obvious advice: please understand that you can never "fix" a man by marrying him. If he's not a decent, hard-working, and loving man when you meet him, he's not likely to become that way after you marry him. All your love and attention can't turn him into the man you hoped you were marrying. You can't change him, no matter how persuasive your charms. (For the record, he may be pretend to be changed -- "fixed" -- from time to time, either to get his way or to avoid being fussed at, but trust me: he'll revert to his real self eventually, probably sooner than later.)

Once again, my advice: marry a good man; don't think you're going to to change a bad one into a good one just because you said "I do". He had his fingers crossed behind his back. Marriage is a legal pact. It's not an emotional/personal commitment. And bad boys skip out on legal pacts all the time (car loans, marriages, etc.). Do your homework and choose wisely.

Love who you must -- and dream on, you dreamer! -- but don't sign anything until you're sure.
Your sanity, and the sanity of your family may depend on it.

Marriage doesn't fix anything. It just makes everything more complicated.

Why has hair settled into the places it has on us?

Think about it. We have hair on our heads, and women seem to have more than men -- or do they just let it grow longer? If men let their hair grow -- as some of the members of 60s rock bands did -- wouldn't it be as long as a woman's? Down to your waist, if that's what you wanted.

So what is it for?

We assume that, if Darwin was right, as he probably was, we evolved from ancestors who had lots of hair but that, in time, that hair diminished as we didn't need it anymore: for warmth or whatever. So why did we retain hair in specific places?

Under our arms to absorb sweat, right? In the summer, we all sweat, and those hairs do soak up some of it. Of course our capitalist society has developed all kinds of products to get rid of that unwanted moisture even before it reaches our arm-pit hairs. Shelves in supermarkets hold an increasing array of products to mask our very natural sweat (which may or may not smell bad, depending on how we generated it and how long we've taken between showers).

But why pubic hair? I've thought about this a lot (a lot more than any normal human should have) and can't come up with a rational reason for it. Why are our sex organs bearded by hair? If hair was first intended to preserve warmth -- and I'm not sure about that -- why would our most private parts also need it? Don't they generate warmth from inside? Don't they, by themselves, heat us up?

And what about facial hair for men? And not women? Why should/would men grow beards and moustaches -- but not women?

I have to think that whoevever/whatever designed our universe, and our place in it, decided that women should have long hair on their heads and that men should have hair on their faces. But that men should also be able to shave off that facial hair if they chose.

I know that all this sounds kind of wacky -- especially considering our own modern trends: women with shorter hair, men clean-shaven -- but I think it has to do, as all biology does, with sexual attraction. It's not that women aren't attracted to men with beards or moustaches, but it's probably true that men aren't attracted to women who have those same attributes.

I remember a time when women didn't shave their legs. Back in the 60's. That's when they were also burning their bras, protesting the limits men put on them. Those women were right, but, if they were looking for mates, they may also have been overlooking something vital: men want women to look a certain way -- smooth legs that look good in panty-hose or bare -- and when they don't, the men look somewhere else.

The women of that -- my -- generation had to learn what all women have had to learn: men are simple-minded creatures who don't appreciate anyone's "liberation" when it conflicts with their own idea of pleasure. Of course there were men who did understand and tried to work with the women they encountered, but most of them , even the educated ones, fell back into their old stereotypical thinking about women and chose the best-looking instead of the smartest.

And some of the women, despite their "awakening", did what lots of women have always done: they fell for the "bad boy", the one who promised all kinds of sexual liberation but who, too often, turned out to be just another insecure male looking for a conquest -- but maybe not a job.

But back to the original premise: Why do we have hair in certain places and not others?

Why on the head? To keep our heads warm? We have hats for that. I think it must be for decoration, and I offer as evidence the very real fact that most of us don't look nearly as attractive without our hair. When I joined the army way back when, one of the first things they did was shave off all my hair. The object was purely utilitarian: you don't want a new soldier spending time in front of the mirror every morning combing his locks when he should be out doing push-ups and running, etc. It was also a way to humiliate us all into looking alike: we all had shaved heads.

But even then it was apparent that some guys looked a lot better than others without any hair. I mean, there were guys who looked like a bald-headed Yul Brynner or Bruce Willis. And then there were others of us who looked like "a Buick with the doors open", meaning that our ears stuck out. The latter of us were hesitant even to go into town on leave because we knew we couldn't get any girls, while the former of us, with nice domes and ears tightly tucked-in, scored easily.

So it seems to me that nature -- or whatever you want to call the designer of us humans -- has decided that hair on our heads makes us look more attractive to mates. And remember that, biology being what it is, attracting mates (and then reproducing) is our main purpose in life. Somebody -- or some force -- is very smart.

But that leaves open the question about pubic hair. Any suggestions?

Life lessons: things I've learned.

There are things that have been said to me over the years that I remember, that have made me, for better or worse, who I am. Here are a few.

(1) This, too, shall pass.

I think this if from the Bible, but I've read that Abraham Lincoln had it on his desk. What it means is to be patient. Today's crisis will, most likely, be yesterday's news. Do what you think is best -- for the long run -- and cross your fingers.

(2) For every high, there's a low.

My mother used to say, "Life is all peaks and valleys." This applies equally to the great and the not-so-great moments of your life, be they relationships or jobs or health or whatever. Don't get depressed over anything that goes wrong: it may turn around tomorrow.

(3) This life and one more.

My mother's grandmother used to say this. With a sigh, I'm sure. I think it sums up a lot about life and death and religion, about what we often see as the futility of it all -- but also about our belief that there is another life awaiting us later on. What I always liked about this saying was its implication that we needed to prepare for that next life, too. And how do we do that? I guess by doing our best in this one, since we don't know what the next one requires of us.

(4) First, do no harm.

This is the advice given to doctors, but doesn't it, really, apply to all of us?

(5) Family is bedrock.

Love 'em or hate 'em, they're the only ones obligated to put up with you, no matter what. Granted they don't always, and granted you don't always want them to. Still, they're who you came from. Be nice.

(6) Every day's a gift; all you have to do is un-wrop it.

This was said to my mother by an old black man helping to restore a pioneer home in a small town in Texas, where she was President of the Historical Society. He wore old clothes, had no money, and worked every day in the hot sun with his hands and was always cheerful. When she asked him how he always maintained a positive attitude, this is how he answered (complete with the phonetic spelling). My mother told this over and over all her life. She loved it!

I'm sure your own family has passed down to you familiar sayings that speak truth. Treasure them, and remember who said them.

It's our oral history, and it may well outlast our digital one.

Our kids can't watch the movies that scared us.

Some years ago, my daughter had a friend over for the night and wanted to watch a scary movie. I suggested "Psycho", the 1960 Alfred Hitchcock movie that had scared my generation into not taking showers. I turned it on for them and left the room.

Later they told me that it wasn't scary at all, that the guy with the knife in that famous shower scene was "lame" and that they didn't understand why I'd recommended it.

What I realized was that our kids have become so used to hacking and mutilating in movies that the impact of that shower scene just didn't register anymore. They were so used to much more graphic depictions of brutality that my idea of what was shocking was just standard stuff these days.

Which I find a little shocking.

I know about the "Saw" films, though I've never seen one (and don't plan to). Apparently there is so much sadism in movies these days, aimed at teens and those slightly older, that the old standards of what should be shown in movies just doesn't apply. These kids, yours and mine, are growing up thinking that torture is okay as long as it's only in a movie. And really nasty torture scenes, played out in slo-mo. But how do we know that a few kids in the audience -- the potential psycho-paths -- aren't seeing this as a rationale for doing that themselves? Why give them the artistic license to play this out in real life?

Movies are powerful. They influence our lives. The best inspire us. The worst are forgotten. But the most diabolical may stay with some of us in ways the move-makers never intended. There is no artistic merit to the "Saw" films. But they influence at least some of our kids. When torture and mutilation and pure violence is shown on the big screen, some disturbed kid is going to take that as license.

Should we censor movies? No. Adults should be able to watch anything we want, however repugnant. So how do we keep these other movies out of the minds of the most vulnerable -- and most dangerous? Well, we have a rating system, but it's pretty pourous. It filters out lots of sex but lets through lots of horrendous violence. Which is more dangerous? Would you rather your kid see some girl's nipple in a sex scene or see that nipple snipped off by a maniac's shears?

It's one of the dilemmas of living in a democracy. Anyone can put anything in print on the screen or online. We can't -- and shouldn't -- censor it. But is there a way to monitor it? To alert our kids to the dangers? I hope so.

It all comes down -- wouldn't you know it? -- to the parents. Aren't we always the ones left holding the bag? When everyone else bails out, it's always the parents we blame. Why didn't you just shut off the TV? Why didn't you keep your kids off the internet?

Jesus, can't somebody cut us parents a little slack once in a while? Can't someone higher up in the government rise to the occasion and say "Enough of this random violence on TV and in video games"? Why doesn't someone blame the game-makers, the movie mavens for a change?

Why is is always left to the parents, who have so little control over what society gives our kids to watch?

"Psycho" was a movie about a grown-up boy who couldn't imagine living without his mother, so he kept her alive --long after she was dead, but not to him. So far as I know, the "Saw" movies are mainly about torturing and killing innocent people for no good reason. One was a serious study of a psychotic killer; the others are just an exploitation of that murderous impulse.

Is there really no difference?

Correct me if I'm wrong.

There are things we wish we could do that we can't.

I never learned to dance. I didn't have a girlfriend in high school who could have taught me, and my older sisters married early -- too early, as it turned out -- so there weren't any females to teach me. And I wasn't part of the Country Club scene, where boys are taught such skills.

It came back to haunt me, years later, when opportunities arose to dance with attractive women and I had to say no, that I didn't/couldn't. Are there real dance steps that you learn? I had/have no idea. And what about specific dances? Swing? Some woman once lured me onto the floor and then ditched me immediately because I couldn't keep up.

I also can't ski, even though I live in a state that relies on ski people for its very existence. I tried a few times and never quite got it. I'm not a total nerd: I can run and ride a bike, but I just didn't get skiing.

I can't skate, either. I tried that once and hugged the rails the whole time, looking like the loser I was. Scratch skating.

So let's see: I can't dance, I can't ski, and I can't skate. What else can't I do?

I can't run long distances. I know the benefits of running, and I do jog a couple of miles a day, at a VERY slow pace, just putting one foot in front of the other, barely beating the power-walkers in my neighborhood: I do beat them but not by much. I am amazed at men and women who run marathons. Twenty-six miles? Is that humanly possible?

I'm also not good at social gatherings where I don't know anyone. My wife is good at this. She's always ready and willing to meet new people. I only want to see people again that I've met somewhere else. It makes for difficult get-togethers.

I'm also not good with water. I never learned to swim. I signed up for a swimming class in college, but the teacher was the football coach, who just said, "Jump in and have a good time." I got an "A" in the course but didn't learn how to swim.

What else? I don't like heights. I do, but only if I have something to hold onto. I can't imagine jumping off a bridge or a cliff with only a rubber something tied to my ankle, pulling me up once I'd bottomed out, just yards from dying face-first: I'm sure I would have had a heart attack long before the big rubber band pulled me back up.

I also can't play any instrument. Not even basic guitar. And I'm a poet type who, like Dylan, might have come up with some interesting songs. But he could play guitar and also harmonica. I can't play anything. I once had a guitar and managed to plunk out a few strings of something or other but nothing that sounded like anything that was going to launch my career.

I think it's important for us all to recognize what we wish we could have been good at but weren't. Why? It makes us appreciate those who ARE good at those things. But it also makes us realize that we've compensated and maybe become good at things we didn't know we could do, whether it's real skills like plumbing or carpentry or learned skills like accounting and teaching.
I learned to write and have enjoyed it, though it has its downside: not being published, etc.

And we've probably also made compromises: gotten married, had kids, etc. Main-lined ourselves. Taken on all those real-life duties that the truly self-indulgent person has trouble with. Can you imagine someone who jumps motorcycles over lines of cars sitting down with his kids every night over homework? Or going to PTA meetings? Or shopping for groceries?

In the end, we love to watch those dare-devils on TV who jump off bridges, just like we love to listen to those singers. Some of us -- not me -- like to watch stars making fools of themselves trying to dance. (But I do wish I had their moves, just to thrill my wife.)

There are things all of us wish we'd learned to do, but life is short, and we can't always fulfill those dreams. Do as many as you can, but consider, also, the things you HAVE gotten good at, from raising kids to keeping a marriage together -- maybe the biggest challenge of all! You're probably good at something you don't give yourself credit for, even if you don't get paid big bucks to do it.

Do I wish I could dance? Play an instrument? Ski? Skate? Yes on the dance; yes on the guitar; iffy on the others. Skiing is too cold. Skating can be dangerous, especially at my age.

Would I love to sit in a cafe and play and sing songs I'd made up? Absolutely. Do I wish I'd been able to dance with some of those lovely women? You bet.

But it wasn't to happen, and I'm okay with it. Are you?

Get outside your life.

I know this is a tough one, since we all exist inside our own experiences and emotional relationships, not to mention the obligations we have to our spouses and kids and also the debts we think we owe to our ancestors and others. But try putting all that aside. Just for now.

Many experts who have interviewed those convicted of awful crimes say that one of the main things they notice about their interviewees is that they don't have any idea of the impact what they did had on not just the victim but the victim's loved ones. They lacked empathy, that truly human ability to put oneself in the place of another (Clinton's famous line: "I feel your pain.").

When we're most absorbed in our own problems -- be they financial or personal or whatever -- the last thing we want to do is to try to see others' problems as if they were our own. But it really is a unique human trait (so far as I know -- and what do I know?). One of the best ways to come to terms with our own unfortunate situation is to imagine a situation far worse.

Fiction writers do it all the time, creating evil characters who wreak great ruin on innocents. One of the factors differentiating "literature" from "genre fiction" is how much time is devoted to trying to understand the fiends. They, after all, were born of mothers, just like us, but then the trouble started. Bad childhoods, absent fathers, vice-laden neighborhoods. The intelligent fiction writer parses all that and tries to come up with a plausible reason for the evil one becoming so evil. The genre writers just accept that he's evil and needs to be done away with.

Of course it's also possible that some people are just evil from the beginning, but can you really imagine a tiny baby as evil from birth? Wouldn't that mean that Satan really was at work in our lives? Not likely. Something was either wrong with that child -- mentally (not his fault) -- or some adults are responsible for turning him toward the bad in his/her early life. But what do we do with those people who just can't abide by the rules we've set up and that we all live by?

The same debate has raged for a long time throughout civilized societies: punish the evil-doer or try to rehabilitate him or her? It still rages. [This is grist for another/different discussion.]

But back on a personal level, you can practice getting outside your own life -- your own worries and traumas and concerns -- by simply reading the newspaper, which is filled daily with stories about individuals and families much worse, and much worse off, than you. Just like the fiction writer, try to imagine yourself as one of those people -- either the victim or the perpetrator -- and construct, in your own mind, a story of how this came to pass. If you've had enough coffee and are feeling really inspired, imagine yourself as both! You may be ready to write a novel.

It's so hard to get ourselves out of our own predicaments and see things through the eyes of others. Our problems weigh on us so heavily, every day, that sometimes we think we're drowning. But if we can -- just for a moment, or an hour -- step back and take a deep breath, we might just begin to see things another way.

After all, you and I are one or two of billions of people who have inhabited the earth. Your parents and mine, and our grandparents, are four or eight or how many others. Still, we're like a pinprick in the great fabric of humans who have lived and died. If there is some eternal census taker, we're about the size of that last "i" I put into "died" in the previous sentence, or just the dot on the "i" -- minus many times. You and I are like specks in the universe viewed through one of the earliest of telescopes.

But we know that we matter, right? At least we hope so. We know that we're more than just existence. We lived, we loved, we had families. We bought things. We loved life more than we hated it (except for the suicides, who hated it more than they loved it). The religious among us think that we'll die and be rewarded in heaven for our exemplary lives, right?

But how exemplary is your life if you lacked empathy? If you couldn't put yourself in someone else's shoes and walk the mile that person did? If you were so caught up in your own suffering that you couldn't acknowledge that someone else, somewhere in the world, was suffering a lot more than you?

All over the world today, there are people born into unfortunate circumstances. Children raised in absolute poverty, eating bugs and the bark from trees. Can you imagine yourself doing that? Young girls are born every day into societies that let them be raped by men in the village if they have somehow violated old man-centered values. Some of these young women probably wish that they'd never been born at all. Can you -- male or female -- put yourself in that girl's body, feeling, for the first time, a big erect male penis entering your body when you're not in love, in the mood, not moist, not receptive? When you don't even know what sex is, much less love?

I doubt it. I can't, either. But until you and I can, we won't be able to stop that kind of atrocity.

Get outside your own life and try to imagine yourself a young man in Africa who works all day at shit jobs to try to make at least a buck or two to support your family that doesn't have indoor plumbing or telephones or even electricity -- no TV, no refrigerator -- and who comes home to a gang of toughs who ask if you want your arms hacked off "short sleeve" or "long sleeve": at the elbow or the wrist.

Which would you choose? I think I'd go for "long sleeve" which would leave me most of my arm. Both options cut off the hand and fingers.

Can you imagine making such a choice?

Get outside your life.

Forget the appliances and cars and lunches that make our lives here in the U.S.A. so nice -- and our sometimes trivial problems seem so monumental -- and think, instead, of people whose day-to-day doesn't involve who picks up the kids or whether Target stays open late enough for a run. Imagine, instead, life in another country -- maybe another time -- when evenings weren't just a time of trying to find something good on TV but were a time of waiting for that loud knock on the door, to be followed by big guys in uniforms bursting in, beating up your husband and hauling him away, maybe even shooting your teen-aged son, leaving you -- if you were spared -- to try to put your life back together again.

It happened in Nazi Germany, but it happens all over the world to this day.

Get outside your life and try to empathize. You don't have to do anything -- send money or march in the streets (not that it would do any good) -- but just thinking about it might change your outlook on life and your own fortunes. Can things get worse? Oh boy, you better know it!

It just might make you a better person. Try it. I'm as guilty as anyone, thinking my own problems are, sometimes, just too much to bear. Then I think of others -- actually try to put myself in their place, complete with the pain and terror -- and I have to (mentally) slap myself and say, "You big pussy! What are you complaining about! Snap out of it!"

The slap stings, but I know I deserve it. What a spoiled brat I am! What a big pussy!

The new "bionic" man/woman is you and your car.

"Bionic" is defined in the dictionary as "having normal biological capability or performance enhanced by or as if by electronic or electromechanical devices."

I submit for your approval that's us and our cars.

You and your car are pretty much one entity. As I am with mine. We get into our car and start it up and drive to wherever we want to go. We're so used to driving -- assuming we're older than, say, sixteen -- that we don't even think about the dynamics of driving the car. We are so much a part of it that we turn the way we want to turn, stop and start, make our way through traffic, as if we were guiding our own selves, as if on foot. But we're not on foot. We're in our cars. And our cars weigh at least ten times what we weigh. And they move a lot faster than we do. When we're in our cars, we're like the bionic man or woman: many times faster and more powerful than our normal selves.

But I think we often forget that and think that we/us/our car is just you or me. And that's what gets us in trouble and, in the worst of circumstances, kills other people.

When we are are in our cars, we are sort of "bionic". We're part human, part machine. Our decision to turn left is performed perfectly by our car. Our decision to speed up or to slow down again is immediately reflected by our car. It's almost part of us, or we're almost part of it. The car performs functions we can't -- especially speed (we're slow of foot as humans) --but it does just what we tell it to with our manipulations of gears and pedals and such.

And when we find the car of our dreams --that vintage Jag or that that 60s Corvette -- the car seems to mirror our reflection of ourselves, seems to embody all we wanted to be or still want to be, or at least how we want to be seen. And when we get behind the wheel, when we put a foot down on the pedal for the first time, it's like we know this is who we should have been all along!
That Jag is so smooth, so powerful! That Corvette is so strong, so assertive!

The car we choose to drive, once we're older and have the money to buy one but also old enough to understand ourselves, says a lot about who we think we are, or who we want to be, or maybe who we thought we wanted to be when we couldn't afford such cars.

But that's beside the point. The point is that whatever car (or truck) you choose, you bond with it as you drive it. You become one with it. When you're behind the wheel, you are one with your vehicle. If you're a calm driver, you'll probably drive the speed limit. If you're sort of a hyper-active type, you'll probably speed. If you're angry, you'll threaten other drivers: road rage. Whoever you are when you get behind the wheel determines what your vehicle will do when you're in control of it. It is not just your alter-ego but a manifestation of who you really are.

You need to understand that and keep your vehicle, just like your id or your ego, under control.

I knew a man who owned a Rolls Royce, the acknowledged king of cars. (Not sure if they even make them any more.) It cost something like $200,000. He'd inherited it from old British kin.
He was afraid to drive it because of what it would say about him if he did. I think it sat in his garage for nearly twenty years before he finally sold it. The point being that it wasn't him.
He would have felt like an imposter driving a car like that. (He drove a Toyota.)

The car you own, whatever it may be, becomes one with you. Once you're on the road, you and the car are one, maneuvering through traffic, finding parking spaces, etc. What we tend to forget is that we're flesh and muscle and bone while the car is metal and electronics. We too often let our emotions dictate our driving -- hence road rage -- while forgetting that we're driving a car.
We drive too fast, we cut people off; we do all the things we can't do as humans, but that, if we have the right car, we can do with a simple stomp on the gas pedal.

I think what we need to do is picture ourselves as we are: bi-pedal types, pedestrians, who have been blessed -- and cursed -- with these vehicles that let us go so much faster than we otherwise could have but that also entice us to be jerks and bullies and downright psychopaths. We need to realize that we aren't our cars. And our cars aren't us. They're tools we use to get around, not extensions of our own personalities.

Imagine a world where cars didn't exist. Not so hard to do, since they were invented only about a hundred years ago. What would you have been like then? When you and your car weren't bonded as one, when you had to walk everywhere or maybe flag down a wagon to take you to town. Would you have been a different kind of person? Or the same minus a car? Hmmm . . .

We should each create a History Box.

How do you want to be remembered?

Most of us leave only scattered reminders -- photos in an album, remembered conversations (remembered only for a while), maybe old home movies, usually poorly-recorded and watched by pretty much no one. In other words, nothing that captures, for future generations, the really important things about us: what we valued, what we learned.

And yet most of us have treasured possessions that bring back, in vivid detail, moments that define us. Medals from a war. Pressed flowers in a scrapbook that evoke, for us, a special time.
I knew a lady who kept a lock of her husband's hair under glass; she'd given him a haircut the very day he was killed by a drunken driver. I knew a man who kept a stone in his pocket that he'd picked up on the summit of Long's Peak, one of Colorado's tallest mountains, on his eightieth birthday. (For the record, I haven't made that trip up, and I'm younger than that!) I have a helmet from Viet Nam with a bullet hole through it: a reminder of not how brave I was but how lucky. These are all things we would like to pass on to our descendants, maybe with a note in our own handwriting, saying why they are/were important to us.

Some people save letters -- from family, friends, old lovers, their kids -- while others hang onto seemingly silly stuff -- a crushed snow cone cup from a first date, a four-leaf clover -- that summon up cherished memories. Others go to great expense to have treasured mementos mounted professionally: a big rainbow trout or a piece of grandma's wedding lace. And what about that bowling trophy? Remember that night when you and your team ruled supreme?

So, given that we all have "stuff" that means something to us -- actual items, like coins or stamps or a certain doll -- wouldn't it be logical, and somehow reassuring, to be able to pack them in a box, maybe with a written account of what's there and why, and pass them on? Sort of like a time capsule, but one of our own design, and meant not for a community but for our family.

A History Box.

After all, what we all want, ultimately, is to be remembered, to be appreciated for who we are or were. I put my time in on this earth, we'd like to say to those not yet born, and I had my triumphs and my disappointments. I'm putting in this box some of the things that were special to me. They may not look like much to you, but, taken together, they evoke a whole life. Mine.

So how big should the box be? That depends. It might be small enough to contain only a few old coins or a ring or two or a key to a safety deposit box where you've stored deeds to oil leases that may have come to fruition or other accounts someone might want to empty. It might be some old photos. On the other hand, it might be big enough to house the writings you could never get published but that you're sure were good and might even prove important someday.

I have a friend, a talented writer, who has printed out all his unpublished novels -- a dozen or more -- and has bound them in binders. If some grandchild or great-grandchild should end up an English major, interested in literature, what a find that would be! My great-grandfather wrote all those novels, and no one told me about it? Hello? Some of this stuff is really good!

He might need a big box. But still no bigger than carry-on luggage. Worth preserving? I think so. Worth someone hauling from house to house until someone down the line wants to look at it? Come on: you're taking lots of stuff less valuable, right?

In the meantime, whatever size box you choose, entrust it to someone in your family -- there's always one, God bless him or her -- who will take care of it, be sure it's preserved and passed down. Do you want it opened at a certain date? Or do you just want it held until that curious great-grandchild asks about and decides to open it? Until they have to blow dust off of it and say, "What's this? Let's open it!"

Any kind of box will do. Cardboard is fine. Just have it sealed when you depart this earth, and include instructions on top as to how you want it handled and stored. And then hope for the best. What you've put into this box is a capsule of who you were.

Your History Box.

Isn't that better than leaving it all to chance? You bet it is!

Apply the stages of grief to your own life.

Some years ago, a researcher named Elisabeth Kubler-Ross studied lots of people at the end of their lives and came up with a list of the stages we all go through at that most difficult of times.

Here they are: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, acceptance.

It occurs to me that we might apply them to our own lives as we're living them, especially as we get older.

First comes denial, meaning that you don't accept that you're not going to be who you thought you would. I'm not going to run my own company? I'm not going to start my own business and see it take off? I'm not going to play football in the NFL? I'm not going to . . . whatever. It just doesn't make sense that you wouldn't succeed and realize your fondest deams, right?

But then you don't. For whatever reason. And anger sets in. Damn it! If I'd just had the right backing or if I'd had my family behind me or if I'd had a few more breaks -- I could have made it! It's not fair! You're mad, at people, at companies, at the universe.

At this point, you may not want to talk to your friends and family, as you're only going to come across as mad. Not reasonable and forward-thinking: just mad. Count to ten before you start to un-load your frustrations on your friends and loved ones.

Next, according to Kubler-Ross, comes bargaining. For a dying patient, this would mean trying to make friends with God, promising to do this or that if only you can be spared. For you, the living person, it probably means asking yourself tough questions: What if I did this or that? Would it help? Is it too late? In the death stages, it's always too late. But what about in life? What if I changed spouses or went back to school or took a different job? What if I joined a church? What if I became a vegetarian? You're hoping that a change in your life, or at least life-style, might make a difference. And who knows? Maybe it would. You're bargaining.

The stage after that, again according to Kubler-Ross, is depression. If you're the person about to die, you're really bummed. If -- in our scenario -- you're the person still alive and looking for meaning in life, you're also bummed. All your possibilities -- those dreams you had -- are coming up nil. You're not going to be that pop star or that rich accountant or that entrepreneur who discovers something that will take the market by storm. You're just who you are. When you were young, you had all those hopes and dreams, and now that you're in middle age, you realize that they're not going to come true. Whoever you are at whatever age you are is likely to be who you'll be for the rest of your life. For some people, that is very depressing.

But not for everyone. Read on.

So here comes the last stage of Kubler-Ross: acceptance. For the deathbed subjects she studied, that meant understanding that they really were dying and that there wasn't anything they could do to change it. My recollection is that most said Okay. (Maybe they had some drugs to help them into that stage of acceptance, but I'm not sure: as for me, I want all I can get!)

What that last stage means, though, to those of us still alive and striving, is that, at a certain point, we have to accept the fact that we aren't going to be (1) a famous writer, which would be me, (2) an NFL player making tons of money, which may be you, (3) a celebrated cellist, (4) a future mayor of your/our city, although that still could happen, (5) a whatever or whoever we hoped we might be but that we see now is not likely to come to fruition.

Which means: deal with it. This is the hand life dealt us. This is how we played it. So we either played it or -- in poker terms -- we folded. We just didn't have the cards, and we weren't good enough bluffers.

Elisabeth Kubler-Ross came up with her well-known "stages of grief" to help dying people come to terms with their irreversible predicament, but don't you think the same rules and principles might apply to us humans still trying to figure out how to live our lives and come to terms with our own disappointments? Never say die, but do understand when it's time to quit denying or being mad and just accept the life we are destined to live. And make the best of it.

Most of us are granted a pretty good life, with its ups and downs, and we learn to make do. We may have wished for grander things but probably knew we would never have them. Even in the worst of circumstances -- busted marriages, kids gone wrong, dreams up in smoke -- we had some good times, and we should remember them. Maybe it was dancing with the right guy at the wrong time or watching a kid do something cute in a school show, or making an old aunt happy at a reunion we hated to be at, but, whatever it was, we did some things right.

And isn't that what it's all about?