A recent dinner found me sitting between a thirty years younger me, on my left, and someone I might have been, on my right. A mix of metaphors confused me, a right-hand man and a left-of-center nonconformist, misplaced on either side. If you're confused, welcome to the crowd.
I used to dream my eulogist would say, "He was a man of integrity." A whole man. Yes, that would be fine. But a moral man? By whose morals? Those of the beer salesman in his suit with side vents or those of the medical marijuana master? Those of the corporate toad who thinks a tattoo means trash, or those of a hare krishna bearing side curls? The fellow with blue Bud Light or the Phish groupie?
That night I dreamed I was trying to return two books to my 4th floor Manhattan office. I'd just met with two lobbyists and given them a great idea. Then I remembered I'd moved to the 6th floor. I looked up and saw it smoking, "Grab Karen and Adam and get away from here?" We ran onto the street as a building several blocks away imploded. "They're all going to fall," I shouted. We wound our way through blockade after blockade, dust rising everywhere. "To the farm!"
"I guess you had more fun talking about growing marijuana?" says Virginia.
What's wrong with her, always trying to interpret things? Cannabis has little to do with farms and soil and sunshine.
Today my suits hang in closets. I haven't thrown them away. They might come in handy.