You’ve heard of existentialism, right? You know, cool post-war cats that believed that individuals were ultimately responsible for giving their own lives meaning and that life should be lived passionately and sincerely, in spite of distractions like despair, absurdity, boredom or reality TV.

Just the other day, I was thinking that all of the regular isms had run their course. Communism petered out with a flaccid poof. Capitalism blew up in a derivative laden orgy. We definitely need another ism to define the next 100 years.

Why not sexistentialism? A philosophy that posits the meaning of life lies in the repeated and creative use of procreative activities. We can all wear black (leather), sit around in coffee shops and talk about sex. What do you think?

Have you tasted ennui flavored ice cream?

You see, in any conflict, there always exists two sides to a story – a head and a tail. And everyone is the victim in his or her own life’s drama just as we are all the center of our own little universes. Always it is someone else instigating, nay perpetrating, gross injustices upon us, like leaving the toilet seat up or forgetting to take out the trash.

Recently, someone who I’ve known their entire life decided to believe lies about me rather than seek clarity. I was swiftboated: the very same qualities that commend me were twisted around to castigate me. I naively assumed that folks would at least seek to understand the situation before passing judgment.

Funny, sometimes it is precisely because folks love you that they bury their resentment and anger rather than take the uncomfortable path to confront you. Finally, after a long period of estrangement, the truth – my yang to another’s yin – was offered and accepted. Let the healing begin … and then flip up all the toilet seats.

Have you ever had your character besmirched?

The question that I most often find myself angsting over is, “Does Tiger wash his own balls?” I mean after he lands in the ruff, gets all dirty and needs to clean up, who washes his spheroids?

I can’t help but notice that nowadays he seems a bit off. He can’t seem to get every facet of his game working in unison. For instance, on the day his long woods are producing results, he simply can’t get it on those carefully trimmed greens. And when he finally manages to get it in the hole consistently, he muffs his approach shots.

To some extent, we all suffer similar travails. We all struggle to get the cylinders of our lives hitting in concert. Sometimes our relationships rock while our careers flounder. Or our creativity blossoms while our relationships flop. It is a rare and joyous occasion when we manage to pull everything together in sweet harmony.

What question do you angst over?

No, today we are discussing Verschränkung, or, literally, entanglement. Not of any particular bodily parts or fluids mind you, but of quantum paradoxes and parallel universes.

In 1935, Austrian physicist Erwin Schrödinger proposed a scenario wherein his buddy, Bertie Einstein, placed a frisky kitty in a sealed box, wherein the cougar’s life or death became dependent on the state (turned on or limply flaccid) of some loose subatomic particle. According to him, the cat remains both alive and dead (to the universe outside the box) until the box is opened.

One explanation for this phenomenon – “The Many Small World’s theory” postulated by Walt Disney, I think – claims that to the extent the “alive” and “dead” cats exist in different branches of the universe, both of which are equally real, they cannot interact with each other.

Taken to it’s logical extreme, there might very well be a parallel universe out there somewhere where I am entangled with a lively, supermodel cougar. Oooo la la.

Have you ever experienced a quantum paradox?

Take the other day, for instance. I found myself hurtling through space and time in a silver tube upgraded to first class (an artifact of the 2 million miles I flew on American back-in-the-day). Heretofore, from personal experience, I had always thought commercial air travel safer than riding a bicycle. Note: I’ve flown over (with bike) a suddenly stopped BMW and separated my shoulder but never had to endure so much as a scratch from a plane crash.

A man boarded our flight with a bulky backpack. He would not hand it over to the stewardess to place in the squnchy overhead bin holding onto it like a crying baby. I heard her call out to the head attendant, “Can people bring their own parachutes onboard?”

I suddenly swelled with parachute envy. Then I remembered, you only live once, and thought, damn the consequences.

Do you take risks? Or do you play it safe?

While no one knows for sure, scientists have proposed many competing theories as to why we all get old and die. Bone density plummets, normal cells lose the ability to repair themselves and explode like so many internal, miniature Muslim extremists or your average length diploid cell loses its ability to “get it up” and replicate via division.

What excited us through our reproductive years – Hooters and power tools for instance – expands as we age to include hip replacements. We get all hot and bothered at the prospect of early bird specials and our throbbing aarp discounts.

Then the moment comes. All our to’ing and fro’ing comes to an abrupt end. We cease to exist and the next (mysterious) adventure begins …

Do you believe in an afterlife? Re-incarnation?

We are all travelers on life’s journey. Sometimes due to the vicissitudes of seating arrangements, we end up trapped window-side to flatulent bores. Other times, we find ourselves aisle-side to steamy, hot seatmates.

In any case, you’ve probably heard that in the event of an emergency, an oxygen mask will drop down from the compartment above your head. If you are traveling with someone who requires assistance, you are instructed to first secure your own mask, then assist the other person.

Hmmmm. First, breathe in lusty lungfuls of precious oxygen and with clear head, secure your own health and happiness. Then, and only then, offer succor to those around you who are struggling to affix their own masks.

Alas, some folks flip-flop this axiom and attempt to put their mask on their fellow passenger first, thus subjugating their own needs. Oftentimes, this leaves them blue in the face and resentful of their fellow excursionist’s good fortune.

Which type of traveler are you?
What do you call 10 blondes standing ear to ear? (sorry, I couldn’t resist …)

Nowadays we have machines to do our dirty work. We deposit our filthy loads, soap up, push the soft, round buttons, and voila! Out comes spin-cycled joy.

Modern society is all about temporal convenience. We find ourselves eating faster, sleeping quicker, and loving life’s speed. But have you ever stopped to wonder why the scramble to squeeze out a few more hours from your day? To watch that new TV episode? Catch that new 3-D movie? To enjoy peaceful moments of contemplation? Do you not feel the tiniest prick of irony at this?

How many times a week do you wash your clothes?

In this case, the term “jumping the shark” is a colloquialism coined by TV critics and fans to denote that point at which a TV show, movie series’ or your life veers off plot into absurd story lines. It stems from the finalish episode of “Happy Days” when the Fonz waterski-gambols over a ridiculously fake shark in an effort to garner ratings.

The phrase has been used more recently outside the realm of popular culture to represent anything that has reached its peak and has declined in quality. Like relationships, for instance.

Have you ever awakened to perceive the other person in a COMPLETELY different light and you can never go back to the way things were? You irrevocably jump that shark. It is either the loss of respect, a wistful longing for some idyllic past or some naked realization of personal perfidy. But, in your heart, you know it’s over.

The good news is that some relationships can be immunized against shark jumping. It takes a huge commitment to renewal and reinvention. It requires both parties take personal responsibility for enriching and extending their mutual storylines, their conjoined plot – with particular attention to rising action, climax, falling action, and that final, sweet dénouement.

So do you have any ‘jumping the shark’ experiences to share (kudos for honesty and creativity)?
How do you keep a relationship from ‘jumping the shark’?

For me, I know the ecstasy of hooking a whopper, reeling in a keeper and landing the big one. I have been chasing (fish) tail since my youth. It never seems to get old. The thrill of the chase, the silky smooth cast of the line, the peaceful moments in between.
Hemingway wrote about the epic struggle of an old man and a fish. Thus inspired, I wrote about my own – “The Middle Aged Man and the Pond”.

Funny to think about just how much of our daily to’ing and fro’ing has to do with instinctive, primal urges. Like fishing.

What primal, instinctive urge have you exercised today?