it’s about the fable you want to write about your own life

New Year's Day morning. Turn on the TV. Notoriously melodramatic holiday fare about a deathly dull financier accused of engaging in a series of unlawful security transactions attempting to negotiate a deal with an angel for his immortal soul.

"What if I plead guilty to lesser securities and reporting violations?" said the financier.

"God doesn't do plea bargains."

"What if I became born-again?"

"Puhlease."

"I could launch a foundation whose mission would be to support education and medical research!"

"God has a much better plan for you."

"What's that?"

"You will live in subsidized housing on 105th Street in Cleveland, Ohio's Glenville neighborhood on an income below Federal poverty guidelines for the rest of your life. And when you die, you will be banished to hell for all eternity."

"Christ! Is that the best He can do?"

Suddenly, the financier was turned into a pillar of salt.

The angel smiled. "No, actually, that's the best He can do."

Turn off the TV. Light a Dominican hand-made cigar. Try to think of something intellectually challenging. Can't. Pick up a cheap paperback novel I purchased the night before at the drug store entitled, "Pity is a Step Away from Abuse," and re-read the introduction:

"He looked like dissipated euro-trash in his Alfani wool coat, headband, and sunglasses. He had a masculine quality but also an androgynous and criminal element. Something that said, 'Transgression is exciting to me.'"

Flip to Chapter 1.

"He woke up at two minutes past three. He'd had a tough year. It began last February when his soon-to-be ex-girlfriend broke into his apartment and smashed his Stratocaster guitar (autographed by Carmen Electra) and sliced into the heads of his collection of Djembe hand drums with a Ginsu knife for cheating on her with a not-so-discreet-and-exclusive escort who turned out to be her roommate's sister."

Who the hell writes this s**t? 

Close the book. Fall asleep.

Have that reoccurring dream where I'm hauled in front of some ambiguous tribunal for allegedly "frittering away the last twenty years of my life."

The Judge, who's on his third dirty martini, dressed in a tuxedo with some medals, brings down the gavel. "You stand accused of allowing your life to go down the drain…of not working hard enough, not being ambitious enough, vibrant enough, alive enough."

"Really?"

"Also of deluding yourself, being too quiet, too reserved, too intense, angry, selfish, self-indulgent, complicated, confused, of luring unsuspecting women into the sack with promises of this, that, and the other thing; blah blah blah, blah blah blah… How do you plead?"

"It takes two to tango, baby."

"Son, you are in flagrant contempt of court!"

"I'm sorry, Your Honor, but there are many different ways to live your life. I can't help if you don't understand or appreciate my quirks."

"That's not the point! You had promise! Talent! People had expectations of you! They believed in you! Do you realize how many people you've disappointed with your complacency? Your nonchalance? Your passivity?"

"Are they really disappointed in me? Or in themselves?"

Judge leans forward. Hiccups. "Son…" Takes a sip of his martini. "Haven't you ever had any dreams and aspirations?"

"Just to live a simple, contented life, Your Honor."

"Well, son, do you believe in God?"

"I'm considering it."

Judge sighs. "Well, I have no choice but to sentence you to…"

Just then, the angel from the movie I was watching materializes. Lying on the Judge's bench. "I'll take it from here, Your Honor…"

I snap awake. In a warm sweat. Sigh. Light another cigar. Watch another New Year yawn. Resolve not to care about becoming a man of legend and folklore.