In an open car you can smell the air. Wafting through that air is the scent of marijuana. On some days I wonder if the whole city is stoned. Medical marijuana clubs are all over the place. In the city by the bay, it may be easier to buy a joint than a pack of cigarettes. It appears that a very large segment of the SF population possess a medical weed card. We must have a large cancer demographic.

At one point during this spectacular day, I found myself driving on Franklin Street. I looked to my left and noticed the Brazilian restaurant, travel agencies and dentist office. Across the street was an auto body shop with half a car emerging from the second floor of the building as if in mid-birth. I stopped for a red light and casually scanned my surroundings. On a second floor window was a sign that read, “ONE DAY DIVORCE.”
I gazed at the sigh and pondered the implications of such a claim. Technically, the judge or the state sanctions the divorce in one day. But the road leading to that day is an eternity. I began to think about all the anguish that went into my divorce.

I was living in Washington DC. And my soon to be ex resided in a Virginia suburb. Because the last place we lived together was in Arlington, Va., we had to file for divorce in the Commonwealth of Virginia. Why include this seemingly dull piece of info? I will splane to you Ricky. In 1991, Virginia had a weird law that said before you could file for divorce, you had to apply for a separation agreement. “At the end of a year of uninterrupted non-cohabitation and no sexual relations, either party is eligible to file for divorce.”
http://www.divorcelawinfo.com/VA/divorce/divfaq.htm This, my friends, is a very long year indeed.

In other words, if you make an attempt at reconciliation and in that attempt sleep together, the clock goes back to zero. I get that keeping the family together is theoretically a good thing. However, in many cases, divorce is a good thing. Some people have no business being together. Does anybody in their right or left mind think the state, a southern state no less, should be the arbiter of such matters?

I’ve never met anyone that had a smooth divorce. Divorce equals tragedy, betrayal, broken dreams, trampled promises and shattered hearts. Worst of all is the catastrophe of the children caught in the cross fire. I can’t imagine why someone would choose to be a divorce lawyer. Nobody you work with is ever happy. Your clients are either in a state of steroidal resentment or desperately heartbroken. Divorce is the polar opposite of the wedding. Love is a risk, a very big risk.

One Day Divorce sounds attractive. When I saw the sign, I began to consider the possible implications of a holistic one day divorce settlement. What if you could not only achieve administrative closure in one day, but process the heartache as well.

Divorce In ONE Day: Sleepless nights; Gone. Dread of no longer being loved by her; GONE. That constant flow of loving memories when she cared about you; don’t worry, we’ll stop the bleeding before morning. Haunted by thoughts of her sleeping with another man, doing things with him she would never do with you; no problemo one day and you are OK again. Unable to make a connection with new women because when you look in their faces all you see is HER? Not to worry, tomorrow morning the memory will be as faded as the vapor wafting from you latte.

During my last break up, people would say things that would justify a summary execution. For example, “Don’t worry, this too shall pass.” “There are so many fish in the sea.” “The Universe has something better for you.” “The right girl is looking for you right now.”

With One Day Divorce, all this bullshit is finally true. Best of all, it’s only one earth orbit away. No Ambian, no therapy or hours of phone time. No need to burden your friends with endless days of tearful monologues. You can stop worrying about that heart-stopping moment when you see her on the street seemingly cured and back in the game.

Yes, with One Day Divorce you can avoid the mother of all dreads, processing your feelings. I think I’ll put the top down, turn up the music and drive down to Franklin Street and further investigate our one day marvel. Maybe it’s one of those weird secret places in San Francisco with a trap door or magic mirror leading to the relationship rabbit hole. After all, this is San Francisco, city of dreamers, schemers and visionaries. Anything is possible here. I love this place.

Distinguishing earthly citizens from visitors can be problematic. However, there are ways of identifying one from another. Ironically, it is the humans that have a Mr. Spock looking device in the ear with a blue blinking light. These individuals can sometimes be confused with aliens. Those wearing this device intermittently appear to be out of the present and deeply involved in a one sided conversation. Their monologue, however, is lower in volume than that of an alien. It is also painfully banal. Another distinguishing characteristic are curiously long white wires dangling like a loose appendage. At the end of the wires are ear buds.

While sauntering through Fisherman’s Warf, the Times Square of San Francisco, I beheld a sight my brain refused to process as real; two dozen naked men riding bicycles in the mid-day sun. Why is it, that people so eager to get naked are the last ones that should. My brother once convinced me to accompany him to a nudist colony in New Jersey. My fear was that I might get aroused if I saw a pretty woman. I assure you, my fears were unfounded. The guys riding their bikes in the buff in the middle of the crowds in broad daylight ranged from Danny Devito to Newman on Seinfeld. Judging from the smiles on their faces, these guys thought they were Brad Pitt.

San Francisco celebrates the nude male. I used to live one block from Market and Castro, gay ground zero. Every now and then I would walk down to the Castro Theater. On a number of occasions I would see a group of three or four naked men casually walking down the street. People would gather around them enthusiastically vying for photographs, most of them women. I could not tell whether the wandering photo boys were of this earth or not.

What I discovered was that continual observation leads to a fatigue in perception. After a while, it really becomes more difficult to separate what makes up the bowl of cereal. I think I may be somewhere between the flake and nut category. Either way, the milk gets poured on all of us.

What I have discovered is the value of the right question. Ironically, the answer to the right question is often anticlimactic. I have also seen that I avoid or resist asking the real question because I fear the answer. Fear has ruled my life. Consequently, I asked the wrong questions. I may not have received the answer I needed, but I got the answer I was comfortable with.

If you really knew me, you would never love me. The real question is: if you really knew me, could you love me? The first statement reflects a belief system. The second attempts a departure from the belief. It is a risky statement. When I came out of rehab, my friends said, “Let us love you ‘till you love yourself.” The first time I heard this, I got very sad. It brought home how detached I felt from the world and how deep my self-loathing was.

I ask the right questions when I feel centered and empowered. When I feel good about myself, my brain is on fire and my heart is at peace; my gyroscope and compass are in fine working condition, I love that feeling. What I learned is that when things are out of sync, I have to ask for help. A broken mind, like a broken heart, cannot heal itself. That has been very hard to admit. As a man, aren’t I supposed to be able to handle it all? How could a woman love me with my weakness? How could she want to sleep with me if I expose my emotions? These are all the wrong questions.

Do I have the courage to look at who I am and live that truth? Can I find the strength to expose myself to the woman I love irrespective of the consequences? Finding the answer to these questions will generate extremely high anxiety. I’ve done it and felt like my heart was injected with adrenalin.

The road to self discovery and transformation is not for the faint of heart. Once you start, there is no turning back. Sometimes I procrastinate, but in my gut, I know that I’m compromising myself if I avoid the truth. I used to run all the time. It doesn’t work for me anymore.

In the meantime, I’ll keep fumbling for the right questions.

I was never a cat person. For one thing I am highly allergic. Most of my bad dreams or nightmares have a cat in them. The only affectionate memory I have of a cat is Kim Novak in Bell Book and Candle. This day I would feel for the cat and its owner. This wasn’t just an old cat. It was a helpless dying creature that my friend had loved for many years. I love my friend and today her sadness was mine.

I never had a pet. I did have two Oscars years ago. When I bought them they were smaller than goldfish. After two years they were the size of small trout. Eventually, one sailed out of the tank when I wasn’t home. The other eventually died naturally. I was a little sad for a very short time. It isn’t easy to get emotionally attached with a fish. On the other hand, my friend was crushed.

D felt burdened by having to make the final decision. I gently responded by indicating that most pet owners decide to prolong the life of the animal with medical procedures. After I finished the sentence, I was concerned that it may have sounded insensitive. But my friend agreed and just let her sadness flow through.

We were directed to an examining room that could have been in a pediatric clinic. Three walls had pictures of dogs and cats. On the wall facing the child size exam table was a large 4’x6’ framed picture of a cat and a dog. They were serenely sitting atop a fluffy cloud; doggy and kitty heaven. I realized that euthanasia is part of being a pet owner. Given that piece of information, I realized I would never be a pet guy.

The vet asked if she wanted to be present for the procedure. D said yes. An assistant took the cat to another room to place a catheter in Mimi’s leg. When the assistant returned, D wrapped Mimi in the blanket she slept in. As she walked out she said, “The doctor will be here shortly.”

The room was thick with grief. Time became urgent. Every tear was like another grain of sand dropping in the hourglass. While D wept, a young woman came in and asked, “Will you be paying by check or credit card. We like to collect so you can be free to leave. With the emergency office visit, that will be $250.” Mimi was in D’s arms. I fumbled through the purse for her credit card. “Will that be debit or credit?” She left the room and returned with the receipt and invoice. She looked at D as if to convey that she needed the stub of paper signed. D asked, “Frank, will you please initial it for her.” After the bill collector left, D said, “Don’t they normally bill you?” I swallowed my contempt.

The vet came in and agreed that D was making the right decision; that Mimi’s quality of life would continue to deteriorate. I put my arm around D’s shoulder while she trembled with tears.

D put Mimi’s head in her hands and kissed her and said her soft goodbye. The vet had two syringes prepared. The first shot was a sedative. I’m not sure why she needed that. The second was an overdose of anesthesia.

After receiving the first shot, Mimi started licking her whiskers rapidly. The rest of her remained still. Moments after that came the lethal injection. It was light pink and injected quickly. The vet checked her heart. Mimi was gone. D stopped sobbing, but the tears continued to roll like streams. The moment was too big for sound. We stood in sacred silence while I watched a heart breaking. I knew the depth of her ache. D fell into my arms. She is a diminutive woman, less than one third my size. While we shared that space, I was merely a ripple in the ocean.

I used to secretly think avid pet people were a bit silly. That changed today. It makes no difference how love is expressed as long as it is. My friend is a gentle and kind human being with a terrible ache in her heart. Her grief reflects her capacity for love. I could not relate to her love of the pet, but I could identify with losing some one I loved. I am sad for D. I know how she feels. Tonight I will sleep with the one I love more than life itself. Because of my friend, I will cherish her even more.

Maybe I should have felt flattered. I could have laughed it off and walked away a bit more prideful. “Hey, dig me. All that working out is paying off.” Instead, to my surprise, it felt depressing. I have never been in a situation like that. It was disturbing to think that some variation of this behavior is an everyday occurrence for women.

I always thought of myself as a progressive thinker, particularly around social and political issues concerning women. I was wrong. How conveniently I used the cloak of political correctness to obscure my darkness. My stance on issues such as equal rights and birth control are genuine. I have also used my stance on such issues to assume a superior posture and to be accepted by my peers.

I did not treat women as second-class citizens, I was all for women’s rights; equal pay for equal work, a woman has the right to determine whether or not to be a mother. Sounds good, yes? Just because a man is on the progressive side of the aisle does not exempt him from being a misogynist. Actually, what I wanted to say was a real fucking moron.

When I was asked to turn around I felt completely invalidated as a human being. In a split second I was reduced to a joke; that my heart, my mind, what I felt were meaningless. For next few days I was invaded by a murmuring free floating sadness. I was learning something unpleasant about myself. Although I would never tell a woman in a theater lobby to remove her shirt, my way of relating leaves much to be desired.

What occurred to me was that whenever I behaved condescendingly or inappropriately to a woman, I was scared. I used women to feel superior and to validate my masculinity. I did so while cunningly exalting the very group I was using. I would say things like, “I love the company of women, I find them far more interesting than men.” My God, what bullshit.

Sexual dissonance has everything to do with power or the lack thereof. When I feel centered and secure, I tend to behave in a manner that I feel good about. I shared my stage and shirt experience with a friend. She told me that this is a default awareness mode in women. She said women know this on some level before they even wake up. She also suggested that I remember that unpleasant moment on stage. Keeping that moment fresh will positively affect my relationships with every woman I know.

How that will look is unclear. However, I have noticed subtle internal shifts in my interior landscape. I have become cognizant of my eyes during a conversation with women. Prior to my debut as an objectified man, I never realized how much my eyes shifted from eye contact to scan mode. Now my eye contact is fixed. It is surprising how much conscious effort such a simple task requires. Maybe not so surprisingly, the energy feels cleaner and the tone and quality of the conversation have a deeper authenticity.