I told my friend Clive that when I came home Saturday evening around 8:15, sitting in front of my apartment building's door was an opposum. I asked him, if he knew whether this event might have any symbolic meaning that he was aware of? "I know about a black cat crossing my path, but a 'possum?" I wondered.

Clive replied, "Wildlife has been appearing on doorsteps all over America."

Clive has always been wise.

I recently read some scientist's claim that Love is a mental illness. Although I'm not inclined to go that far, I do believe it is an aberration and a wonderful distraction. Most of my married friends admit they are no longer in love with their wives, but I don't think they would admit it to their wives. The type of love we see in Hollywood movies, where during that special moment the two of them realize how much they love each other is a fiction. The movie ends as they come together, and this is a bliss that lasts forever, only because the celluloid is eternally held together by that moment. The people never change, never grow older, never deal with illnesses and frustrations and unfulfilled dreams, and they never have children who cause them to lay awake at night wondering whether it's all worth it, the aggravation and the bills. They don't have divergent interests that push them further and further apart. Nothing of reality infringes on their life and nothing of reality is their life.