First and foremost, the title of this post would make a helluva band name. Noted. I was just walking to work through Washington Square Park, moments removed from a very fine breakfast with an old friend. I left feeling invigorated as we had spent a good deal of time talking about our future plans, both personal and professional. Having just made it from Los Angeles yet one more time, I find myself growing uncomfortably comfortable with flying as a mode of transportation – this is relevant, as is the good-times feelings I had laughing and scheming about the future with my wife last night. The cherry on top, in the form of a ‘whit whirr’ sound, came as I strutted across that park – two gentleman callers! Kisses were blown my way, and my first thought was, “Hellz yeah fellas, the kid has arrived!” This was immediately replaced with the following notion: it’s all going too good, I must be mere moments from a heart attack. Dick Clark on the mind? Perhaps. Then again, I’m not 82. Another friend and I were just recently discussing our mutual discomfort for good news, great achievements, and grand times – has something to do with preferring the chemicals in the brain that occur when feeling low, bad news, and self doubt I believe. My saunter turned into a speed walk, as i decided I could probably use a few extra pumps to the ol’ chest engine – and that speed walk had me crossing streets at a furious clip, one block after another, driven by a desire to live dammit – a desire that then found me in the middle of a crosswalk, crossing against the light, and surprise surprise – near Death by Cement Truck! There is only one solution my friends, I’ll simply have to let myself go a bit, grow a little rougher around the edges, put on a few pounds perhaps – all in order to prevent those pesky cat calls of doom.