In the name of expanding my network and learning more about publishing, I asked two published writers, both women, if they would be willing to meet me for lunch, so I could put a fork in their brain and pull out kernels of information about publishing. (I know that sounds gross but so does "pick their brain.")

I offered to drive to wherever they might work, live, shop for skin products, and buy them lunch (assuming, perhaps wrongly, that need to eat everyday around the noon to 2:00 pm hour). I have had the same offer made to me on several occasions, and have always obliged. Shoot, for a free cup of coffee or lunch, I will show you how to make smokin' guacamole, and parallel park in a space that defies geometry. I will also tell you about my work experience, and share my contacts (though, to to be honest the parallel parking info is much more valuable).

One of these women flat-out said "No, thank you." And the other said she would be willing to work with me on creating a "marketing plan" for her regular fee of five million dollars an hour. Ok, so it wasn't quite five million, but does it matter? What's next? Are people going to start charging for telling you when the meter maid came by last?

Maybe such advice or help is only for 22-year-olds (and nobody told me), or maybe I'm really annoying (and nobody has bothered to tell me as well...except my shrink, who doesn't count). But barring those two things, I was really surprised and disappointed.

Are older women unable to understand the necessary benefits of networking and giving and sharing professional information?

A couple friends from college offered to connect me with people they knew, and I have found that younger women, in general, seem totally hip to the idea of sharing information, contacts, and business info. That's what has kept The Man in business for thousands of years.

If anything, it gave me a sense of how I want to be in the world...even if I never "arrive."

Just for today, I'm disappointed.

A few days ago, I found out that a classmate from high school had died. He fell or jumped from a building, the details are still unknown. I hadn't spoken to him since high school, but he was my friend on Facebook and we exchanged a cursory message upon first becoming friends.

When I visited his Facebook page, after hearing the news, I noticed lots of posts from his friends, who addressed him in the present tense, saying things like, "I'm so sorry!" He didn't break some bones, he died!

It's like he was still alive in his FB page, reading the posts from the other side. Creepy.

I don't have that much experience with death, but I don't remember talking directly to the dead, except maybe at my grandmother's funeral.

It's almost like Facebook, without knowing it, espouses faith in the afterlife.

Just for today, I'm can mourn a friend's passing with social media.

I had a hard time making it out of bed this morning. Actually, I didn't make it out of bed in the morning, but I can blame that on daylight savings time. What is a beautiful day by the beach when you can curl up in the fetal position under a 500 thread count? (Ok, it's not really that high...but they are nice sheets).

Depression.

I opened the fridge a bunch of times, but in addition to not wanting to drink beer or eat anymore frozen pancakes, decided it was in my best interest to just feel depressed.

I've come to see depression as that ass-kicking friend, like Robbie Benson in "Ice Castles" (could I possibly find an older reference?...how about Beowolf?). Ok, let's say, like, Anna Kendrick's character in "Up In The Air" (the only movie-going experience I've enjoyed since "The Titanic").

It's when I try to run from depression that I find myself having finished a whole box of chocolate mochi balls from Trader Joe's (da bomb) in one sitting and spending $400 on a Target shopping trip for paper towels and advil. No, accepting and embracing the edge of emotional turbulence, that's what keeps me from putting back on the 20 lbs. and dating a man who thinks that being with a woman with large boobs is "really taking care of himself."

Actually, feeling really depressed has been the pre-party to some of the biggest moments, and almost big moments in my life. When I look back at my most depressed times, I can see that they came because I was...almost...there. Almost where? The Next Level. That place that's five steps ahead of the masses. It's where artists want to live, if they can find the courage to walk into the space ship like Richard Dreyfuss (more ancient references...have I seen a movie made in the last ten years?). It's really lonely. But you're either a lonely wolf or a bored sheep, and if you take enough Zoloft you can convince yourself that you enjoy the herd and taste of grass. But if you're a wolf, you pay for your integrity with fear and loneliness (Just don't be a sheep in wolf's clothing).

Because I was young and didn't know any better, I had moments in the past in which I actually took that extra step and went out into the abyss because I had nothing to lose and didn't know the comfortable bliss of mediocrity. And, for like a milisecond I was in new territory. But then I would get scared and retreat from The Magic Of Being Myself, and find a herd to graze with. Some might say that it helps to be crazy or drunk, but those are passing states that usually alienate people. It's best to just try to get to the waterfall stone cold sober, because then you have a greater chance of remembering the path you took.

So, today, I tried to see depression as a push to get me to The Next Level. Although, sometimes, there's no turning back, anyway. It's either the old boyfriend who you're totally over, or the unknown.

Just for today, I will embrace feeling depressed.

Each year of my life has a theme (I just don't remember them all). 2006 was The Year of Yes, 2007 The Year of Laid Off, and last year was The Year of Finishing the #$@ Book. That was not fun. However, 2010 is The Year of Fun. I know it may seem that I had fun last year. But trust me, it wasn't nearly enough.

I went to a wine bar tonight to meet a friend who turned out to be running late. So, I got my wine (Chilean, in support of the post-earthquake efforts) and sat by myself. This woman sat next to me and we proceeded to talk for an hour about being unemployed, single, in our late 30's and really fucking happy about all three.

It was fun.

Just for today, I'm enjoying The Year of Fun.

I had a birthday, and got depressed.

No, not because I'm one year older and, therefore, closer to death. I wouldn't go back to my twenties, or even my early thirties, if you paid me in a flash-forward vision of the next digital social networking craze (complete with venture capital and a posse of Harvard drop-outs). No, I got depressed because I realized that if I have to hear the words, "Finally 21!" from every other adult male on every birthday for the rest of my life, I may have to learn that martial art that allows you to silence vocal chords and cut off oxygen, while looking liking your caressing said victims neck.

I think I exhibited an appreciable degree of tolerance the first 500 times I heard said words, or version, thereof. ("Finally 24," "At last, your of drinking age," ect.), and then I got in a pissed. Do men have to deal with that kind of condescension?

At the very least, come up with something original, like, "Do you remember when Superfriends was on at 6:00 am on Saturdays?" or even "Happy Birthday! How old are you?" I know it's uncomfortable asking a woman how old she is in a city where age is viewed as a plague...but so is dealing with the knives coming out of my eyes.

Just for today, I beg, please just ask me my age.