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I stay true to a very old-fashioned rule when it comes to dating a friend’s ex, whether it is an ex-boyfriend or an ex-husband. Simply put, I won’t do it because I put a high value on my friendships. To me, dating someone’s ex would be disrespectful to the friendship. Having said that, I do know that exceptions to the rule can be tempting.

In this case, Steve was the ex of an ex-friend of mine. Since the friend was no longer in my life, one would think that the no-dating-an-ex rule would no longer apply. Technically, I would agree. I would be lying if I said that I wasn’t flattered by his attention toward me. However, every time I looked at Steve, images …

In my recurring daydream, he would arrive during a humdrum afternoon at the office. I’d be in my cube, tapping away on my keyboard, the inkjet printer sputtering softly beside me, the angry shrieks of midday traffic rising up from San Francisco’s Mission Street, a siren wailing in the distance–when suddenly a disturbance erupts from the reception area. In bursts my father, toting a large semi-automatic rifle and demanding his one and only hostage. I rise from my seat and walk calmly towards it him. “You don’t want to do this. There are better ways,” I tell him, my voice soft and milky. Sometimes we scuffle; other times it is my wit and reason that save the day. But once I have the gun …

My friend Kelly needed a nude model. She was profiling an artist for a TV segment she was producing and needed someone for him to paint. Nude. I was not at the time, nor have I ever been a nude model. Yet for some reason I was her first call.

“You’re perrrrrfect for this, Cole,”� she cooed in a frighteningly convincing tone that only TV producers possess. I was not perfect for this; I hate myself and am not frequently naked in front of strangers. But still she went on. The sell was easy--he was an abstract artist, so it’s not like there would be pictures of me all over the Internet that would interfere with a future in politics or as star of …

Wanted: Editorial Assistant
Job Description: Must enjoy late-night hot-tubbing, chain-smoking, binge dessert eating, drinking hard alcohol, mixing margaritas and driving large cars in a reckless manner. Should be able to withstand frequent yelling and loud noises, unintelligible rantings, and handle firearms and exploding targets with ease. Knowledge of soft porn a plus. Curiosity about the limits of sleep deprivation helpful. Knowledge of housecleaning and faxing imperative. Young and sexy recreational drug users encouraged to apply.

That’s what someone should have told me. But I could barely understand the mumble on the other end of the phone at 3AM as it was.

“Who the hell is this?” I barked.

“Hunter Thompson.”

“Oh, shit.”

The mumble told me to get my ass …

There's many of them out there but the best ones are for kicking. That's what I thought when I decided to coach a little league soccer team, the worst team in the history of the world. Each defeat required ladders to reach, some were so mountainous they required oxygen. Humiliated, trounced, and crushed summed up my feelings of abject coaching failure. I was not to be a hero, revered in little league by the nation's future. In fact, if these kids were to have any memory of me at all, it would likely resonate around these tones: That guy was an asshole!

I pulled my hair out, yelled and screamed:
"What the hell is wrong with you guys!"
And after every stellar loss, …
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