Or, in my case, no woman.

About 5 months ago, my iLamp (the dome-based iMac that has been a part of my life for the past four plus years) tanked. With much to do, websites to build, videos to create, music to record, and with a lot of help from a friend, I opted to purchase a new computer. It was a beautiful 17" MacBook Pro. I was in love. On our very first date, we went to Starbucks for coffee. We ended up staying for three hours, not even noticing as the early afternoon light started to fade and turn to dusk. We were smitten with each other. I couldn't do anything without it. It couldn't do anything without me. I grabbed some freelance projects and as it turned out, we worked really well together. It was destined to be a love-affair of legend.

And then, one fine day about a month ago, while I was brunching with K, disaster struck. My upstairs neighbors flushed their toilet and took the dogs out for a three-hour long walk. The toilet stopped up and kept running. For three hours. Sewage spilled out all over their bathroom, wound down the pipes and drowned the space between our apartments. My old ceiling couldn't bear the weight of the water and eventually relented to the sustained attack of H2O. The deed was done. I walked in soon after.

Bits of ceiling were plastered all over my rug, my floor, in the crevices of my television, my sofa, my beautifully modern chair, in between the keys of my digital piano. My living room table resembled a small pond, and in the middle of it, my MacBook Pro sat there silently, as if it had pissed itself.

Forgotten intentions of getting renter's insurance ran around my head like a bowling ball. I was fucked.

Calls to and meetings with my landlord and lawyer proved fruitless. My lease was written with much experience and in it was the requisite paragraph precluding both the landlord and her contractors from any liability with regard to Tenant's personal effects. I had lost everything. A quick inventory put a number on it all, and it was mind-boggling. My meager salary as a bartender would not help me.

And so, with a rather interesting birthday coming up, I weighed my options. I contacted friends who had offered time on their computers. I considered taking on an objectionable work schedule with the addition of even more shifts at other establishments. In the meantime, I spent my days cleaning my apartment and lived temporarily out of a duffle bag. Not the most satisfying existence for this control freak, even whose hotel stays are marked by the immediate set-up of her belongings: clothes neatly organized in drawers, toiletries methodically placed in logical formations, shoes carefully lined up along a closet floor.

And then the birthday. Karl organized a spectacular party, which for the most part, I had been privy to from the get-go. It was a rather important day for me, if only in numbers. Growing up, I was always told that I was very lucky. I was born on the seventh day of the seventh month in the year 1970. My stats at birth? Seven pounds, seven ounces. 1700 hours. At age seven, I even rode bus number 77 to school. I was constantly harangued by various adults that I, with all those sevens, had nothing to ever complain about because I was lucky.

The evidence of said luck never revealed itself, however, as I found my self in a constant state of un-luckiness, luck being something of the more literal variety, brought on by complete chance rather than intellect or brawn. No, true luck seemed to elude me at all corners, always being one step away. I will spare you the details. I never minded much, however, as I always felt sublimely satisfied with my life and all my experiences.

And so, back to the birthday. This is a big year for me, numbers-wise. I turn 37. Even my mother remarked in a thank-you note to me for something I had given her: "This will be your greatest year yet.. the numbers are right!" And, after all the crap I had been going through, I was really hoping she was right.

And she was.

What I didn't know about this particular party, was that Karl had also organized a "Replace Your Stuff" fund, to which all birthday revelers would contribute, in lieu of a present or what-have-you. Not that I was actually expecting anything at all. Just having people around in celebration is quite enough for me.

So, with everyone in attendance, I was presented with the most special gift I had ever received in my life: an envelope of dreams, compassion, caring, and best of all, love and belief in the future. For me it was even more than that. It was a miracle.

I am the luckiest person on Earth.

I am George Bailey.



So, thank you Karl, thank you family and friends, thank you so much for giving something so meaningful, so unmatched in significance, so beautiful. I will never forget that moment, and I will always be grateful.

Remember—no man can be a failure if he has friends.