The Secret

I am shoving aside my copy of "He's Just Not That Into You" to again page through last year's hit pop-psych phenom, The Secret.

I'll tell you what the secret is ... all men are fucking pathetic. I don't need a 198 pages of tripe to tell me that.

Especially today, after a coworker accidentally dashed my recent short-lived hopes when she came into the office with some Dirt. "You would not BELIEVE who I just saw at the Chinese food joint with a blond bimbo on his arm," she gushed. It was a friend of hers who had just left his wife, and unbenownst to her, had asked me out on a date just a few days ago. Just another fucker who at least I got advance warning to bail. This one never even got out of the starting gate.

This on the heels of a late night phone call from PAL who bewilderingly asked me if I would get together with him to play guitar, specifically a tune that I would have called "our" song a few months ago. I was like, um, would that be with or without your girlfriend in the room? I mean, what fucking phase is the MOON in right now?

So back to The Secret. For those of you who have not read it, it does have some interesting theories. For those of us who have been in therapy for years, you will easily recognize its concept as cognitive behavioral therapy. Basically, your thoughts control how you feel, so you best think good thoughts.

The book describes it one step better. You are a radio station transmitting on a certain frequency. So it's up to you if you are playing Jazzy Lite Hits or Gothic Death Fugues. It's all up to you. You decide what tune to play and the universe plays it back to you. It's that simple.

So I try to imagine what frequency I have been emitting to bring upon me the pantheon of fools I have endured these last 3 years. Have I been broadcasting a request for drunken cruel thoughtless losers? What would the call letters for THAT station be?

So I will again read through the dog-eared pages and review the highlighted text. "Your Wish Is My Command," the genie promises. In the future, I'll have to be more careful what I ask for.