Harcore metal is big in my ZIP. I assumed that metal had committed suicide at the top of its lungs to lyrics that no one could understand. I thought it was a phase like disco or Beanie Babies or caring about the environment. Turns out that rust never sleeps.

I noticed, in fact, an ad in the classifieds:

"New lead singer needed for Wretch."

Wretch is a popular "pain metal" band, at least until another band comes along with a cooler name like Vomit or Deathness.

I visited Wretch's website to see what happened to the old singer. Call it a hunch, but I'm thinking it has something to do with this...

Audio clip from Wretch

In every person's life there are defining moments, times when Fate waves a red flag and says, "Hey, uh, you might want to address this issue."

Societies has those moments too...

Since the twin towers, airport security has come a long way. In addition to cornering us with hard-hitting questions like, "Did you pack these bags yourself," they now randomly check for toe jam. Bottom line is that anyone -- even the recently probed Al Gore -- is suspect.

Last week my wife got mixed up in the madness. Security pulled her aside and suggested, if you will believe it, that she was smuggling scissors. My wife thought it was called "snuggling," because you hold the item close to your body, but we digress.

Rooting through her bag -- not the one with sex toys -- security found what it was looking for: a deadly pair of nose hair trimmers.

The guard placed Exhibit A in a plastic bag, which was rushed to Lethal Weapon Headquarters. He told us that we could retrieve the trimmers upon our return, but we decided to buy a new pair at the 99-Cent Store unless, of course, we could find them first at the 98-Cent Store.

At any rate, our homeland was once again secure against bubbly Dominican girls with long nose hair.

On the airplane my wife was searching her purse for eyeliner when she poked herself with hairdresser shears -- real, live, actual SCISSORS! We glanced around to make sure no one was watching and, after weighing the options, did the only thing we could do under the circumstances ... we gave everyone on the airplane really bad haircuts.

My wife is an actress. She appears at times in programs, on commercials, and, with or without an audience, inside our living room. One night she performed Chorus Line in its entirety, complete with top hat and fishnet.

And that's the point -- actors don't know when to stop. It's part of their hormonal imbalance. Yahaira spends entire days talking in a British accent and causes scenes in public "just to see what happens."

One time she told me that her niece was in the hospital -- a true story -- and when I laughed, she smacked me. Hard. It's like living with the boy who cried Virginia Wolfe.

Song is breaking out in my kitchen even as we speak, Yahaira and her spatula microphone. To flee or not to flee -- THAT is the question.

I carry in my wallet a picture of outer space ("Hubble Deep Field" if you're nutty that way). It brings me back to scale and reminds me to lighten up.

Wherever I find people bickering, I say, "Did you know that astronomers gauge the universe to be 100 billion light years across? If you turned on a flashlight and followed its beam for one full year, you'd just be someone with a long way to go."

They regard me cautiously, so I show them the picture.

"See if you can find Earth."

Some people humor me and look. Once in a while they have questions. Others aren't so prepared for the cosmos. They tell me to stick it where the sun don't shine. So I show them all the places where the sun don't shine and ask if they have a preference.

Then I run.