I had some furniture to move Saturday, so decided to contact a few friends to help out. None of them replied and I threw out my back, doing the work myself. That same night I decided to throw a dinner party. I invited my friends and again none of them showed. Friends just aren’t what they used to be, I grumbled, over my fourth helping of potato salad.
    At last count I had 87 friends. I can see their smiling yet blurry faces anytime I want, standing around with beers, taking surf lessons, in line for a concert. They are happy and they give me good advice. Still when I need them or just want to hang out, I can’t find them. I have never had lunch with one of them, never received a hug or any type of gift. It’s not that they are cheap—I don’t give them anything either. They must think that my life is complete, arm in arm with beautiful women, always laughing hard and quick with a one liner.
    In the past I had a lot fewer friends—maybe five or six of them. These friends walked and surfed and ate and laughed and complained and hurt, got sick and, usually, got well again. They meant a lot to me and I could tell that I meant a lot to them. There were problems with these friends also. If they smelled bad, I would have to tell them.
    My new friends don’t smell bad. Then again, they don’t smell good either. Their lives never seem to dip too low, or maybe they just don’t tell me about it when they bottom out on life. I think they are all on some sort of mood enhancing drugs because they never have really bad days or experience quiet desperation.
    Several years ago I sat in a room with a friend who had broken up with a fiancé. She was devastated, shedding real tears onto my new shirt for what seemed like hours. We went and had a cup of real, but not real good, coffee. She picked lightly at her avo/sprout sandwich and I ended up eating that, plus the pickle slice on the side. We drove around for hours and parked on the cliff at sunset to watch the sun fall into the Pacific. Nothing helped and I took her home. She called that night, saying she wanted to die. A month later, we had lunch again and she was laughing. We are still good friends and I sometimes see her around town with her two children, a wide eyed boy of seven and a three year old girl who stops her heart every time she breaks free and runs into the street. Oh, that would be pain.
    Maybe it’s better with my new friends. If my old friend had died of a broken heart that really would have hurt. Being connected by love always does.

Zenbo, citizen of heaven and FREEMAN, for now.