The Italian fedora bobbing above the heads of most Madison Avenue pedestrians balances on the head of 6’3”, sixty-year old, Jeremy Houser. He swaggers, eyes introspective. His long gait and straight, broad shoulders walk him to his upscale office in an aura of confidence. Three days a week, he also visits a gym for exercise, where ubiquitous mirrors reflect reward. Huffing, groaning and grimacing through a labyrinth of machines designed to firm every muscle and melt body fat, has rendered a lean, contoured body that men half his age would covet.  Most weekends he reserves for dragon-boat racing where he dons the role of coxswain.  Big boned, mostly middle-aged, women man the oars while he exercises his voice muscles, barking encouragement through the Cox Box to ensure the boat pushes forward in a straight line.

This May morning smells of looming summer, but he sees no one; hears no sounds.  He’s back in his condo bidding online for artwork, inhaling, and then slowly sipping, a glass of Oregon WillaKenzie Estate wine. Swann Art Auction’s internet portal is one of many feeding Jeremy’s ego. He surfs for fine wines, jewelry, Italian shoes, suits and ceramics--all to impress; especially the qualifying women to whom he grants his gate-code.  Those who do gain entry to that portal have to be pretty, slender, intelligent (in that order).  They don’t have to be wine experts, just appreciate good wine.  He mentors them for too many hours on how to judge a quality wine: the length of the legs after swirling the proper glass with practiced wrist.  Most of his dates manage to appear fascinated.  Those who yawn, never receive another invitation.

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