  When the large African American man entered my apartment to replace the circa 70's oven and fridge, he first noticed one of two of my chenille tapestry down filled King Henry chairs. "I like that chair," he said, then scanned the room and the rest of the apartment adding, "This is a nice place... Real nice. " As I muttered a snide, "Thank you," out the side of my mouth, I immediately felt the influence of my mother and father's home, a place where difference in belief, gender, culture and skin color is not immediately welcomed. My first thought was, what are you doing admiring my apartment? You want to rob me? The impulse was overcome when I reminded myself that, "No Jason, thinking that way is wrong.
" Yet what I find so much more amusing is my second thought. As I quickly pondered the notion of being burglarized by a nice man who openly shared his appreciation for my things, brain synapses firing a trillion a second, my first conscious solution to possible prevention wasn't getting a new dead bolt, an alarm system, or even the very responsible and highly recommended renter's insurance. It was, "I need to get some Foo Dogs. " Foo-Dogs are valued for the protection they give when are placed near the front door. They are originally the guardians of religious sites, sculpted with the utmost ferocity to discourage demons and evil doers from entering, while warding away bad influences and spirits. But if you ask me they kinda look like made up doggies in drag. Which makes sense when you realize Fung Shui translated from the Chinese means "gay homosexual.
" Is it narcissistic to be fascinated by one's own way of thinking? I wonder how it is that I pride myself with logic and rationale, but think to protect myself with superstition. Nonetheless, it has become a new obsession. Which is good, because you can never have enough of those. I have to get myself a set of foo dogs. I am thinking for book ends, or a nice large centerpiece. 
