There's nothing more peaceful than Central Park on a late summer night. No one here but me and the dogs, tropical storm Earl's balmy tropical breeze, and maybe the occasional serial killer.

My baby brother thinks I am deluded. Everyone thinks their killer will be a serial killer, he says.  Such narcissism. But my narcissism is its own special brand. I believe the bad guys want nothing to do with me. I am protected by an invisible force of fairly decent karma; what goes around comes around and all that.

Like Marconi and his wireless, I transmit, broadcast, emit rays of innocence, trust – or call it ignorance. I'm fine with that. Fear is not my secret. Laziness, or worse, mediocrity, now there is the albatross that grounds me. And not in the three-pronged, not-to-worry-about-those-electric-shocks kind of grounding. No, my stabilizing force is the middle of the road kind. The one that's good enough because it's better than most.

In other words, I don't have a killer, serial or otherwise.  My own worst enemy is me. Such a deceptively attractive adversary.