He’s a simple man that gets drunk at night and falls on the floor gazing at his magnificent armchair. It was his father’s before it was his, and his father’s father before that. It has endured into this third generation now and Harold often finds himself admiring it more affectionately than he admires almost anything.
He dones’t have a great number of friends but he’s got friends. Some say he’s something of a recluse, which is true in some regard.
He is a floor manager at a local bookshop in West Hollywood, that buys and sells used books. He is 35 years old. He has settled comfortably into his life and is in no way unsatisfied with the man that he is.
His frustrations lie more outward. For one of his key characteristics is his social conscience. And in recent years, as he grows obsessive over the course of world events, he has grown more aware of this unique aspect of his personality.
And on a Monday night Harold sits by himself in his armchair watching the television report the news of Dr. Murray, the man who apparently killed Michael Jackson on accident.
Ren Michael 