It’s not like I haven’t been writing entries; I haven’t been posting them. I have things going on, a doctors visit, for instance, this afternoon or, for instance, phone charger trouble. I was surprised how helpful the best buy kids were. I’m thinking the cell kids get training from the vendors; they were helpful and knowledge, I’ve come to expect neither at best buys and was pleasantly surprised .
I’m going to include the mawkish stuff I haven’t been posting just because I want to get it off my hard and I’ve got things to do. I’m awfully fond of you princess’s and princes of the Box.
A friend of mine from well, all the hell over the internet, sent me a bunch of links during the course of a FB chat last night. I’m hardly a troglodyte, in fact not being a troglodyte is how I made my living for a while (a brief summery; left Social Work on a shrinks couch was “cured” when my insurance ran out, and I went seeking gig in retail as a sort of secular penance for my perceived career crimes. I was a little frightened to discover how good I was at it). The computer Industry, retail end, at one time was peopled by snobbish elitist geeks who, very much like certain Starbuck locations, felt the core of their job was to make the customer feel stupid. I sold computers with plain folk talk, breaking down tech into understandable bite sized chunks, which, for my generation and above worked well. I mean for me. You can’t avoid the technology and it costs the same everywhere, so the retail choice is to go with the salesman you like.
Oh, shit, tangent. I’m not a troglodyte but I almost always ignore FB chat. In fact I ignore most of FB altogether. I give thumbs up to family and friends and I play bejeweled. This last link is the least important and least apropros to our conversation, but on a day light savings morning rants are exactly my eye level, speed level and capacity level.
http://www.viralnova.com/marriage-is-not-for-you/
First off I respect this friend, one of my longest running friends from the bad old days of OD. She prefaced this with “it’s kind of trite but …” and it is in reference to an offhand comment I made about liking someone too much to marry them. The link is both trite and sweet in the way a good hallmark card is; too sweet to spit vitriol at and to trite to actually purchase.
Ok, tangent; One of the moments of hilarity that ensued and continues to ensue from a wacky family cross country to crash my SIL’s sisters wedding, pertains to hallmark. It was the first wedding my sister had performed as an ordained minister. The groom, with enough tequila in him to float Juerez but less by half of the amount in the bride and my girlfriend at the time who made it a point that if Jose Cuervo was going to cry they’d give him something to cry about, hands my sister a hallmark card and asks her to include it I the ceremony. My little sister pulls me aside and asks “Which do you suppose he wants in the ceremony?” The hallmark pre-written message was something like “Our love is boundless like god and Time, I’ll be your clown if you be my mime” (Ok, I’m making that up, but you get the point) Or the drunken hand-written (which I am making up to be even more offensive but it was pretty close to something like this) When I first whiffed your wet dewy used pussy true love stiffened john wlly and I says I gotta break me off a piece of that sweet stuff.
One salient part of that entire adventure that is far too often left out is that I sank the eight ball on the break the night before. I’ve played a lot of pool in my life and most of it in bars in towns I haven’t been before, which, of course means, universal bar rules based on the table eating your balls. Heh, surprised that wasn’t part of the ceremony. I have never before nor since sunk the eight ball on a break.
So anyhow I sort of skimmed the link, and then went back and read it a bit more carefully, but, you know, if I was reading and writing carefully on this gray daylight savings morning I’d have gone with one of her better links and have something insightful to say.
My first impression is that for a guy writing a kind of sappy Norman Rockwell blog thingy he was surprisingly humble, direct and well spoken. If he’s really the handsome man with what looks like subtle and tasteful blonde frosting to his GQ haircut I think I’d probably want to cause him grievous bodily harm just on general principle, he’s got a kind of James Bond running dog lackey of the imperialist war machine thing going on. For my own piece of mind I’m assuming they are both models and dude is not only as homosexual as change for a seven dollar bill, but also the fastidious OCD kind of flaming that regular guy homosexuals sort of want to smack around a bit as well.
Cynical as it might be, but another proof that I don’t have a Troglodyte membership card I my wallet next to a three year old condom, I always assume that unless I’ve seen the person in real life most blog avatars are not the person doing the writing. There’s a practical reason for this; if I were this guy, for instance, I don’t want the boys in the secretarial pool to recognize me. And there’s the cynical practical reason; how is the pedophile going to lure in teens if he posts a picture of himself? No, he posts some wide eyed pink haired anime girl.
If I were really going to go into a full blown rant, the entry reads like one of those “Yes Virginia there is a Santa Claus” sort of like Christmas fan fiction oly for true love. Instead of ranting I think I’m going to go into my own opinion which, coincidentally, is contrary to the link on many levels.
I’m not really that cynical about marriage or “True Love” whatever the hell that is. Wait, no, I am cynical about “True Love” it’s part and parcel of that whole “Somewhere in the world there is the perfect someone for everybody” --- God usually winds up in there somewhere too, if it was a photograph I’m sure god would look surprised as he stumbles from a cab drunk and without his knickers. On a practical level no matter how clinical or starry eyed you are propagation of the species; this is a shitty design. The odds any given sperm have against finding any given egg and making any given potential fetal future fascist, serial killer, president or frontman for a boy band suck badly enough as it is without you having to find the one in six billion that is “meant for you”. In a more sappy Hallmark kind of way, though, you by pass a whole lot of living looking for “True Love” (which, like the term politically correct implies that, in the first case, those who aren’t politically correct are incorrect or wrong, hardly a democratic ideal, and in the other case, the one that isn’t true love is false love. Fundamentally both phrases are wrought with judgment and are the antithesis of love or the will of the people.).
Truth is love is not enough. Like making a profession of not being a troglodyte I made a profession of proving that case repeatedly and with heroic due diligence. Truth is it’s only been in the last century that the idea that marriage should be based on love even reared it’s ugly head. In modern times we are sort of at a loss as to what marriage means and do tend to fall back on all that sappy Disney-land hallmark true love horseshit. Often as not ‘I love you’ usually escapes ones lips right after the one has had the stuffing fucked out of them. I am not cynical about sex at all, but true sex and true love are two different concepts; true sex is somehow considered base, and yet it’s actually measurable. Given the wacky misnomer that somehow the purpose of life is to be happy sex contributes a lot more than love.
I love my children. I love them unconditionally. I know that any definition, other than sex, that you can come up with for love; I love my children, for that matter I loved my dogs. It’s a frightening gnawing in the pit of your stomach sort of feeling. Yeah, yeah, you swell with pride, you cry when they play the Radish in the grade school thanksgiving play, you take five thousand picture of their bald head and chubby cheeks covered in strained carrots when the choo-choo-train spoon of nourishment derailed, you held their sticky little paws on the ferris wheel; but, you’ve also woke in the middle of the night, sweating and hyperventilating and ran to their bed to make sure they were breathing, you, who’ve seen a bus vs motocycle accident where the helmet rolls away and it’s heavy with the still twitching skull, but the first time you see your own childs blood from falling off a bike or running with scissors you faint like a GQ model at the gyno. That’s true love; it’s having something too precious to even consider losing.
I know, waking up next to a romantic love and finding she isn’t breathing would be a serious bummer too, but you don’t wake up to check, when you picture life after burying your child it’s a big blank empty; after burying a spouse there’s a red sports car and some impossibly young woman built like Jessica Rabbit laughing at your stupid jokes. Now I’m not positive what “true” actually means but it seems like it’s closer to how you feel about kids and dogs than wives or husbands. Well, sort of, I mean of course there are exceptions, and, of course, who the fuck cares about the kid and dog across the street. You’re more interested in the husband or wife across the street than their kids or dogs. That’s why religious texts protest so much about you not true loving the stuffing out of thy neighbors spouse and aren’t quite clear on true loving the stuffing out of their dogs or kids. Which also raises another practical point, what if your true love is already married and doesn’t even like you? There’s a lot of problems with the whole concept.
The advice the dad gives the blogger in the link is sweet and very kindly fatherly advice, though, honestly, I think he should be saying “I’m proud of my gay son”. But it’s archaic, it’s almost meaningless in the modern world. Marriage is an institution born of quelling our baser instincts not celebrating our nobler ones. You marry off your kid to your enemies kid because not only do you get a goat out of the deal but now you’re both a lot less likely to go all blunt force trauma on one anothers ass. It’s also the practical side of sexism; someones got to be the bitch, the fall guy, the patsy for keeping the non-blunt-force-trauma union alive. Why? Because we are savage fuckers, predators, full of pride and murder, and seeing as they’ll always be a short end of the stick someone has to take it. I apologize to women that it wound up being them, but I’m glad it’s not me. They got original sin pinned on them, their sexuality legislated and all sorts of other cruel an unusual True Love shit. I’m just saying parity isn’t an option, if it wasn’t the chicks who got screwed over it would have been the dudes. Marriage is, on every level, but most importantly the political one, a compromise and like so many human endeavors, somebody has to compromise a hell of a lot more than the others.
That being said I’m a sucker for love. Next to sex and baseball it’s my favorite. Fucking Maslow doesn’t even have baseball on his little hierarchy of needs hallmark shrinkology. Sex and Love, however, are pretty close to the top, though I think he calls them intimacy and affection. I suppose I could look it up, but who the fuck cares? Maslow is dead, put that in your hierarchy of needs and smoke it.
A FLASH
“We’re going to have sex sometime, probably soon …”
“I hope so, otherwise I wasted all that perfectly good water on a shower …”
“I didn’t mean today …”
“Me either, wait, why not?”
“I shouldn’t be saying this anyhow, so …”
“I’m sorry, no, please, ‘we’re goig to have sex sometime, probably noon …’ that’s where you left off.”
“Soon.”
“Ok, eleven then, g’won wouldja.”
“Glad you think this is funny.”
“You mad?”
“No, I’m stupid.”
“Oh, you are not, but are you mad?”
“No, no, not at all. But I am a little embarrassed so if you really want me to go on you’ll have to keep your pretty mouth shut for a minute or two. I’m sorry.”
“What?”
“Your pretty mouth, you can do anything you want with it.”
“You say that now … ok, sorry. You have that earnest pained look like a dog waiting at the back porch.”
“Yes! Exactly! Like a dog!”
“Go back to us having sex soon and I’ll keep my pretty mouth in my pretty head, kay?”
“Ok, see, well, it’s like this … you really have to let me do this or stop me.”
“I am, please.”
“The thing is, I … I’m falling in love with you, I have been my whole life I just didn’t know it until recently and …”
“…”
“… and, we’re going to have sex sometime …”
“uh huh”
“Well, if, you know, we’re all panting and damp and curled in on one another in hushed reverent tones making little awestruck moo’s and baa’s …”
“Uh huh”
“… and I say I love you, I don’t mean ‘thanks for the orgasm’ or ‘I’m obligated to say something sweet’ or ‘Was it good for you?’ I’ll mean that whatever last barrier between falling and being, whatever fleeting wall is up between falling and being, will be gone. I will mean exactly ‘I Love You’ and I’ll mean it like a dog, fiercely, loyaly, without question, I will follow you into the gates of hell because that’s where you’re going …”
“I’m going to hell?”
“No, maybe, I don’t know, I mean whither thou goest and shit and … I just don’t want you thinking ‘I love you’ has anything to do with sex.”
“It doesn’t?”
“I mean not exclusively. I mean that’s not why I’m falling in love it won’t be why I am in love. I don’t even know all the whys, I just know the how.”
“uh huh”
“And I know this is stupid, I mean it’s scarier than it is romantic, but it’s the truth and I’d rather be front than surprise you with it.”
“uh huh”
“Say something wouldja?”
“I was keeping my pretty mouth shut, you got a new command for my pretty mouth puppy?”
“No, maybe, I don’t know. Say something if you’d like I can’t unring this bell.”
“Let’s go back to the part about having sex at noon …”
“So you don’t think I’m stupid?”
“Hmmmm. I haven’t thought that hard about it, I think it doesn’t matter just now --- it’s almost ten thirty and I’m not getting anymore showered this month.”
“You crack me up.”
“Not where I was aiming, but the red zone is a hit, I’ll take it”
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