shaken, not slurred

VeraSuperheroes ain’t what they used to be.

(I know what you’re thinking. Why do I have a picture of Vera Farmiga-in uniform no less- in a post about superheroes? Trust me. Have I ever let you down before? Don’t answer that.)

Anyways . . . X-Men ushered in a new age of superhero worship after which the good guys in funny costumes became brooding, sexy beasts with magnanimous skill sets. Christopher Nolan upped the ante with his Dark Knight trilogy, which served to extinguish the campy soul of Adam West.

Today’s superhero has gone lean and mean, replacing campy with cool. And while Downey and Bale and Jackman are game changers with mad skills, this boy happens to believe campy and cool are not mutually exclusive qualities.

So I’m making my own superhero. He’s campier than ‘smores and back packs, he doesn’t much care for leaping tall buildings in a single bound. He’s not faster than a speeding bullet or more powerful than a locomotive. He can’t swing from rooftop to rooftop or regenerate or punch stone into gravel. But what he does have is an innate ability to merge campy with cool. More coolness than any person in the free world (Except Pat Riley, of course.). He understands full well that it’s not about the game you talk, it’s about the game you bring.

Greg Gutfeld-who happens to be the shortest superhero of all time as Dude
well as a favorite commentator of mine- is right when he talks about the subjective (read: bullshit) nature of Cool. Being cool doesn’t really mean anything, but I do believe that’s because you have to make it mean something. That’s where Super Dude comes in. He’s a little bit campy, a little bit disco and a LOT of The Big Lebowski. Hey, I always considered the Dude to be a superhero.

-Super Dude is late thirties . . . Maybe even mid forty something- Granted, he’s lost a few steps and his paunch has become more formidable than his punch. Anyone who says you must be physically gifted to kick ass and take names never watched The Sopranos.

-Super Dude has kids. Kids are nature’s way taking your ego and throwing it in the microwave. Superheroes should be confident without being cocky, and kids will take care of that.

-Super Dude has a steady love thing. Not a vaguish love interest that comes and goes with the story line. This woman is the reason his superhero outfit doesn’t have that marinara stain on the the logo. If not for her, he wouldn’t know where in the hell he left his boots or that ray gun and he sure as hell wouldn’t remember that ten o’clock meeting to decide the fate of the universe . . .

-Super Dude drives a Bugati- More specifically, aVeyron 16. BecauseBugatti_Veyron_16_4_by_JetroPag this beast can go from 0-60 in the time it takes you to sneeze. It grooves macadam at 260 mph. You want more horsepower? Buy a team of Clydesdales and feed them steroids.

-Super Dude has a female sidekick- Because when you’re fighting for truth, justice and yes, the American way. . you don’t have time for pissing contests with a kid who’s got a chip on his shoulder the size of Montana. When dudes team up, they usually spend as much time fighting each other as they do fighting the bad guys. A Super Dudette balances the books- literally, figuratively, soulfully.

-Super Dudette drives the Bugati- Does this one need explanation?

-Super Dudette looks exactly like Vera Farmiga- I told you I wasn’t gonna let you down. If you doubted me . . well, okay . . you were probably right to doubt me. Never mind.

USA Body Paint-And she wears this getup when fighting crime- Yeah, I know it’s body paint. And there isn’t a bad guy on Goblin’s green earth that would refuse to lay down their arms and surrender when this extremely convincing fashion argument made the scene. God doesn’t have to bless America . . . but arch villains are gonna be all over it.

-(And oh yeah) Super Dude and Super Dudette love their country- They would do anything for it. And by anything, I’m not dealing in hyperbole . . nah ah. They would give their lives for it. That, to me, is more than just anything. That’s everything.

Come to think of it, America doesn’t need a Super Dude or a Super Dudette after all. Not when we have men and women who willingly choose to put themselves in harm’s way by venturing to the desperate places of this scary world. Men and women whose skill sets and drive would keep them safe, sound and successful on this side of the fence.

They’re not here for that kind of roll. They’re somewhere else, always. They trudge through nightmarish tribal conflicts and unforgiving political entanglements despite the fact they’re not made of steel and they don’t have x-ray vision. Despite the fact the bad guys are not always so easy to figure out. The sense of duty these men and women possess is not some antiquated notion, it’s a genuine calling whose value is priceless.

I don’t know about you, but this world seems to be unraveling by the day. So color me thankful that our superheroes don’t hide in phone booths or bat caves. They’re right where we need them.

 

Jack Bauer ain’t a complicated man. I dig that.

Complicated men might make for good television, but they make lousy drinking buddies. I mean, Don Draper would be great Martini talk, but I’d have to get him smashed before the smarmy SOB would be worth the company. And he’d probably throw up on my shoes anyway. I like Rick Grimes, but I don’t want to find out he’s a nasty drunk. It would probably be a painful (fatal) lesson. Francis Underwood’s politics is too mean. Walter White’s politics is too local. And Red Reddington gives off that urban legend vibe about the kidney in the hot tub.

I would toss back with Jack Bauer. In a public setting, with plenty of people around. While wearing Kevlar. Nothing against Jack, but people who spend five minutes around him usually end up deader than Bruce Jenner’s sex life. They say you know you’re doing something right when people dislike you. Judging by his empty address book, Jack Bauer is doing a whole lot of right.

This doesn’t make Jack complicated. Just uber busy, saving the President, the country and yes . . the world. But good stories equal good times, yanno?

I imagine Jack’s drink is bourbon, chased with more bourbon. He wouldn’t touch beer; too fizzy. Unlike his other half-Kiefer Sutherland- Jack doesn’t do Tequila. It’s what he gargles with in the morning. And word to the wise? If you even suggest a dessert drink, his glare will burn your retinas into fondue.

When 24 debuted in 2001, I had exactly zero TV shows going on. Committing myself to a show meant keeping an appointment with a TV listing. But the concept of 24 appealed to me. 24 episodes- more specifically hours in the life of the fictional Jack Bauer who worked for the fictional Counter Terrorism Unit in a fictional Los Angeles.

Aside from the idea of a fictional LA- which is completely redundant- the show looked interesting enough to survive one season. Its post mortem would engender a cult favorite status- which is what happens to shows whose viewership is lower than a Ted Cruz quote. I figured on being one of those cool people who devoted himself to a show that no one else even knew existed. Admittedly, I’ve always been strangely envious of Twin Peaks fans, all eight of them.

(Writers Note: My insatiable desire to be a devotee of a cult favorite television show led to my purchase of an atrocious woolen baseball cap, otherwise known as “The Fleischman”, by the American Eagle salesgirl who sold it to me. And while I never ended up watching a single episode of Northern Exposure, I did end up having a great time with the salesgirl. So thank you Fleischman, whoever you were.)

As it happened, 24 went eight more seasons than I had signed up for. It even became a part of the American vernacular, whatever that means. Hell, Jack Bauer did something that no Hollywood director had ever come close to doing. He made Kiefer Sutherland interesting! Kiefer was a surly, temperamental Hollywood brat until his body became host to Jack Bauer. After which Sutherland achieved a cosmic do-over on par with John Travolta, Robert Downey Jr. and Elin Nordegren.

I stayed the course through all nine seasons worth of every kind of unbelievable shit. And then I came back this summer to watch Jack live another day while just about everybody else . . . died. So it was, while watching him bum rush the Embassy, bring a terrorist out of a coma just so’s he could torture her back into one and then throw her terrorist mama out a window- thus avoiding a complicated extradition scenario with Great Britain- that I thought to myself, How fun would this guy be at a bar? 

Being that I don’t possess a Russian accent, me and Jack would get along just fine, seeing as how we have so much in common: David Palmer was our favorite President . . we’re drawn to powerful women . . our daughters are big on loyalty and attitude . . . we never get our Chinese food delivered . . . we have our share of crazy ex girlfriends . . .  and we both killed someone with a Bic pen.

Okay, I should probably save that last one for another post.

TebowSay hello to “Tebow”- our house guest for the next three weeks. He’s a two month old Terrier/Pit Bull who deals big on paws and personality. His interests include eating, chew toys, car rides, late night TV watching and peeing in the house. He’s getting better on the last count- thanks to pee pads, frequent walks and these Scooby snacks. The girl and I are fostering Tebow. He’s our going away party since she leaves for New Mexico next month.

Here’s one for my little girl.

Okay, now for the links that have absolutely nothing to do with the most influential player in professional golf. (Think about it.)

Why don’t we just tell Vladimir Putin that we’re going to bring out the big guns if he doesn’t shush up? I guarantee you he falls for it.

I found the John Boehner entrance song! It’s not admissible in court, or on Capitol Hill for that matter. No sweat, JB. Just swing by Union Jack’s in Bethesda on a Sunday night and have at it.

And here’s the entrance song I picked for President Obama back in March of 2008. When writing on his advance through the primaries back then, I referred to him as “Mr. Goodbar with Al Capone’s PIN number.”  Damn, that was harsh. Is it possible to be turned on by yourself? Okay, if you’re not Brad Pitt . . .

For the record, I possess no “Holy Cows” with my politics. I’m a card carrying member of the Martini Party.

This young fella best send Lebron James a gift basket for taking the spotlight off his extra-curricular activities this summer.

George Costanza 2K showed up at Yankee Stadium recently- and proceeded to fall asleep during a Red Sox/Yanks tilt, in seats that probably set him back a good steak dinner. And now he’s suing people right and left for making fun of him? I’ll parse my words since this is “The Link Post”. Who does he think he is? And, if Andrew (Yeah, I went Baconator on him, it’s “Link Post”) decides he wants to sue me . . I should warn him that I’m going heavy on my counsel.

And last but most certainly not least . . .

I remember being here shortly after Lebron James went black hat in 2010. It was villainous to the rest of the NBA world outside of South Beach, but I was plenty fine with it, considering my very favorite nba mad man made it happen.

(Okay, no more links.)

It is rare to experience a day like this one in sports. Where the home town fans get their way and the league gets stronger and an athlete becomes transcendent while still in his prime. But it happened today, at high noon, when Lebron James let it be known that Michael Jordan’s six titles do not matter to him nearly as much as Cleveland’s one.

Thomas Wolfe was wrong today because the King is returning not as a player with little tread left on his tire but as the single most dominant force in his sport. Cleveland becomes the place to be and while I was rooting for LBJ to give Miami one more run, I can’t be upset with him for saying goodbye. He was on loan to South Beach, but he belongs to Cleveland.

He took his talents home.

 

 

 

 

Excuse me while I unleash the thought that has been scuttling inside my head all day.

FUCK! and . . . FUCK! and yeah . . . FUCK!

Okay, thank you so much . . that really helped. Explanation forthcoming. Like, right now.

My son called me with a ‘situation’ this morning. To his way of looking at things, it was something, which is understandable given that he’s younger than my Chicago Blackhawks All Star Game baseball cap. (Before you label me a thug of all things fashion and hygiene, I retired the cap to my dresser drawer ages ago).

Anyways, the kid’s ‘situation’ entailed something he had written and a quote he had used in the writing of it. The said quote was so obscure as to be angel hair pasta inside a pit of linguine. Translation: He couldn’t locate said quote when asked for verification.

I could tell the kid was sweating bullets over his predicament and I assured him that everything was going to be fine. He had committed no crimes in his piece. The quote was a real one, even if he couldn’t retrieve it. I was trembling as I put his mind at ease; not out of worry but rather, out of anger. I took a deep breath and then I laid it out for him.

“The quote is germane . . . there’s plenty of context to back you up. The reason this asshole called you on it is because he probably googled it and came back with nothing since it’s such an obscure quote. You gave him an opening and he pounced. Hey, it happens.”

“Yeah . . .” His voice was thick with worry, which only made me tremble that much more

“It’s a lesson, all it is. Everything you write is likely to piss somebody off. And that somebody is going to have shit loads of time to cull and modify the most mundane fucking aspects of it.” I said.

“I’m not worried.” He replied.

“Nah, you are. But trust me, this was nothing more than a kick in the ass lesson you walk away from. The lesson you learned is your souvenir, so tuck it into your back pocket and move on. Don’t apologize for sweating it. All it means is that this matters to you, as it should.”

I left him with some journalistic advice.

“Next time, grab that quote before you ride it. But don’t let this change what you do and how you do it. When you write something, own it. Own the good, own the bad and never be indifferent. Cover your ass, but never . . ever let someone push your words around. They’re your words. I know it’s easy for me to say, but it’s true. This guy’s pushing it simply because he doesn’t agree with your opinion. Fuck. Him.”

Okay, I’m not a coach and I ain’t Shakespeare. Especially when I’m pissed, and even more so when I’m pissed because some asshole picked a fight with my kid. I know my son can handle his own business, but still . . . he’s my boy. Yanno?

Pick on me all day long. I can take it. It’s easier to get inside the White House- and then host a John Boehner family reunion in the Rose Garden- than it is to get under my skin. Get all up in my kid’s business? I’m going Gotti, hopped on Red Bull espresso smoothies and amphetamine stuffed cannolis.

This isn’t to say that if you fuck with me I’m going to sit there and play Francois Mitterand to your Chuck Norris. But I consider myself a fair minded individual who can reason and broker and negotiate an agreeable outcome when confronted with an asshole. If need be, I institute my launch sequence- but only after careful consideration- like, figuring out whether I can afford bail this week.

I’ve lost battles in order to avoid a war I knew I could win, because the reality is that being an adult is about accepting the losses that will provide you with future gain. Perspective is how you deal with the lemons life hands you.

But in the event of a zombie apocalypse? His ass is mine.

 

 

 

When it comes to music, I’m no sophisticate.

I shop organic on college radio stations and I’ll slum it in the vinyl shops so’s my turntable can keep its groove going. But my funk doesn’t bunk in any one place or time or genre. Which is why I think I’m old enough to admit that my solo car ride musical choices oftentimes go girly.

Listen, I’m chill with potpourri and candles. And I don’t know how many times I catch myself going “I know, right?” during an Ani DiFranco song. I get where Sex and the City was coming from. I’ve eaten tiramisu. In public, even. I can watch women’s volleyball WHILE paying attention to the score. I happen to think vodka tonics are totally refreshing . . . . The Vagina Monologues had me kibitzing with gal pal for days . . .  and who doesn’t watch the Super Bowl for the commercials?

But all that? Ain’t this. Nah, this collection of car jumping melodies is something you would get if Miss Kitty and iCarly formed a record label and they called it American Girl Doll Productions.

I blame Laura Branigan for creating a song that left my wheels breathless back in the day. There I was, cruising home on the Van Wyck, perfectly content to go metal on my pedal . . when Branigan made her way through the hairspray smog of my ride with those curly boom pipes, shaming my Kenwood woofs into a secret hiding place forevermore.

Here then, a few songs I listen to with windows shut . . .

Genie in a Bottle (Christina Aguilera) My daughter used to love this song and was plenty fine with me cranking it up. Then she turned five, after which she learned about Starbucks. And extortion. And so I went deep cover.

Heart Attack (Demi Lovato) If I ever had to admit I crushed on this whilst pushing eighty? Hell, I would definitely have a heart attack.

Crush (Jennifer Paige) If a song was featured in an episode of Sabrina The Teenage Witch, you probably shouldn’t be jamming to it if you’re a grown man. Unless you’re Ms. Paige’s father, which I’m not.

Bitch (Meredith Brooks) Come on.

Black Horse and the Cherry Tree (KT Tunstall) Almost passes muster with its hard rock beat. I say almost, because the content makes it damning.

Not Gonna Write You A Love Song (Sara Baraeilles) It’s cute AND it’s catchy. Testosterone doesn’t lend itself to either.

Taking Chances (Celine Dion) I’ll jump off the edge, but the windows gotta stay closed.

Unwritten (Natasha Bettingfield) As a writer, my love of this song is completely professional in nature. It’s a write off, in fact. Not that I would ever write it off.

You Oughta Know (Alanis Morrisette) There actually was a time when playing this tune with the windows down was acceptable. And then Alanis went and thanked India in her followup to Jagged Little Pill. Game over.

Man! I Feel Like A Woman! (Shania Twain) When Shania boot kicks that twang ’bout her prerogative to have a little fun? Well man, you know. Obviously, I reserve this ditty for highway driving.

Miss Independence (Kelly Clarkson) For the love of Perez Hilton, pumping up this jam would be a Miss-Take.

Call Me Maybe (Not Carly Rae Whats Her Name) I realize this will not absolve me of the musical crimes committed against testosterone and hemi, but check out this reboot if you haven’t already.

Oops, I Did it Again (Britney Spears) Any song with ‘Oops’ in the title . . windows stay closed. In my defense though, I can go with just about any Britney song while driving. Okay . . . that’s not helping.

Jumpin’ Jumpin’ (Destiny’s Child) I was at the Clevelander on Ocean Drive after Lebron James signed on with Miami back in 2010, and the streets were absolute pandemonium. D. Wade was in the house that night and lemme tell you, the man knows how to shimmy. The roof came off when 11:30 came looking for daybreak and let’s just say you really had to be there. Of course, my recollection ain’t gonna help me if I get pulled over by a Statie whilst doing the century mark with Beyonce kicking.

Before He Cheats (Carrie Underwood) What American Idol created, let no man laugh asunder. Pretty please?

Emotions (Mariah Carey) This ditty makes me giggle . . .

Un-Break My Heart (Toni Braxton) . . . until I cry.

Your Love is My Drug (Ke$ha) I don’t care what people say, the rush is worth the price I . . . umm . . pay.

If You Had My Love (J Lo) Well, me and Jenny are Bronx born and proud of it. But, yanno, this ain’t got cred when you’re a dude . . yo.

It’s Raining Men (Weather Girls) The song has a killer beat that is wasted by its female-centric title. I understand that Mother Nature is a single woman and she did what she had to do, I get it. But unless my name is Mauricio and I’m a hairdresser with a couple of teacup dogs named Givenchy and Liz, the giddyup to these lyrics remains sealed by windows high.

Yes, it’s the height of insecurity. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

(And whaaaat? You thought I’d forget Taylor Dayne? Nah. Uh. Girlfriend.)

 

Meditating DogI like to ponder on life’s great mysteries.

Okay, not really. I just think it sounds really deep, the idea of pondering. Pondering on anything instantly makes the thing you ponder seem more important than it really is. Take for example, waffles. The next time you order waffles, tell the waitress you need another minute to ponder things and then wait for the hushed whispers as everyone in the place ponders the mysterious (and no doubt important, maybe even famous) stranger who uses the word ponder when ordering waffles.*

(*Be warned, you’ll have to add 25 percent to your tip . . 50 if you’re charging it. That’s the price you pay for being an important, maybe even famous person. On second thought, just tell the waitress you need another minute . . . )

I gotta start by saying, I am amped up after that showing by USA soccer today. Tim Howard is a superhero. DaMarcus Beasley is my favorite wing man. Jermaine Jones SHOULD be the center of attention with those amazing dreads. Clint Dempsey has a future with the Coen Brothers. And then there was Zusi, Bradley, Cameron, Yedlin, Johnson, Gonzalez, Jones, Bedoya and all their magnificent compadres. Not to mention Coach Klinsmann who played Herb Brooks to a draw in my book. They made this World Cup tournament a ride to remember. And for bonus round material, they had Ian Darke pulling out a Spielberg reference! Special team, special place in my heart. Thank you USA soccer… oh sorry, I mean #usasoccer.

Anyways, Here’s a Top 5 Mysteries of Life list from moi:

1- Do ya think Putin believes Jack Bauer is a real person? Because if he does, that could really help us out . . don’t ya think?
2- How is it that IHOP offers a wider variety of omelettes than pancakes?
3- Why didn’t Billy Bob do television before this? His turn as Lorne Malvo on Fargo was jump out of the script dynamite. You never knew what he was going to do next, right up until there was nothing left for him to do. It was a thing of wicked beauty, indeed.
4- Is variety really better? I mean, we have six million incarnations of Oreos now and guess what I can’t find when I’m jonesing for some crunch and cream? The old schools! Fuck!
5- How comes the Chicago Cubs don’t just retire already?

And speaking of the Cubbies, here’s to not realizing I’ve been a fan all along. I’ve got a huge collection of these in my drawer. (Thanks to Tommy, a St. Louis Cardinals crazy, for this one.)

I did find myself pondering on mortality recently after being doubled over with intense pain that reverberated throughout my body. Turns out I had aggravated an old sports hernia. Before you accuse me of being overly dramatic, I should let you know I was raised Catholic. Anyways, my not so close brush with death taught me a valuable lesson about being prepared when the man upstairs clears his throat before calling my number: Don’t be caught without some Knob Creek in the crib. Mind you, I’m only speaking for myself on this one. And mind you, I rectified the situation forthwith.

Ponderous is what I was feeling when my daughter decided she was going to attend college in New Mexico this fall. I’m thankful she will be staying with her mother- who relocated there several years back- but I am incredibly bummed that I’ll be losing my best friend for a while. Mr. Speaker and me are gonna hold down the fort, but really, it’s going to feel like a sitcom where the main character leaves the show. Me and Speaker are supporting players at best . . . and don’t tell him I said that.

Forget pondering . . Why must I be made to feel like the modern day Hester Prynne just because I’m the only homie in my crew that’s not amped about the new Buffalo Wild Wings coming to town? (For the record, I don’t have a crew. I just felt like using homie and Hester Prynne in the same sentence. It’s how I represent.)

I pondered getting another beta fish . . . and then I checked out the scowl on my cat’s face and that Johnny Cash song came to mind. I ended up going for sushi instead.

Let me end it with this, since mortality is often talked about (By me, in this post even. Imagine that?) but rarely felt in a way that makes you go “Holy Fuck! Mortality just shoved my ass!” This afternoon had me feeling the cosmos that I was writing on just a couple days ago. It happened on my way to the DMV with my daughter for her driver’s permit test. There I sat, bitching up traffic and sweating on the details of what is promising to be a bear of a month ahead for me. My mind was spinning inside a tapestry of crazily sewn worry. The next thing I knew I was feeling a rush of wind, and the doors of my car were shaking and my daughter’s face was going paper white and the sound of traffic and music and conversation was busy getting lost.

A sixteen wheeler had grabbed the shoulder of the road at the last possible moment, missing us by fragments of space and time as it blew the red light I had been using to change the radio station. The next thing I knew, I was talking to my girl about the seat belt I hadn’t clicked in as we watched this tractor trailer hurtle on down the road, going fifty or better. He was most likely using the local route for time and he probably wasn’t familiar with the tricky snake of a road he was traveling. He was probably sweating details, same as me. And if not for his super quick reflexes, I wouldn’t have gotten to spend time goofing off with my daughter at the DMV. I wouldn’t have had the chance to sit across the table from her at lunch and watch that beautiful smile work its magic on me. I wouldn’t have done the grocery shopping, and I wouldn’t have been able to say “How do?” to my favorite sushi guy as I picked up my dinner, and I wouldn’t have gone for a run, or watched our guys put up a Rocky Balboa fight on the pitch in Brazil, or listened to my son tell me that we have to catch up on 24 tomorrow night. And I wouldn’t have this post to give.

The secret to life happened in that car, after the light went green and I caught the breath I got to have. It happened when I looked at my little girl and we fist bumped our ‘do over’ round, seeing as how we caught a break at an intersection that will never feel the same way to me. We were given the chance to move along down the road to whatever is next. And really, the details seemed a curious place to occupy myself with after that.

Grace is a mystery I unwrapped today.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Men and women are not so different.

If you agree with the above statement- read on. If you don’t agree with it, go watch Jack Reacher. Fast forward to the bathroom fight scene, it’s awesome.

Now, this isn’t to say there aren’t major differences going on. (The survival of the romantic comedy genre depends on it.) We’re different in that women love wine and we love beer . . they love Orange is the New Black and we love sports . . they love shoes whereas we love beer and sports . . they love Nicholas Sparks whereas we love beer and sports and Nicholas Sparks jokes . . they love Dr. Oz whereas we need to have plenty of beer in us just to discuss his show. So . . yanno, there’s plenty of difference happening in the battle of the sexes. And dammit if the dames didn’t leave us licking our wounds at the end of the last century with the Bradshaw Conflict. They had Carrie and we had Terry. Game, set, nail polish.

If you don’t agree with my painfully simple generalizations, go read Fifty Shades. Skim through to the bathroom fight scene, it’s awesome.

Arguments and breakups are where the sexes tend to join ranks- not in agreement over the particulars but in the overall assessment that romantic relationships can send our verklempt-ometer to DEFCON 1 quicker than just about anything on Gore’s green earth . Our prisms beckon differently but our trajectories are nevertheless parallel on this count, at least in the immediate aftermath.

Me and my gal pal had a tiff recently. I am not going to enlist a point for point on it since I am of the belief that personal shit should only be broadcast on video surveillance cameras (Yes, that’s a shout out to Jay-Z. Go Brooklyn!). Let’s just say it went stupid faster than Shia LeBeouf in a yoga class.

Here’s a ‘lil music mash-up that perfectly describes the temporary euphoria you experience when you walk away from a love thing whilst believing you were right to do so. Be warned, this quirky hopefulness is soon replaced with every single fucking Morrissey song. And wine. Hopefully you don’t live in a high rise when the twain meet . . .

Anyways, while I was breaking up with ‘me lady- and before I realized I wasn’t really breaking up so much as tripping the light phantasmagoria- I had a little time to spare. So I asked the cosmos to provide me some answers. If not for Chinese restaurants, I might still be waiting for a sign. And here is why the men of mars and women of venus ain’t so different after all. Because when push gets to shoving on matters of romance, we run to fortune cookies and advice columns- ignoring the fact that the former are made in Hoboken while the latter really need to be.

I take fortune cookies quite seriously because I have this idea that you should search for life’s answers with the innocence of a child. And so here’s what mine said:

You were right! I would high five you but I’m a fortune cookie wrapper. Reward yourself with a weekend of porn and more Chinese food. And remember, you are the man! 

Okay, I took a ‘lil artistic license with the fortune. If you’re curious as to what it really said? Oookay . . .

You will die alone. 

Since when did fortune cookie writers get all Sylvia Plath? Chill fortune cookie writers . . . chill.

Seriously speaking, arguments, tiffs and break ups are not a zero sum game, to be sliced and diced in neat little units of sameness. So what did I do with all that pissed off energy? Well, I cursed lots- or, even more than usual. I ate a shitload of junk food and chased it with maniacal runs, yep, so I could curse even more. I even tossed with calling up Vera Farmiga to see if she was ready to run away with me, but I decided it was better to have that conversation in person. Yanno, so I could introduce myself.

And then, right in the middle of all that pissed off energy being loosed like Charlie Sheen dollars at a strip club . . my gal pal called. And then, we turned the tiff into talk and we came to understand that there may be a thousand different ways to connect with a person in this day and age, but a voice still matters most.

And then I said something that vaporized all the pissed off energy I had been carrying for days on end. A simple proclamation to which all that mattered was the here and now, not the then and gone.

I was wrong.

It’s amazing, the alchemy that happens out of three little words; the crazy dichotomy of feeling so completely right about admitting you are wrong. Admitting such a thing may not be ergonomically designed to provide comfort to your prideful posture, but guess what? It’s free. And it’s more liberating than the Expendables in Latin America. So as far as romantic advice goes, I would stick with Fleetwood Mac and fortune cookies. Keep company with the former when things go wrong and crunch up the latter when a certain someone is smiling up the seat across from you.

If you don’t agree with my romantic advice, you should have been checking out the bathroom fight scene from Jack Reacher by now. With nachos and cheese. And beer. But okay . . lazybones, here it is.

And you really didn’t think I was leaving Venus out of my end tap, did you?

 

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