Wednesday, February 13, 2008
My redneck Valentine
All mysterious hints are sexually charged.
Like my lady barber' hand pausing at my thigh a lttle as she asks me to shift so she can get around me.
Lady is a Mediterranean knockout, but she has a husband and two kids.
Ah what the hell. Faint heart never made it with small animals.
Got a valentine in the mail a couple of days ago.
More mysterious hints.
The relationship ended 25 years ago, and still she writes. Wants to come over from half a continent away.
But one is still carrying a torch for someone even further back in the past, but last I heard from The One, it was "Don't even talk to me." And endearments, such as "Will you just f*ck off!"
My second- last Dutchess had sent me to her very own therapist. Said the therapist, "If you love something, let it go
"If it was meant to be, she'll come back to you."
Slugger the Biker says," If you love something, let it go. If it doesn't come back to you--hunt it down and kill it!"
Well, as a player in the game of love for the past thirty years, I have both waited and hunted.
Waiting seemed somehow like something a woman would do. But I waited and drank. And waited and drank. Looked in the barroom mirror and saw a phantom image of myself as a skeleton. I would be waiting a long time.
Says motherly restaurant owner: "Don't just get drunk. Get drunk and do something.
So I got drunk at home, want to the bar where my Italian rival was drinking, knocked him off his barstool.
Nothing was revealed, but I felt better. But Mafiosi are vengeful. Next day I caught him trying to set fire to my house. I called the police, but they just sort of played around with the gasoline can, kicked it a few times and said, "Hey, this must be awfully stressful for you." Mobster... and aren't they tight with local police? Punch out a Mafia guy and he'll answer real fast once he wakes up... Like a biker.
Damned if the son-of-a-bitch wasn't caught planting incendiaries in my attic.
But someone got to him first; he seemed to disappear, my errant mistress was now alone, but even then, she would have no part of me. Or, by this time, me of her. I really did let her go, hoping for all the world she never would come back. Weekdays with me. Weekends with the Italian!
"Your problem, Ivan," says my drug-addled Beetlejuice pal, "is that you came across a whole series of assholes." I caught myself chuckling. The guy was fried by 34. Never mind the PhD and the Juilliard music degree. Sometimes the bad die young.
An admonishment from the college where I taught: "We are looking at your life style."
Well, yes, but what resource is there after you lost house and home but to have a good time?
Good-time Charlie runs across a whole series of assholes. Um. Like attracts like?
There is an Isaac Balshevis Singer short story I can't find any more.
In it, an old rake comes across his original wife after forty years. She has obviously aged, is in fact, very much past her bloom... He hasn't had a hard-on for three years.
But he follows her up the stairs anyway.