NEMO? REALLY?

This guy?  

Meet Nemo.  He's this itty, bitty little clownfish with a fin underdeveloped.  Last I checked, he is not a wicked winter storm about to blanket the Northeast.  

Yet, The Weather Channel has christened our latest whacking of extreme weather after a character in a popular Pixar film.  The New York Times opines:

"A Fish, Er, Storm Named Nemo"

The other day I texted my sister with a note for my nephew (Nemo fan, bona fide), which read, "Note to my nephew:  There is a winter storm bearing down on the east coast, and they're calling it, 'Nemo.'"  She said he smiled when he heard that.  Me?  I rolled my eyes.  I'm of the mind that we get beyond the naming conventions that are cute and occasionally arcane (Iago?  Really? What is this, Othello?), and just get down to calling these storms what they really are:  "Excuses to Stay Inside, Canoodle, and Eat Junk Food."

(But that's just me.)

This afternoon, I went over to the grocery store to pick up some food.  I bought healthy things like chicken and Tilapia, not to mention mixed greens, clementines and soup.  My basket featured milk, eggs, and just for good measure, two rolls of paper towel.  The line of people who were waiting to check out snaked its way through the aisles, and when I finally found what I believed to be the end, I asked the redhead in front of me, "Are you, by chance, the end of the line?"  

She was, and after exchanging a pair of pleasant smiles, I caught a glimpse into her basket.  No joke, this girl had:

1.  Frozen Pizza

2.  A box of Cheese Nips

3.  Tostino Pizza Rolls

4.  A block of cheddar cheese

5.  Chips Ahoy Cookies

6.  Skippy Peanut Butter

7.  Microwave popcorn

8.  A packet of hot dogs (but surprisingly, no hot dog buns)

9.  Ice cream

Based on the contents of her basket, I'm pretty much convinced that the woman cannot cook, but never mind that.  She's got the junk food, and I would bet that we're both on board with the notion of staying inside.  Now, all I have to do is work on getting this cutie to canoodle.

(Because on this weekend or any other, it's not "Nemo" that I am looking to find.)  

MISTAKES

Everyone makes mistakes. Lord knows that I make my fair share, and far more often than I probably deserve.

Case in point? Only yesterday, I was taking a long walk down Fifth Avenue. All of the sudden a woman appeared, walking out of a doorway. She was quite cute, with silken blonde hair and these legs that went, well… let’s just say that they were long.

In any case, I found the girl to be attractive. The same could be said for half the other women who walk these city streets, but this particular woman benefited from the fact that she was there, walking right in front of me. Immediately, I began to fumble for a way of gaining her attention.

I’ve never really been the guy with a line, and a part of me suspects that it may be a good thing. Nevertheless, short of stopping this woman cold, save for literally impeding her path, the options apparent to me in that exact moment were few.

One thing is for certain. I was aware that my window was closing quickly. So, I checked her out. I mean, I wasn’t lascivious about it, but still. I gave the girl a look, and a good one. Threw in a bit of a smile, maybe. Honest to God, I tried to look cool doing so, to come across in a way that was decidedly non-creepy.

Say what you will about best-laid plans, but I kid you not: The glance that I got back from this girl… it made me feel just dirty, and not in a good way. It wasn’t as though she took my look to mean, “You saucy little minx” and then shot back a message unspoken, and in her own coquettish way, with a playful, flirty, “you naughty boy!”

No, this was much more of, “You fucking pervert. What is wrong with you, to look at me like that, and at this very moment?”

That’s when it hit me. It’s probably best not to hit on a girl when she’s clutching a shopping bag, and has just—and I mean, just—walked out of a Victoria’s Secret.

To be fair, she probably assumed that my eyes and my mind went straight from the bag and the thoughts of what it might contain, to basically, well… mentally undressing her body. When it’s put like that, I suppose she had every reason to take my smile the wrong way. Still, despite the awkward moment that our exchange may have produced, as if that weren’t enough, this morning I nearly went back for more.

Walking along the waterfront, on my way to work, I came across a woman who was wearing a plaid skirt. It’s probably quite obvious, as to where I’m about to go with this, but I attended Catholic school. The girls who matriculated at our sister schools, they often wore these woolen, pleated skirts, and in a variety of plaid patterns. Stop me if you’re there already, but the skirt that this woman was wearing this morning?

It was the spitting image. Therefore, it also happened to be the very same image that probably got me through puberty.

Strike me down for saying as much, but suddenly I found myself this close to telling the poor woman wearing a plaid skirt that her clothing had catapulted me back to my days as a curious, Catholic schoolboy. Had I muttered so much as a word to that effect, I can tell you now that I’d have done so with a smile, and of the neighborly, friendly variety. Would she have taken it that way, as all kinds of complimentary and in no way pervy? Go on. Take that to be a rhetorical question, because something tells me we both know the answer.

What with the way things have been going, I can only imagine how badly that shot of mine might have backfired. Can you even picture it? I mean, good Lord. It’s no wonder I’m still single.

Then again, this began as a piece about mistakes. For any and all that I might make on my own, there exists a type that I try to rail against, to amend at all costs, and with a great, unyielding effort. To be plain, I am talking of those missteps related to grammar.

The spare typo or occasional misspelling aside, it seems as though many of us cannot go a day without fucking up the English language. This isn’t about switching up the order of “i” and “e,” whether after "c" or otherwise. Half the time, even I can’t remember where to place a period, be it before or after a quotation mark. For goodness sake, what's my excuse? I write for a living.

No, I’m reserving my ire for the stuff that truly irks me—for those errors plainly obvious and all too easy to avoid; for those moments when the very meaning of a word or a sentence is sent reeling, when all hints of rhyme or reason are shot directly out the window.

There are the usual suspects, the use of “there” or “their” when the context clearly calls for “they’re.” People these days; they are (or “they’re,” for those who insist on using the contraction) mixing up those words in all sorts of ways, bringing nouns and adjectives into play when all they really needed was a verb.

Regrettably, these blunders and boo-boos are typically the products of some very smart people. Even so, these mistakes, they happen quite a lot. (Not “alot,” mind you. That’s not a word, and never has been.) The question is: To whom does one allot the blame—if, in fact, one is able to find the fault at all?

Personally, I’m grateful for the knowledge I picked up back in Catholic school. So that we’re clear, I am not now, nor have I ever been, “greatful.” Of course, that didn’t stop me from finding the word, just this morning, on someone's Facebook page.

Actually, to be perfectly clear, “greatful” isn’t a word at all. If it were, no longer would the talk be of gratitude; instead, the message would be one of dimension. More to the point, as it concerns this so-called word, that particular misspelling would only alter (not “altar.” Those are saved for churches, or for use in pagan ceremonies) the root, thereby changing the meaning and intent.

Besides, I can’t imagine that any self-aware person, not to mention someone who was slightly self-conscious, would truly want a word around that could describe them as being, “filled with vastness, or mass, else all things enormous.”

I know I wouldn’t. Those skinny jeans look shit on me, as is.

Despite what nearly happened on the waterfront this morning, or yesterday, outside of Victoria’s Fifth Avenue location, the education that I received had more to do with working knowledge than it did with knickers or naughty thoughts. I guess my point is this: On Wednesday, I had a woman seemingly mistake my smile for a healthy dose of sleaze. What might have happened, had I opened my mouth or tried to slip the girl (easy there, Tiger) a note, only to find that the words would not come out right?

To put it another way, if we can’t say what we mean and mean what we say, then how smart can we really be?

THE ONE WHO GOT AWAY

Honestly, I didn’t see any of this coming.

In the very first instance, it happened over e-mail and came in the form of a message in my inbox. The note was from a woman who I dated for a time, around about a year ago. Her letter was sweet and altogether flattering, but as I would soon come to discover, that was with good reason. You see, this woman was writing with just one purpose in mind: She wanted to see me again.

Only days following that first occurrence, nearly the same thing happened again.

This time, the circumstances were slightly different. The note came my way via Facebook, and it was tinged with some uncertainty. On this occasion, it seemed that the woman writing simply wanted to know if I might hail from a particular place. It was her way of discerning whether or not I was the boy she had dated and then broke up with, some ten long years ago.

None of this would have happened. None of it could have happened, if not for the power of the Internet. It’s not as though the cell phone of any average person is listed in the phone book, but thanks to the digital age—what with Facebook and Twitter and Google and more—any one among us can tap into the expanses of the World Wide Web, and maybe even stumble upon a once and former prom date. In fact, it is entirely easy—maybe all too easy—to reach right out and touch someone, to try and reconnect, or perhaps even try all over again.

On the surface, this brand of behavior would seem to be innocuous. You’d think that it might be benign. After all, we’re only human. It is natural to want to care, and especially for the people who, once upon a time, might have played a role within our lives. So we reach out to a friend from high school. We reconnect with that kid we ran around with years ago. We think to say hello, or perhaps even try—all over again—with someone we once knew (or in the cases I’ve been describing, a person for whom we may have had feelings), and just to see that they are doing well. It is an entirely innocent pursuit, except that it isn’t (not at all).

Unfortunately, we fail to see the truth.

We have convinced ourselves of the former, not the latter. We really do believe that this kind of thing is no big deal, that our motives, our objectives, are rightly and completely pure. Besides, what’s so bad about saying hello? That’s all we’re doing. This is an old friend we’re talking about here. Never mind that we used to see each other naked. That was years ago.

In each of the instances mentioned, I eventually wrote back to the women in question, my responses packed with plenty in the way of pleasantries. The back and the forth, that initial give and take, would eventually lead to a series of exchanges. Before long, I found myself agreeing to meet in person, to sit down over a beer, and well, you know… “Catch up.”

When it happens that you haven’t seen someone in so very long, it is actually quite easy to strike up a conversation. There are years to fill. The two of you have whole swaths of life to catch up on, and plenty in the way of stories to tell. Do little more than report the news, and still you’ll find the time wiling by.

The strange part is, through all of this, you can find yourself falling into something familiar—a rhythm, of sorts, albeit one that feels entirely strange, as though it is a step out of time, and in all likelihood, one step too many. Whatever it is that you had, whenever it happened, the truth of the matter is, it was years ago. It’s over, and no matter what it is that the two of you may come to find, in connecting once again, only one thing can be certain: It will never be the same as it once was.

Somewhere along the way, in the string of correspondences, in the midst of sitting down, of meeting in person, I began to suspect that this reaching out might not merely be for the sake of old times.

Granted, there is a part in all of us, whether conscious or not, that is probably quite curious to discover how someone has fared. We grow inquisitive, and naturally begin to wonder how it is that they are doing, or how the years have treated them. Maybe all we really want to know is whether or not they have gained forty pounds, or begun to lose their hair. It might be that what we’re really after, what we truly want from this, is a way of feeling better about ourselves, and about the decisions that we once made, so many years ago.

Understand, this observation is delivered without malice. It comes forth without any form of judgment attached. People get to a certain age, and try though they might to avoid it, invariably, they will begin to wonder. It is just the way of things.

Of course, that would suggest that we have drifted far past even the scant possibility of the benign. There may be something more that is deeply rooted in this urge to reconnect. There may well be an altogether different type of motive. It would seem plausible, but...

Holy shit. Could it be that I’m the one who got away?

***

A few years ago, a handful of friends flew into New York, boarding planes and leaving families behind, all so that they might partake in helping me to celebrate my birthday.

My birthday falls in February, and of all the things that I might wish for on that occasion, the one constant is snow. Living where I do, it doesn’t often happen that I end up on skis that week, let alone that very day. Still, even kicking around the city streets, it is nice to have some of the white stuff around, whether to plow into piles, or pack into a ball and then playfully toss towards some far-off wall.

In the mornings, at subway stations throughout the city, people will pass out free newspapers. Whether AM New York or the Metro, both offer up the news of the day, with a focus that will run the gamut from the GDP to gossip. They feature the weather, too. No matter how long I end up living here, I might never cease to marvel at the way that these free papers will proclaim, with the sturm and drang one might expect from Roland Emmerich, the impending arrival of the year’s first major snowfall.

It doesn’t have to be a lot. Even a dusting will suffice, for with so much (or so little) as four inches of snow, the front pages of those morning papers will be bellowing, “BLIZZARD OF (fill in the year here)!”

I find it kind of funny, the way that everyone will react to the reports, as though they could possibly be true. People hear the word, “blizzard” and immediately, they fall into one of two camps. Either they’re a modern-day Shackleton striving for the Pole, or they decide that it’d be best if they remain indoors, and not embark on the laborious chore of walking to their places of business, as though the dusting on the doorstep is sure to impede their progress.

(There is a part of me always tempted to say, “You walk to work anyway. Throw on some boots. Wear a hat. Suck it up.”)

On my birthday, those few years ago, people were justified in doing whatever they so chose, for the daily rags? They really meant it. What we experienced that weekend was, indeed, the BLIZZARD OF 2005. The flakes began to fall on Saturday afternoon, and by the time Sunday morning had rolled around? There were reportedly 27 inches of the freshly fallen, fluffy stuff on the ground in Central Park.

On Saturday night, my friends and I, we began to take advantage.

As we made our way down Mulberry Street, we began to throw snowballs—not at some far-away walls, or inanimate objects, but rather at each other. A few playful tosses turned into a battle, with each of us darting this way and that, on opposite sides of the street, ducking behind cars and to the sides of street signs in a desperate attempt to take cover.

Soon snowballs were flying from every which direction, whizzing their ways past people’s heads and occasionally catching someone square in the back. Of course, this was acceptable. We not only knew each other; we understood full well what we were getting into, the moment we picked up that first pile of snow.

But then we ended up before the storefront of an Australian restaurant… and then someone ducked into the short stairwell that leads down below, to the bar in the basement… and then someone (I’m not saying who) unleashed a cannon-shot of a snowball throw, and proceeded to peg the bouncer, and just as he was popping his head up to street level, all to check out the commotion.

Yeah, he was a big guy.

Thankfully, he was also cool as hell. Pretty soon the bouncer had joined in on our little skirmish. He was a part of the fray, and lobbing snowballs across the street at those of us who were trailing behind, the stragglers who had yet to reach the refuge of that doorway. Soon enough, once we were all hanging around and huddled about the entrance, apologies to the bouncer were offered up in earnest. He seemed to think nothing of it, and brushed the whole thing off. Besides, he had gotten his, what with a few well-placed bombs. At some point, someone may have mentioned my birthday, and pretty soon we were all smiling and shaking hands. In fact, I think it was the bouncer who offered a slap to the back of my head as he told us all to get inside.

I have yet to visit Australia, but apparently, they like their cricket. That’s the sport that was being broadcast on the massive, movie-sized projection screen that was hanging from the room’s back wall. We snaked our way through the scrum of people, inching ever closer to the bar. There was a general clamoring, and the occasional outcry (something about a “sticky wicket”), but beyond the reactions (which we didn’t understand), that was all the attention we paid to the match transpiring on the screen.

While I cannot recall much about the match, you can best believe that I remember when it ended. That was the moment that the crowd parted. The middle of that room opened right up, and suddenly, there she was. That was when I saw her.

I could describe for you the way she looked, or what she wore, or that smile of hers, and how it cut straight through me. She was like an elixir.

Beyond all rhyme or reason, without regard for an excuse or explanation, I was convinced of one thing: I would regret missing out on the chance to meet this woman. I had to talk to her. I needed to find some way, some how, to strike up a conversation.

As for the next few moments to follow, they may have involved a pep talk or two. It might have taken me a couple of trial runs, a few failed attempts, but before long? I walked up and said hello. She smiled, and the rest just seemed to happen, without any sort of aid from the two of us.

The chants and cheers that had accompanied the match had died down by that point, and had soon given way to the music of Motown. Somewhat reflexively, without even thinking, I looked that woman in the eye and asked her to dance. Never mind that it wasn’t that kind of bar. Fuck if I cared. She was gorgeous. I liked her from the start, and I was gladly going to take any excuse I could get, just to find some way of getting closer to this girl.

I reached for her hand, wrapped my fingers around hers, and then led her out onto that makeshift dance floor. The rest, as they say, is history.

As the evening drew to a close, as the bouncer we had befriended only hours before began to sweep the place of drunken strangers, I looked to the girl and asked for her number. If memory serves, there was some discussion over why it was that I wouldn’t just enter her digits into my phone, but I had screwed that process up once or twice before. I wasn’t about to risk it. You see, all I really wanted was to call this girl. I wasn’t even going to wait two days.

In the end, I cajoled the bartender into handing me a bar bill and a pen, and she jotted down her name and number. I told her that I’d call. I meant it, and then we went our separate ways.

The next morning, I awoke with a start. Yes, there were 27 inches of snow on the ground, but that wasn’t why I was so excited. The snow didn’t even register.

I went directly to the chair in the corner of my room and snatched up the jeans I had been wearing the night before. My hand dived first into my right front pocket, and then into the left. I checked the pockets in the back, and then searched them all twice over again. A sense of panic began to set in, for try as I might, I couldn’t find her number. There was a Metro Card and some loose receipts, a few coins wadded up in the midst of tens and twenties, but nothing with her name and her telephone number.

I checked my coat. I checked the kitchen counter—the refrigerator, too. I walked to the doorway, and out into the hall. Every square inch of my 500 square-foot apartment was completely torn apart, and still I came up empty-handed.

I was an ass to lose her number. Granted, she and I spent little more than an evening together. All we did was talk and laugh, and share some scattered moments with her wrapped in my arms, spinning ourselves around that room. It wasn’t much, but regardless, there was something about that woman. I knew that I wanted to see her again, and soon. At the very least, I wanted the chance to take her out, to talk with her once more, to see where things might lead.

Opportunities are what you make of them, and ultimately, that one was lost. Still, sometimes I just can’t help myself. I begin to think back to that evening, and it is in those times that I stop to wonder: What if she is the one who got away?

There are some things that we’ll never know. It is just the way of things. All that we can do, the only choice that we might have, is to keep on trying.

STORIES

This has been a troubling week.

On Tuesday, Americans went to the polls and in the state of Maine, in the otherwise lovely state of Maine, to cite but one example, some of those among us saw fit to strip the rights of others. They felt it was their responsibility to limit these rights, or to take them away, but only if some of these “other” people happen to be gay.

I don’t mean to mix these two events, or so much as suggest that the one is parallel with the other, but by now we’re likely all aware of the tragedy that transpired on Thursday, when a soldier and psychiatrist unleashed a torrent of fear upon Fort Hood, Texas. The suspect is alleged to have killed thirteen of his fellow Americans, and to have wounded 30 others.

Just this afternoon, I caught a headline saying that someone marched into an office building in Orlando, Florida, wielding a gun. According to news reports, at least one person is dead. Five more are apparently injured.

The first of these instances is troubling. It is disappointing—dismaying, even—but as for the second and the third? They are horrific, grotesque displays of violence, of which the rational and sane will struggle mightily to understand.

In the aftermath of the shooting at Fort Hood, I have been reading from the stories of loved ones and survivors, of the friends and fellow soldiers of those who fell. To what has been said and all that has been reported, I can offer only the following: “We are the stories that we choose to tell, minus those that no one wants to hear any more.”

After Dallas, Memphis, and the Ambassador Hotel; following Columbine, Blacksburg, and now Fort Hood, I don’t want to hear any more the stories of shootings and of homicides, of madmen and their actions. I grow weary of reports that try to delve into the motives of murderous individuals, as if there could be even a reason enough to justify the cold-blooded killing of another living being. These actions take place within situations that we cannot predict, and for which we can’t prepare. What is it that we expect to learn? What makes this one any different than the last?

***

My family did not grow up with guns. We did not hunt. Our community was small, and the kind of place where it wouldn’t have surprised me if some people left their doors unlocked at night. Personally, I have no need for a rifle or a handgun, let alone something described as semi-automatic, or capable of spraying a barrage of bullets.

There are those that feel differently, who disagree. I respect their right to do so, but after the instances of these past few days, in the wake of the massacres at Columbine and Blacksburg, I am ever so tempted to suggest: Repeal a portion of the Second Amendment. The militia you can keep, but take out that part about the right to bear arms.

Two hundred thirty-four years ago, we were a people, a nation, and a collection of states, a Republic borne from the wake of a revolution. It made sense to make certain that citizens could defend themselves. When they did, it was understood that they’d be doing so with a muzzleloader, a pocket filled with lead pellets, and a small bag of gunpowder tied to their waistbands.

While that collection of states has grown from thirteen to fifty, we are still very much an infant nation. On any number of issues, the world may look to us to lead, but on plenty of matters, we’re still trying to figure things out for ourselves. Just look to the docket of the Supreme Court, during any given session. Our brightest minds are constantly turning to the Constitution, reading the words as they are written, looking carefully at the question of intent, and trying to interpret what that document can and should mean today for these United States.

No one would suppose that our Founding Fathers, so many years ago, could have had the foresight or prescience required to dream of the reality we face now. It is why, with all their knowledge, in all their infinite wisdom, they designed the Constitution to be a living, breathing document. It is the reason they made it possible for our nation’s charter to grow and expand, through any number of subsequent amendments. It also explains why an amendment to the Constitution cannot be passed without considerable effort.

With any new revision, else every time the justices of the Supreme Court rule on a case, when they offer an opinion, the action is intended to uphold our civil rights. By birth, we were all bequeathed with rights both equal and unalienable. That very premise is the bedrock of our nation. All men are created equal, and over the years, our infant nation has come to recognize that it means every man, woman and child, of every color and every creed.

I believe in a Republic that is intent on providing for its people every right that they deserve, or those that are fundamental to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. If anything, the objective should be more freedoms, not less. Yet still, on days like today and in the wake of the events that have just transpired, I am half-tempted to dial up my lawmakers and suggest that they take another look at the Second Amendment.

If nothing else, then context should be taken into account.

We are miles away from the muzzleloader, and all of the Glocks in the whole, wide world will never be able to topple the might of the American military industrial complex. For all of those inclined to feel that it is their right to keep and bear arms, I suggest that you buy a baseball bat. You can pick one up for about $30. To those who feel impinged by the terms of this proposal, based on the contention that it interrupts your need to hunt? Allow me to present to you the slingshot, the bow and arrow, or (and here’s a novel thought), Whole Foods.

In truth, I am not serious about suggesting that we consider a revision to the Second Amendment. I recognize the peril in taking so exacting a swipe at any article within the Bill of Rights. Besides, the Constitution was designed to expand with the times. It is the role of the judiciary to decide on such matters, and as recently as 2008, a 5-4 ruling in the case District of Columbia v. Heller upheld the rights of an individual to possess a firearm for private use, at least on federal grounds. The states may decide differently, but again: The Constitution exists to establish the charter for our nation, and to grant the individual with certain rights. It does not seek to limit them.

The language and intent of the Constitution is not something to trifle with, and the Second Amendment is not the issue, any more than it’s the reason for violence or unrest. While I may not always agree with the opinions and the efforts of this lobbying body, it is absolutely right what the NRA will often say: Guns do not kill people. People kill people.

In that, we expose the fundamental problem in this whole discussion, the stumbling block that we just cannot get around: You can take a gun from a person’s hand, but you cannot extract from their heart the propensity for violence. You cannot banish hate or bigotry, or racism, or sexism—not unless you start right away, at the point of consciousness.

The truth is, none of us are born to hate. We are not brought into this world wishing harm upon another. Rogers & Hammerstein had it right, so many years ago and on a stage meant to replicate the South Pacific. “You have to be carefully taught.” That’s the way that song goes, isn’t it?

Whether parents, teachers, friends or family, even the ordinary, everyday Americans who quietly pass each other on the street, we all have a role in that. We all have an opinion and a voice by which to make it heard. It may not always happen that we find common ground on issues like health care or like-kind exchanges, but when we find examples of our basic rights being impinged; when we sense the possibility of our God-given civil liberties being trampled by the electorate, it is our responsibility to speak out.

With that in mind, perhaps you will understand why I am deadly serious about my grief over this bullshit in the otherwise bucolic climes of Maine. The same goes for California. With the state of Washington, however, I’m honestly quite pleased. In voting as they did for Referendum 71, they actually expanded upon the rights of not only gays and lesbians, but of elderly couples, too. So, if those friends and family of mine who are gay or lesbian (or, for that matter, any randy grandparents not concerned with getting hitched) decide to move to Washington, then at least they can be assured domestic partnership rights.

Every man, woman, and child who is straight can have them. Why not the same for people who are gay?

***

This afternoon, when I sat down to write, it was with the hope that I might be able to work out how I feel about these matters. It was with the intent of developing for myself a better set of answers, so as to help to make the events of this week somewhat easier to stomach. In that, I am not certain I’ve succeeded.

A fair portion of our population seems hell-bent on the matter, and simply cannot move quickly or decidedly enough to restrict, rescind, or remove altogether the rights of gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender people. It’d be fair to suppose that at least a portion of those quickly moving people are probably pretty strident with their views on gun rights, too. Fine and good, if they are, but explain to me this: How can people be so eager to regulate the rights of those who only want to love each other, be then so apoplectic, the moment anyone so much as dares to suggest that we think to do the same for those who seek to acquire a handgun?

It may seem far afield, to discuss within a single post the hot button issues of murder and gay marriage. Perhaps I’m taking too large a leap, jumping from one topic to the next, except I don’t believe that is the case. You see, when you strip away all of the politics, the hyperbole and (frankly) fear, guns and gay marriage both concern the very same thing. They are about a single, fundamental issue—our rights as individuals, as Americans, as human beings.

When we uphold the Constitution, we assure for our fellow Americans the right to the freedom of religion, to free speech, to a free press. We grant them the right to congregate freely, and yes, we maintain for them the right to keep and bear arms. In doing the latter, we knowingly tempt fate. We open the door to the possibility that one or more among us may not be responsible with the right that they’ve been given. God forbid, but they might take the guns that our laws allow them and use them to do harm to others. As it happened in Orlando and Fort Hood, they might take those guns—the right to which they are guaranteed by the U.S. Constitution—and use them to cause harm to their fellow Americans.

The part of this that is so hard to comprehend, so very difficult to get my head around, is that if we allow gays and lesbians to marry—if we do nothing more than grant to them the rights equal to those of other Americans—then there is no fate to tempt. There is no other shoe to drop. We don’t risk anything. Plain and simply, there is nothing to fear.

If every state in the union suddenly opened their doors to gay marriage, what would be the harm? I mean, let’s be honest about this. What would the majority of gays and lesbians do, except keep on leading decent lives, the same that they’ve been doing all along? What are they going to propose, except to love one another? Are we worried that under certain circumstances, in the most unfortunate of cases, our gay and lesbian brethren might divorce? God knows they would have a struggle on their hands, to do in greater numbers what their straight compatriots have accomplished already.

If there is one thing for certain, it is what gays and lesbians would not be doing, under any circumstances: Killing marriage.

***

When we think of the violence that occurred this week, whether in Orlando or at Fort Hood, Texas, we rightly mourn the loss of innocent people. The conversation turns, as it invariably does, to thoughts of what might have been, and to the full and complete lives that these Americans might well have been able to lead, to the contributions they could have continued to make, if not for the actions of a person with a gun.

Many years ago, when our Founding Fathers went forth to ratify the living, breathing document that is our Constitution, there were provisions made for certain portions of our population. Some of us were counted as less than whole people, and as wrong and as inhumane, as morally repugnant as that may have been, Americans eventually took action to fix what was wrong. They made amends the document, and took the first steps in making all of us whole, just as we very well should be.

In this day and age, by saying no to the rights of gays and lesbians, we are doing nothing more than slovenly repeating the sins of our past. We are refusing to grow as a people, as a nation. What we are doing cannot be justified, for in denying these people the very rights that so many of us take for granted, we are telling gays and lesbians that they are not whole people.

When thinking of the violence that has occurred this week, I realize just how fortunate I am, to have never been touched on a personal basis by a tragedy of this degree. My heart and my prayers go out to those who have, but in the way that it was with 9/11 and with Oklahoma City, similar to the days that followed the senseless death of Matthew Shepard in Laramie, Wyoming—even now, with what has happened in Maine—we didn’t have to be there in order to feel something. No matter our particular points of view, we have all been affected. Either we have chosen to persecute, or we know what it’s like to be persecuted.

Due to the fact of our shared human condition, there will soon be another choice to make. We can elect to allow these events to pass on by, and drift softly into the ether of our recollections; otherwise, we can choose to act based upon what’s right, and on all that we are feeling at this moment.

***

I harbor the belief that when we reach our deathbeds, we are faced with one responsibility. No matter rich or poor, young or old, gay or straight, we had better have an awfully good story to tell.

Whether we are parents or children, teachers or students, or just another in a long line of ordinary, everyday Americans, the responsibility is ours. Let us be the ones to lead the charge, in offering up a more open discussion on the differences between right and wrong. Let us impress upon our friends and neighbors the importance of non-violence, and let us be the ones to repeat the histories of how that mindset has succeeded in affecting change. To all of those that we do know and especially to those we don’t, let us be sure to value love over hate. Let’s share a little more of it than we might be used to, than we might think to do otherwise, because if nothing more, Lennon and McCartney had it right. Above all else, let us hope to make the choices that will move us one step closer to becoming the people that we aspire to be, and to shaping the world in which we want to live.

Once upon a time, I heard someone say, "We are the stories that we choose to tell, minus those that no one wants to hear anymore."

I believe that to be true, and it is an effort that is constantly evolving. It is one that begins anew, right now.

EPHEMERAL

I harbor few illusions.

Of those that I do allow myself—for all of the dreams and visions, the starry-eyed supposing, whatever the figments, the filaments, or the flights of fancy—most tend to involve the trappings of rock stardom. Were it only the case that I had been born with pipes, or blessed with an innate comprehension of the pentatonic scales, then you and I might be having a different conversation. I might be off touring the country from the back of a beat-up van, but in that case, this would surely be a different kind of blog.

Never mind that I am able to play the guitar. Forget for a moment that I am not exactly tone deaf. Ability is something far removed from aptitude, and so these two facts, even added up together, do not in my case equal talent. Rather than playing to sold-out rock cathedrals, instead of strutting across some far-away stage, or roaming before a rack of amplifiers, all the while wielding a Gibson or a Gretsch, it has become my predilection—my proclivity, even—to express the ways in which I’m feeling with a pen.

It’s a pretty decent gig, if you can get it.

Though I enjoy what it is that I do, don’t think for a moment I’ve been tricked into believing that this penchant for the written word amounts to anything more than a useful tool. (I’m quite good at writing thank-you notes. It’s in the sending of those notes that I am absolute and complete rubbish.) Despite the delusions heretofore mentioned, I have never allowed myself to suppose that the writing of this blog will wend some sort of existential uptick. Mind you, I do enjoy it. This blog provides the occasional outlet, and the thought that people even bother to read the stuff that I might write down will tend to elicit its own particular thrill. It's just that I’ve never expected these words, however they may be, to have any discernible bearing on, or in any way serve to burgeon, the prospects of my dating life.

Not that I find the concept inconceivable.

The title of this blog is derived from a short story that I started, once upon a time, but never found a way to finish. When the thought occurred to apply it here, I was solely motivated by thoughts of insinuation. I was more interested in concerning myself with what notions and ideas that the title might elicit, and less with the actual intent. In truth, the whole thing was a bit of an attempt to set people up. An Open Letter to the Girl I'm Going to Marry? It wasn’t just that I had a hunch some others might wonder; it was something I expected.

What happened next, I could not have predicted.

When the time came to scribble down the starting points, those opening lines of OLGGM, I found that all remnants of subterfuge had gone. Any hints of skullduggery had long ago left the building. Blame it on that part of me that grew up just a bit punch-drunk on a few too many Disney movies, but I had gone and fallen for the very trap that I myself had set. I was the one who had started to wonder. I had begun to ask the questions, to feel hopeful. Moreover, I was migrating towards the point of belief. An Open Letter to the Girl I’m Going to Marry somehow became exactly that—the very conversation that I wanted to be having, and with an audience of only one.

If there’s a problem with any kind of honest statement, it is that it has the tendency to sound somewhat romantic. You could be stating fact. The girl sitting across from you might indeed have bright, blue eyes, and yet the mere utterance of such an observation is likely to be taken as a compliment, as a sign that you’re certainly into her.

When I say that this became for me a chance to write to someone, to the "one," whomever she may prove to be, I’m not looking to score points. It might sound all kinds of quixotic, but before we fall too deeply, too completely, let me take you back, close to the beginning of this post. While I would allow that stranger things have happened, this site isn’t around to serve as some sort of online single’s bar. It was never meant to be a way of meeting somebody.

Of course, there are things in this world for which we can’t predict, let alone prepare. That’s what makes this life so very interesting.

So while I never would have imagined that this might be the kind of thing that would connect with complete strangers, I am glad to know it has. While I could not have foreseen the circumstances in which people would reach out, from places far away, offering up comments or heartfelt accounts of how and why they reacted to a post, I am grateful to hear from each and every person, all of those who have stopped and taken the time to write.

It was never my intention, to craft some sort of epistolary pick-up line. Then again, as it has been said before, weirder things have happened.

I hear the stories of countless individuals, all of whom meet people online and then go on to get married. It’s just the way things tend to work nowadays. Whereas my parents met through more ordinary circumstances, and while I may have expected a similar thing, at least once upon a time, I’ve got to own up to my own expectations: Never have I wanted to lead a life that could be described that way.

Maybe it comes to be that this effort leads to a circumstance, to an instance or a moment, and perhaps it is that spot in time that is destined to make all of the difference. If nothing more, I have been given an outlet to express myself, to relay bits of these thoughts, these feelings. Though ephemeral and altogether fleeting, they seem real every time that I sit down to write, and I now have an avenue by which to share them with others, to work them out on paper.

This blog began as an exercise, as an outlet, as a way of flexing those muscles that I seldom get the chance to ply. It was supposed to be a place for me to press a pen to a loose-leaf sheet, and a way by which to help help my closest friends avoid the clogging of their inboxes. Along the way, it has developed into something more. I feel that it has veered onto its own distinct path, and in the end, it has taken on real meaning—for me, most of all.

From an early age, I would imagine we all wonder. Who is she, where is she, and when might I find her? Those are answers I cannot supply, but here and again, every now and then, the thought of her is on my mind. Because of those who read, because of those who pay attention, this remains an opportunity to put a particular experience to words, to share in the circumstances that so many of us undergo and struggle with, and to relay the often conflicting emotions that so many of us feel.

I appreciate the fact that anyone would listen. It means something to me, to have the chance not only to sit down and write, but to possibly reach an audience. At the rate that I’ve been writing, though, it might seem as though I’m taking this circumstance for granted, that I'm eschewing the support. While it might sometimes appear as thought I don’t appreciate all of those who read, who choose to pass these entries on, who opt to recommend OLGGM to all of those they know, nothing could be further from the truth.

None of those among us can know how this tale might end, but it would seem to me that with this, I’ve signed up to the telling of a story—to the fulfilling of a certain expectation, on a more consistent basis, and with the hopes of ultimately seeing it through.

Though it has been said before, it deserves another mention. I appreciate the fact that anyone would listen, and I value that you might take the time to care. If these scribblings sometimes matter to you, if these entries and random posts of mine are, on occasion, the kinds of things that you value, then rest assured...

I promise to do better from here on in.

ATTITUDE

There is so very little about which I can complain. My life is fairly blessed, and though I would prefer to think of myself as a person who is prone to optimism, to plucking from the murky depths a healthy dose of mirth, I find that today—much the way it has been these past many days—the effort can be one that is difficult to wage.

Mind you, I come from a loving family and a stable home environment. I am fortunate in this, and in the fact that I can count upon some wonderful friends. For these reasons alone, I should worry less about the fact that my love life, as of late, has been little in the way of fun and a whole lot of frustration. Never mind that the most recent of my romantic entanglements might better be described as a long-forgotten figment. Truly, I shouldn’t let it bother me.

(But, still, I have my moments.)

I would suppose that this kind of thing will happen, from time to time. We’re likely all prone to the feeling, however occasional or fleeting it might be, of being stuck in a rut, of being worn down and tired, of being stagnant and stale, whenever not enough in the way of positive change seems to infiltrate your life.

***

If these past few months were the only indication, then you would be best to forget about dating, let alone any kind of meaningful relationship. Your better efforts have not been working. Those lips of yours have not been properly kissed in, well, far longer than you might like to admit, and so, yeah… it’s perfectly understandable that you’d look to shake things up a bit.

You begin by going shopping and that we understand, for never in the past have the holy, healing waters of Retail Therapy been wont to let you down. Those thick and curly locks probably are due for a trim, and as for making the decision, here and now, to start hitting the gym with greater dedication? We say, good for you! Stroll around the aisles of your nearest Barnes & Noble, while you’re at it, and pick up a good book or two. Maybe take up a new hobby. If you walk to work along 5th Avenue, perhaps this morning you take Madison, instead—anything, provided it leads to a disruption of the status quo.

What you need, after all, is something new—something different. This entire effort is about rejuvenation, reinvention, about injecting life with a high dose of potential—or, to put it another way, about imagining once again all that is possible in life. The hell with just the marrow! You’ll be taking along the bone, as well (thank you very much), because for any sort of meaningful change to take root, to truly take hold, things have to feel differently, first.

Otherwise, a few days will pass by and you’ll begin to wonder: Is it really a question of pattern or process? You believe in the notion of free will. It’s not as though the circumstances that we occupy simply spring up like weeds, like wildflowers, without the influence of purpose or intent. Choices need be made, yes, but that very first and most fundamental choice does not concern behavior. It comes down to how you feel and to what you believe.

It begins with attitude.

***

A few days ago, I was reading from an interview with the actor Neil Patrick Harris. You might know of him as the child star who played a doctor on TV, but that was many years ago. In the time that has followed, he has been a Broadway star and a host of both Saturday Night Live and the Tony awards. Come this Sunday, the man who is otherwise known as “NPH”, the breakout star in the ensemble cast of CBS’s How I Met Your Mother, will add another line onto his resume, when he hosts the primetime Emmys.

Not to stray too far from the point, the aforementioned interview quoted Neil Patrick Harris as saying, “It feels like if you go out of your way to make something happen, it rarely does. But if you allow for good things to happen, they seem to.”

***

We can continue to push and shove, in an effort to try and bend this world to fit our own particular whims.

For instance, I can carry on with the writing of an open letter, addressed to the girl who I might one day like to marry. We can both go about making halfhearted attempts with relatively pretty people. One of us might even succumb, before too long, to the soul-sucking exercise that online dating would seem to be.

I can go out to the bar and ask for some poor girl’s number, only to lose it during the cab ride home. You can decide to date a guy who isn’t nice to pets or plants, let alone particularly interesting. Maybe we’re just biding our time. Perhaps there is something to be gained from all the trouble and the heartache.

People talk to me, and they try to chalk the whole thing up to timing. I don’t know if that’s true or not, but until this cockamamie clock decides to strike upon something meaningful, I’m going to try and maintain my perspective.

In spite of the efforts being made with blogs, with bars, or even blind dates, it is all about attitude. I know of no other way than to continue to believe that you may well be right around the corner, hurrying to get here and anxious to arrive.

I just want to be ready when you do.

WHILE WE'RE HERE

Since we’re circling the drain on the topic, I feel the need to mention: I’m going to want a barn.

Someday not long from now, when we’re buying real estate, I’m going to wait for my moment and then ask you for a big, red barn. Maybe we’ll find a property that already has one, all ready to go and befitting my ideals. Maybe we’ll need to make the room somewhere, then build our own from scratch. Either way, I am definitely going to want a barn, and chances are, I will be babyish and petulant until I get my way.

(I’m just warning you now.)

On the off chance that you’re not immediately on board with this, allow me to point out the merits of a barn.

For starters, barns are totally cool. They remind us all of a simpler time, of a day and age in which prosperity was made manifest through hard work, through determination, and by the grace of God. In fact, one could say that barns are a symbol of the American dream.

But that’s not why I want one.

You can keep lots and lots of stuff inside a barn. They’re great places to throw a party (even if it rains!), and what’s more? If we’re blessed enough to have kids one day, then we can totally use our barn for leverage. Allow me to explain.

When I was in the fourth grade, I decided that I wanted to be a pirate for Halloween. My Mother came up with this great idea, to make a single, clip-on earring a part of my ensemble. Well, I got dressed up for school that day, and along with the rest of my costume, I put on that large, gold hoop of a clip-on earring. When I boarded the bus to head to school, this girl on the bus (tall, blonde and if memory serves, she hit puberty way early) came and sat in front of me. She leaned over the back of her seat, kind of smiled a bit, and then she told me that my earring was really, really… sexy.

You’ve got to understand. This was the time of Duran Duran. Forget David Cassidy. Simon LeBon (or was it Adrian Zmed?) was, like, every girl's dream, and you can rest assured that all the teen kings on the cover of Tiger Beat had at least one earring. All it took was to wear one—a fake one, even—and suddenly some girl with tendrils (TENDRILS!) of curly, blonde hair was using the word, “sexy” to describe me!

When I came home from school that day, one thing was certain: I was so getting an earring. The only difficulty would lie in breaking the news to my Father. When I did? He was totally passive. He just looked me in the eye and said, “Come with me.”

We got up from the dinner table, and I followed him over to the large, glass door that lined the back wall of the house. From there, you could see across the yard, and into the woods that bordered the property. About ten to fifteen yards beyond the tree line, you could just make out the visage of this small, rusted-out tin shed with one side exposed to the elements.

My Dad looked down on me and said, “You see that shed?”

I looked up at him, slack-jawed, and responded, “Yeah?”

He once again turned his attention to the window, paused for a moment, and then looked down on me for what seemed to be a very long time. At last, he spoke. “You get an earring, and that’s where you’ll be sleeping.” Then he walked away.

Needless to say, I never pierced either one of my ears. Looking ahead some time from now, let’s say a boy of ours wants to defile his body, or that our otherwise angelic daughter wants to date an older guy. You see where I’m going with this?

Still, that’s not really why I want a barn. I want a barn because it will be fun.

When we have a barn, I’ll climb high above the tamped, dirt floor. I'll shimmy my way out onto the middle rafter, where I’ll hang a rope and then fashion from that rope a swing. Can you imagine the sounds of laughter that our rope swing will generate, and for years and years to come?

Now, I realize that a barn isn’t all about fun and games. A barn is utilitarian. It means serious business. That is why I will insist upon a working hayloft, and that it always be filled with bales of freshly strewn hay. Never you mind that I’m slightly allergic, or that hay causes my skin to break out in a rash. A hayloft is a requisite part of any bona-fide barn, and we’re not about to build the thing only to scrimp on something quite as vital as a hayloft.

Besides, can there be a better place for you and me to make out?

I think not.