Originally Posted Saturday, January 12, 2013
And I don't know what to do.
Over the holiday break, I did nothing. I barely got out of my pajamas. I'd usually get out of the house by two. I'd work out, have something to eat, do some grocery shopping, and then. . . darkness fell. I really did nothing. I needed that.
With two days, though, one would think to have some fun. ???? I don't remember how. What is "fun"? I'm so out of practice that I don't seem to have even a primal memory of it.
But I do. And all of it involves women. Sitting in cafes, lying in the dark watching a movie, warmth and heat, secret things, breakfasts and mimosas, sex in the afternoons followed by long naps. . . . Even when there were no women present, playing basketball with the boys or climbing mountains in far off lands, women were the subtext. I read books for women. Whenever I discussed them with men, it was always about women. I worked out in gyms for women. I boxed for women. Hell, I think I learned to brush my teeth and wipe my own ass and even drive for women.
Amore.
It was not about sex, though that was good, but this is the difficult part for some of my friends to understand, even more so if they are younger. It was about romance. It was about love. I fall in love hard and deep and easily. I am a willing recruit. I am a fool for the look in a woman's eye. I'll go over the cliff for that.
"I'm a hero. Look at me!"
It is just what I was taught, perhaps. Matt Dillon suffered everything for Miss Kitty.
But things have changed. One of the seminal moments came in 1993 with the release of "True Romance." The whole thing is summed up when Alabama Whitman tells Clarence Worley those three little words that everybody so longs to hear:
"You're so cool."
I'm not cool any more and the idea of romance is antithetical to the women I now meet. I used the term "making love" to a women recently, and she went into hilarious conniptions.
"What the fuck is that?"
"What?"
"You used the 'L' word."
She looked at me as if I had two heads. O.K. Maybe three.
She was more than willing to fuck--eager, even--but there would be no "making love."
I know my friends who are reading this now are yelling, "No, no, stop it now, don't do this."
My emotions are antique things now, I realize, like Modern Literature. You know, that shit that was written by those white guys.
Last night, watching television, I kept hearing ads for "On Demand" movies that urged viewers to "relive" the event. I was appalled. I don't want to "relive" anything. I want to live through something new. I don't want to go to a Jimmy Buffet bar with fellows in Tommy Bahama shirts and beards and khaki short shorts and women with time stamp tattoos on their ankles or lower back or rear left shoulder arthritically gyrating out across the floor with a "Whoohoo" and a tiny fart, nor even to a thirty-something's bar where GenX tries to hold on to their hipster roots. Man, I just want something new. Again.
It will take a lot of walking, I think, and looking and listening. Maybe I'll need to leave the camera at home. I don't think I should want a purpose. Simply to float, I guess, to come across some things and see. I just don't have enough experience any more to have a new experience.
Wish me luck. I hope my knees hold up.
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