The ironic thing about marriage is that sometimes your bizzaro world spouse does things or says things or sits a certain way or talks to strangers in a way that makes you want to run full-speed in the other direction or argues in a way that makes you ponder if he even has a brain or acts weirder than you’ve seen chimps act at the zoo or bugs you or shames you or shows you how petty you are or reveals to you a certain part of you you never knew existed or incites you to change for the better or sometimes worse or interferes with your definition of I AM PERFECT or draws attention to the fact that you can’t be happy until the dishes are done or sees you in a way you never imagined or loves in spite of your lean, mean heart or simply refuses to agree or is a big bad obstacle to all that your weary spirit dreams of on one afternoon or tells it like it is when you’re not really ready to hear it or just acts like a goof when what you want is James Bond…which brings me to my point and my conclusion:
IF YOU WANT LOVE YOU GOTTA WORK AT LOVE BECAUSE THE ONLY WAY TO HAVE LOVE IS TO WORK AT THE LOVE OVER AND OVER BEFORE IT WILL ENDURE.
Or Something Along Those Lines,
The large majority of my time walking Cooper involves preventing him from rolling in worms or rubbing up against trash or humping an elderly pekingese or charging a squirrel or licking year old gum off the sidewalk or acting a fool in the presence of unusually violent wind gusts or stealing sticks out of the gutter or growling unexpectedly at men with goatees. Now, don’t get me wrong—when we stroll, we stroll as if we are in heaven. We glide along the sidewalk and we converse back and forth about the beauty of our surroundings but all in all — if you boil it down — it is ME walking HIM and we both know that if he had his druthers he’d run wild like a banshee, so long as he knew I was within reach behind him. Which brings me to my point and my conclusion:
SOMETIMES AND MOST TIMES, THE BEST TIME TO LET YOUR FREAK FLAG FLY IS ALL THE TIME.
Give Me Lunacy Or Give Me Death,
Rick the Really Really Happy Roller
This afternoon, before the wind whipped up into a frenzy that would prevent Cooper and me from taking a walk along the bluffs up above and alongside the shiny blue ocean in the Palisades we stood at the stop sign that, if I must be honest, IS THE MOST CONFUSING AND ASSHOLE ENGENDERING STOP SIGN IN ALL THE UNIVERSE.
There are about 89 trillion options at this particular corner that leads to this space in the universe that is filled with:
distracted texting models
large muscular men attempting to pounce upon the distracted models
cats on leashes
crazy homeless people
elderly tribes of Middle Easterners carrying food coolers
lone females reading under trees
confused maintenance lawn mower guys
And so as Cooper and I sat, obediently, at one of nine corners that converge at the spot that takes you across the street and to the strip of wide lawn that overlooks the ocean we were VERY mindful to look to the left and then look the the right and when we saw that the coast was clear—when we were sure that it was our turn—we marched across the street as fast as we could.
Until we got halfway.
Until we were .000098ths of a millimeter in front of the horn of a Porsche that honked so loud I thought for one second that I might have lost The Coops, he jumped so high out of his skin, as the Porsche owner screamed at the top of his male pattern balding lungs: YOU HAVE NO CLASS!!!
Which brings me to my point and my conclusion:
YOU WANNA TALK ABOUT CLASS? WHAT YOU NEED TO DO IS GO COOL YOUR SWEATY BALLS ON THE SOOTHING SAND THAT NESTLES UP TO THE PACIFIC OCEAN UNTIL YOU THINK YOUR TEENSY DOGGIE TESTICLES MIGHT ACTUALLY BE SMILING AND WRITING IN THEIR JOURNAL—-THEN, AND ONLY THEN, CAN YOU TALK TO ME ABOUT CLASS.
Your Horn Is Your Penis,
Commander Coolio Coolmeister
Since I’m like nine and a half minutes old, I got hip to the world of infinite talismans that encourage me with sweet, profound poems and keep me from jumping off a cliff or odd shaped tidbits with just the right word written on them to remind me I’m very opposite of a worm, or gorgeous little trinkets that remind me of that day I KNEW FOR SURE NO MATTER WHAT THAT WE ARE ALL CONNECTED or pages ripped from old books that seem to convey that thing I know will keep us all alive and so the best thing about all my special treasures is that I know I’ll always find new ones that will be speaking just for me but meant for everyone and if I’m having a bad day, perhaps, if I’m remembering those times when I used to pretend that I didn’t LOVE Jon Bon Jovi because I thought it would make me look uncool I can just root around in the talisman section of my droopy paranoid resourceful life and find something to pump me up like Hercules so that I’m able to admit YEAH I LOVE JON BON JOVI I THINK HE IS VERY HANDSOME AND HE HAS A GREAT VOICE without giving a shit about what anyone thinks—which brings me to my point and my conclusion:
YOU CAN RUN BUT YOU CANNOT HIDE FROM THE DETERMINED LITTLE FUCKER THAT WANTS TO JUST BE YOU.
My illustrious moon was shining brighter than mere mortals should be capable of comprehending tonight and so as I took Cooper out for his next to last nightly pee-pee I immediately thought of a piece of paper that I have, that I have kept with me since the moment I found it:
And so when Cooper and I came back home I went foraging for this piece of paper with these glorious four sentences I scribbled on it and I read it over and over and rubbed my solar plexus in that way you do when you feel true love and I felt happy that I took the time to write this piece down, that day in the library, when I saw it nine million years ago—I just knew I’d need to carry it along with me in my life. Which brings me to my point and my conclusion:
IF NOTHING ELSE, AT LEAST YOU KNOW YOU HAVE THE DIAMOND SHARP INSTINCT TO COLLECT THE PRECIOUS THINGS AND WORDS AND IMAGES AROUND YOU THAT WILL SPEAK TO YOU IN YOUR DEEPEST DARKEST CONFUSION AS WELL AS YOUR MOST GRATEFUL HAPPY FACE BOUNTY HOUR
Choose What Speaks To You Most Deeply and Then Stick With That,
Gertrude of the Constant Goosebumps