“Nobody will ever win the battle of the sexes.
There’s too much fraternizing with the enemy.”
Apparently “Lover’s Day” is on the horizon again – that Taiwanese version of Valentine’s Day in which men forget to buy expensive things for their women and rush out at the last minute hoping to find some flowers and a decent place to grab what passes for a fancy dinner.
As a subject for bitching, you gotta figure Love is a gimme. Lost love, unrequited love, passionate trysts that require subsequent injections of heavily armed antibiotics and, of course, “The love that dare not speak its name,” (except during the Gay Pride Parade). From the perspective of a semi-professional crank, Love and all its associated baggage has to be considered a target rich environment.
Some folks say that Love is merely an illusion propagated by a few rogue chomosomes in order to ensure the survival of the species. That’s a rather cold Darwinian perspective, but after a few years (if you’re lucky…months, perhaps weeks, if you’re not), you’ll find yourself looking across the breakfast table thinking, “Damn…it’s ALWAYS gonna be that face sitting over there…” Just at that moment, the baby will start screaming, appropriately puncuating the full realization of what you have wrought with those two simple words, “I do.”
Love has been the subject of some great poetry. (If you’re pressed for the perfect, ‘guaranteed to get you some’ gift, the poetry of Pablo Neruda is pretty much a sure thing.)
Last Valentine’s Day, I heard perhaps the greatest love poem ever written read by it’s author. Of course, Mr. Bitch ranks Honesty as the prime virtue (only associated with love in theory, never in practice), so you may not find it quite as romantic as I do. In any case, and with apologies to the (here nameless) creator of this heartfelt prose, I give you a Lover’s Day po’m:
“I brought you chocolates.
I gave you some flowers.
I bought you dinner.
Now gimme some head.”
Gives you goosebumps, doesn’t it?
Shakespeare also took numerous swings at the topic.
In honour of the occassion, I have reworked the opening stanza of his most famous sonnet in order to make it slightly more truthful:
“Let me not to marriage
of true minds admit impediments,
because the impediments
will kick the door in
when they’re damn good and ready.”
Speaking of impediments to love, the courts in the Good Ol’ US of A have been grappling with whether or not to allow (or ban) gay marriage. Personally, I’m all for it.
Love, whatever it is, is a scarce enoughy commodity in this fucked up world. If two people, of whatever gender, persuasion or proclivity, think the legal solemnization of their delusion will make them happy, I say go for it. And besides, think of all the billable hours it’ll create for those poor, underpaid lawyers. You thought divorce was a bitter process? Wait til a Gay marriage breaks up and there’s a disagreement over who gets the drop-leaf end tables:
“They were a gift from MY mother!”
“Yes, they were…but she gave them to ME!”
Even Mr. Bitch has fallen prey to the plague of love. The cheating skank is now married to an alcoholic vinyl siding salesman, so I got off lucky. Bitter, but lucky. What’s the best revenge for a man who steals your wife? Let him keep her.
Love. Christ, it’s enough to drive you up a wall. Everyone’s looking for it – even those who supposedly already have it (a fact for which I am grateful every time your girlfriend comes to visit). So, apparently it’s not only the case that what goes around, comes around…but what went around comes back around. Go figure.
Love: It’s the main plot device in most movies, the inspiration for our music and literature, the driving factor of large chunks of the economy, and the motive in most murders – they ain’t called “Crimes of passion” for nothin’. And there is a lesson (not the least of which can be found in the criminal courts). Just look at the songs, for God’s sake. Celine Dion can warble her anorexic frame to pieces, she’ll never have the longevity of Billie Holiday.
“I am what I am because you love me,” simply does not possess the truth (and truth is beauty) of, “First they hurt me, then desert me, I’m left alone, all alone.”
And what would you rather listen to, anyway? The best music ain’t about love, it’s about the loss of love; the fickle nature of the thing; the dream that died.
Lara’s Theme? Puh-lease. I’ll see your Dr. Zhivago and raise you a Casablanca.
Love means obligations. Oh, sure…you SAY you’re down with dinner with the in-laws, holding her hair back when she pukes up Happy Hour, two o’clock feedings and “Til death do us part.” But those are only the obvious ones. You also get, “Why do you love me?”, “Where is this relationship going?” and, “Do these pants make my ass look fat?”
Mark Twain defined love as the irresistable desire to be irresistably desired.
But irresistable desire is a tough thing to maintain when She insists on telling you about her day while you’re trying to pay attention to the football game. In fact, forget about irresistable desire, or irresistable anything else. It’s best not to have the word “irresistable” in your vocabulary, because you never know when it’s going to break up with “Desire” and start hanging around “Urge to kill.”
As with everything, it’s all a matter of perspective. People always want to associate love with the Lord Byron Emily Dickenson crap that graces the pastel section of the greeting card aisle. They ought to pay more attention to people who didn’t harbour suicidal tendencies. You want accurate quotes about love, try these on:
“Love: a temporary insanity, curable by marriage.”
“By the time you swear you’re his, Shivering and sighing, And he vows his passion is Infinite, undying – Lady, make a note of this: One of you is lying.”
It comes to this: No one can tell you what love is – you’ll know it when you’re in it.
At some point after that, either you will realize it was all a horrible mistake or your significant other will. There may be some counselling…perhaps even some litigation.
Then one of you bolts, the other becomes a severely depressed stalker.
If you love something set it free
If it comes back to you, it’s yours forever.
If it doesn’t, hunt it down and kill it.
Now all you star-cross’t idiots fuck off. I’m busy.