Dave's Blog

Fri Apr 29 17:47:59 GMT 2005

The Seven-Year Itch

Marilyn Monroe made it famous.  It's a Hollywood myth that one 
can't be in love forever.  George Bernard Shaw thinks it's true.  
Marianne Williamson thinks it's false.  My experience is that most 
Hollywood myths are false, but the culture is so steeped in them 
that it supports them even in the face of contrary evidence.  

I've known Margaret for 6-2/3 years, so my trigger has been 
pulled.  Nice as I am, and a gentleman most of the time, I have 
been suggesting to some of my friends that there could be more in 
our relationships.  Their only response has been to withdraw from 
this offensive dirty old man.  They are young enough to be my 
daughters, some of them only half my age.  This does not bode 
well for my reputation, for although I have some cards in my 
cubicle thanking me for my material and spiritual support, none 
of them would think of dating daddy, and as an older man daddy 
is the type of person they see in me.  At least, until my 
hormones came out and I spoke too quickly.  Now they would 
rather not see anything in me -- or of me -- at all.  

Realizing that there would be no headway in familiar waters, I 
decided to research the Internet personals and see what I could 
find.  The Internet is a great way to sound out the mass 
consciousness, as well as to find the little quirks and 
exceptions that are lurking in the backwaters.  So off I went, 
into the deep, looking for a paramour that would satisfy my 
still-adolescent fantasies.  

At first I found the little quirks and exceptions that enticed me 
to look deeper.  Then, with accounts in hand, I began to study 
seriously the hundreds, nay thousands, of announcements the 
ladies of America were making in their advertisements.  Whoa!  
There could be no sensitivity training as effective as reading 
the bared souls of all those women, telling me directly what 
they hoped, dreamed, and longed for.  It wasn't me, I can tell 
you!  

In general, I have found the American woman has some pretty 
simple and consistent desires.  She wants to meet a man who is 
taller than her, within five years of her age (i.e. someone she  
might have met in high school), witty, charming, creative, in top 
physical condition, monogamous, and devoted to her.  That's it.  
I found this "looking for Mr. Right" fantasy consistent across 
all ages from 19 to 54.  With minor embellishments, the fantasy 
was consistent across the board.  

I also recognized that at all ages these women, who were 
consistently single, professional, and self-sufficient, all 
suffered the pangs of loneliness to a very strong degree.  The 
biological urge to mate appears in American women as a desire 
for a permanent bond, a need to share their lives with "the one," 
a yearning to have a true friend that will be with them forever.  

Damn.  I'd grossly offended all my friends and my closest one, 
my true love, my wife.  A crisis was exposed, and we had to talk.  
It was Margaret who felt the most uncomfortable about my sulky 
behavior, who called me out and asked me what was going on.  As 
one friend of ours once said, we were too familiar with each 
other, perhaps treating each other like siblings instead of 
lovers.  As I expressed my dissatisfaction, the disappearance of 
my desire, and the mourning of lost romance, I was reminded that 
it was I who had thrown out the most precious things, I who had 
decided maybe the status quo wasn't good enough for me.  
Romance was my responsibility, and she hadn't seen any lately 
either.  If I wanted fun and entertainment, what was I doing to 
create it?  Talking it out with Margaret helped me understand 
where my head had been going, and what mistakes I was making.  
Here I was working out my differences with the one thing that 
everyone on the Internet was begging for:  the loving, caring, 
best friend that could be here with me forever!  

Margaret was a smart woman, and she took immediate action.  We 
went out on a date on Thursday night.  Romance bloomed anew for 
another evening.  And I realize that as the suitor, I must treat 
her as I would treat any newfound jewel.  She is precious, and I 
must court her.  So I apologize to all our friends, my wife, and 
myself, and move anew in the land of Romeo and Juliet.  

Should I publish these observations?  Why not?  I have done 
nothing unnatural, and perhaps some male reader may encounter 
them some day and learn without having to make this mistake for 
himself.  John Gray says that Men are from Mars and Women are 
from Venus, but I say women come from another dimension entirely, 
and we men would be best served to study and care for the one at 
hand.  

Now Beltaine is upon us, I have a fire to tend, and the Union of 
the God and Goddess to celebrate.  How apropos.


Friday, April 22, 2005 1:22:14 AM

San Francisco is a 24-hour city, but you have to know where to 
look.  Class lets out at 10 pm, and to this City Boy the streets 
look deserted.  But Union Square is jumping with tourists, full 
of foreign languages.  I hear real English, the kind they speak 
in England, French, Spanish, Japanese, and some Slavic language 
of which I only recognize some phonemes.  I walk slowly out 
toward Polk Street, watching the scene.  Off the Square the 
streets are nearly empty again, just the local residents in 
their bluejeans and jackets.  The Great American Music Hall lets 
out at 11, and a middle-class crowd fills the block for a minute 
as it makes its way to parked cars in the darkness.  Another 
minute, and the street looks empty again.  On the weekend 
everyone in the Bay Area will be here, but now it's just people 
hanging out waiting to be sleepy enough to get to bed.  But 
wait -- a huge crowd mills outside the Edinburgh Castle, smoking 
cigarettes and chatting loudly.  And between Polk and Van Ness 
another crowd stands behind velvet ropes waiting to enter a 
Korean bar whose name I can't read.  Most of the people in this 
neighborhood look pretty worn, but very pretty people cross it 
on their way to other neighborhoods.  On Van Ness the crowd looks 
healthy and happy again.  I ride the bus to Masonic, and on the 
way home I meet exactly zero people.  The neighborhood is mine 
alone.  I know just down the hill on Fulton there's a crowd, but 
passing the University I am alone.  I look up and see the Moon 
dominating the sky in her near-fullness.  We have been blessed 
with warm, clear air this Spring, and the stars have come to play 
in the City with us.  Jupiter shines brightly just a handshake 
away, paying homage to Diana from the left as Arcturus watches 
from a respectable distance.  Tomorrow Jupiter and Diana will 
dance, and if I look up tomorrow night they will have changed 
places as they bid fond farewell for another month.  Stan Dale 
reminds me that one cannot be apart from nature, as humans are 
part of nature.  The City is just another forest, though the 
trees be cultivated and the cliffs made of wood and stucco.  
Looking to the dormitories I see that not everyone has succumbed 
to Thirsty Thursday; about 10% of the lights are on.  Some 
students must be pulling all-nighters as they race to meet their 
paper deadlines and cram for their Friday exams.  Not I, having 
graduated some 17 years ago, and the academic life seems far 
behind.  Yet I cross this scene coming home from a class.  There 
is no age, no degree, no certificate that can say I have stopped 
growing.  I am always on the leading edge, where the little 
bright green shoots make their way from old branches, reaching 
for the light and finding new space in which to live.  Old trees, 
new buds.  Life expands forever.  


Fri Apr  8 17:43:11 PDT 2005

This month I learned how to shave.  It sounds silly, but it's 
true!  I'm 52 years old, and I just learned how to shave!  

When I was 14 I noticed my face was getting hairy, so I went to 
the base exchange and bought myself a razor and some shaving 
cream.  I went to the back bathroom and started shaving.  My 
father hardly noticed this rite of passage, didn't say anything 
about it except that he noticed I was shaving.  No attaboy, no 
heart-to-heart, nothing.  I kept my face clean-shaven until I 
joined the Coast Guard.  For four years I grew a beard.  

When I went to Old Dominion University I shaved again.  When I 
went to San Francisco State University I stopped shaving.  That 
was 26 years ago.  Off and on I have shaved for various 
occasions and moods, but generally I have kept the beard.  

Why did I have a preference for the beard?  Did it make my face 
look better?  No, I preferred the beard because I kept getting 
scratches, pimples, rashes, and cuts.  I thought I had sensitive 
skin.  On a whim, at the beginning of the month, I started 
shaving again.  I used a light touch, and the first shave was 
good.  On the second shave, I scraped some skin off my face just 
below the corner of my mouth, and I stopped immediately.  Little 
droplets of blood oozed out of the capillaries as I looked at the 
pattern on my skin.  It looked like I had tried to take a layer 
off with a cheese grater.  

Then it hit me!  All these years I had been damaging my skin by 
pressing on it with the blade!  Somehow I had the wrong notion 
that if I wanted to shave smoother I should press down harder!  
All those years that I had shaved and dealt with skin rashes, I 
looked to the brand of shaver and the brand of shaving cream for 
a solution.  I tried septic sticks, first-aid cream, aftershave, 
and bracer, which the advertising media said would give me a 
better shaving experience.  Baloney!  

You are not supposed to press down on the blade!  It's the 
sharpest edge available to the common man!  You draw it across 
the surface of the skin, and its extreme sharpness cuts anything 
that sticks up above the surface!  Don't press down on it!  

It's simple!  Why didn't anyone ever tell me?  Why wasn't I 
shown how to shave?  

Now that I think of it, my father also has skin problems.  He 
even sat for a portrait a few years ago with a Band-aid on his 
chin.  Maybe I should teach him how to shave.  


Mon Apr  4 23:01:45 PDT 2005

Salt Lake City was beautiful.  The streets were clean, and so 
were the people.  Mormons appear to be primarily northern 
European; it seems like they are all blondes.  We were met at 
Temple Square by a couple of missionaries from Mexico and 
France.  The ladies begin 18 months' service at age 21, and 
their place of service is determined by the meditation of a 
bishop.  All the missionaries at Temple Square were petite.  
Along the way we met more missionaries from the U.S.A., Brazil, 
and Canada.  They were impressed that we discussed religion with 
them intelligently.  One was grateful we did not attack her 
religion.  If I see myself in all I meet, what is there to 
attack?  Another was impressed that Margaret had been to 
Jerusalem.  I assured that one that she would have her chance.  
We found out that the real Salt Lake City does not match its 
public image.  There were brewpubs, dance halls, night clubs, 
and gentlemen's clubs downtown.  It may not have been San 
Francisco, but it wasn't as desolate as a desert would suggest.  
We had a great time!  

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