Friday, December 9, 2016

History’s Question





It’s revolting that the market place of ideas is so polluted by visceral knee jerk reactions to what one person ‘thinks’ another person is saying without even bothering to listen. I try to give people the benefit of the doubt, to understand what they are saying the way they understand it, and to critique it politely. Some might think me na├»ve but there’s a perfectly good reason I try not to accept stereotypes for groups of people, like Trump supporters, and even individuals without solid evidence. Well, it’s bigoted, for starters. Taking an entire group of people and painting them in broad strokes is just that. We on the left may think we are immune to that sort of Colonial, Patriarchal, White Man's Burden nonsense that should have been left in the trash heap of history.

But that’s the problem. History has a habit of putting down roots and regrowing closer to home where it looks refreshing and new. There’s a slippery slope from condemning today’s heretic to committing the next holocaust. I paraphrased a quote the other day: God save us from a confident man. Not sure where it came from but I won’t claim it as my own. They are the people who repeat history, they who are sure of themselves. They’re the Good Guys! People who are outraged at the bigotry and ignorance around them and who know Oh, so much better. Those are the people who become the next Nazis. The next Crusaders. The next Reign of Terror. No evil person wakes up one day and says, Today I will be evil.

We should treat others with respect and acceptance, not because we are better but because we know we could all too easily become much worse. If I was a spiritual person I’d say it was the law of Karma. You become what you are most passionate about. If your greatest passion is love, you become what you love. And if it is hate…?

There’s a quote from Doctor Who. A good man needs no rules. Now’s not the time to find out why I have so many.

I read things about the rise of the Nazis in Germany. People ask, How could the German people have let that happen? I wonder. Fifty years from now will people look back at the first few decades of the twenty-first century and ask the same thing? How could the North American people have allowed that to happen? The inhabitants of the former United States Empire? 

The casualties of the Neocon, nee Nazi, wars are not yet as high as their predecessors, but the effects are much more widespread on a global scale. And we’ve been just watching it, dumbstruck, for fifteen years. How is that possible? The “Trump” revolution is not so much a revolution as one more step along the way. How could we have let that happen?

What do we answer? History’s waiting.

Sunday, November 27, 2016

A Few Days in the City



  
I saw that a TV host that I like was putting on a road show and that he would be in New York over Thanksgiving. His name is Alton Brown and he was the host of the Food Network show, Good Eats. This was a food show, but not in the traditional sense. He envisioned it as a combination of Julia Child, Mr. Science, and Monty Python. In other words; part cooking, part science, and part fun.

The show was immensely popular. When it ended Alton created a road show. This was not of the same format, but, as he said, the stuff the network wouldn't let him do on television. Some music, audience participation, gadgets, puppets. The works.

So I decided, what the heck? Why not go see it and spend the night in Manhattan? I haven't done anything crazy in way too long. I reserved tickets well in advance; I got the front row mezzanine dead center. Perfect view of the stage. I then made hotel reservations at a place in the west Village called the Jane Hotel. It caught my eye because the decor was like that of a steam ship passenger liner. I could stay in a place reminiscent of the ship my grandparents came over on from the Old Country. Well, except for the privacy and turned down sheets and lack of scurvy and stuff.

My plan was to drive to New Haven and take Metro North to Grand Central on the Friday after Thanksgiving. I'd have lunch, see the show, and then leisurely make my way down to the hotel. Do something in the evening, then have Saturday to explore. I downloaded the holiday schedules and determined the best trains to catch. I was prepared, scout leader! Best laid plans, as they say.

First, I forgot the difference between AM and PM when setting my alarm clock Thursday night. So it was set to go off at 6:00PM Friday. I woke up about nine. Yikes! Luckily I was mostly packed. I swore. I grabbed the few last minute items. I swore. I threw on some clothes. I swore some more. That was a trend of the day. I locked up, set out, and skedaddled toward New Haven, oblivious of what train might be available when I got there. Did I mention that I swore? That's important.

I got my tablet and brought up the train schedules, flicking back and forth between the blurry PDF schedule and I95. If there was no good option to get me into Grand Central with enough time to scuttle over to Times Square, I'd have to drive all the way into New York and find a parking garage for the two days. While that might be cheaper than paying for parking in New Haven and a round trip ticket to NY, it's still a pain. I've done it several times in the past, but didn't want to do it in the future. Not this future, at least. 

But another concern was parking. I've driven to Union Station in New Haven before to find the parking garage next to the station full. I had to drive about a mile away and park in a parking garage belonging to Yale hospital. I had enough time so I walked back to the station. But I got back about 12:30 that night and didn't want to walk through New Haven at that hour. I got a cab. When I got to the garage it was no longer staffed! Luckily, they opened the exit gates, so I got out with free parking. At least seeing the Addams Family with Kristin made it all worthwhile.

As luck would have it, I got to New Haven and found a brand new parking lot just for the train station a couple of blocks away! I sidled in, swiped my credit card, with the promise that, when I left, it would calculate my parking fee, and settled my car in for an extended stay. I got my bearings, asked for directions, and was off to Union Station. The next train to New York was in about ten minutes. I had hoped to get a coffee and a bagel in the lobby, but this was better. I bought a two fare ticket and hightailed it to platform three, where my iron chariot awaited. And it was an express! How nice. Then off.

An hour and a half later I was in Grand Central Station, the neo classical temple to mobility. I always have to look up in the main lobby. At the zodiac across the ceiling. At the honey limestone of the walls. At the rock floor with its geometric patterns. They knew how to make architecture that spoke back then.

And up and out onto the street. Amazingly, I still had some time. I had gotten the next train after the one I missed, albeit through much swearing, thrashing about, and the neglect of basic hygiene. We won't mention that further. I wanted to see Rockefeller Center. It's not that far away if you don't mind walking. I kind of knew where it was, so I set off. I found Radio City Music Hall, but not the plaza. Actually, I was only about a block away but I didn't know that at the time. I was losing time, so I headed for Times Square, looking for a place to eat along the way.

One thing about New York. I won't eat in chains. I don't see the point in traveling so far to eat at McDonald's. Or Sbarro's. I just won't do it. I found a place that advertised steaks. Hmmm. They have a luncheon special. So I got a steak, rice, onions and mushrooms, bread, and a juice for twenty bucks or so. The steak wasn't a filet but it was enjoyable. And off I went.

I found the theater, the Ethel Barrymore Theater on 47'th street, just in time to get my seat.

The show was great. Alton is also a musician and had a band. He played and sang songs like one about his grandmother ruining the turkey every Thanksgiving by not brining it, but instead, basting it and baking it to mummification. He got someone from the audience to help him prepare a truly ghastly cocktail out of Wild Turkey, Pumpkin Spice, and Tequila. He showed how it could be made passable by freezing it into an Italian Ice using liquid nitrogen. In the second act he got another audience member to help him make popcorn with a humongous monster made out of fifty hot air poppers and four air cannons. It shot popcorn out over the audience.

It was awesome. And he's a surprisingly good musician and singer. I was impressed.

After the show I wanted to get to the hotel and drop off my stuff. I had only brought a few things in a carry-on bag Kristin bought for me one Christmas. It was perfect. It was like a woman's purse or a satchel. I just wore it over my shoulder and under my arm and it was comfortable, safe, and secure. Still. I wanted to get to the hotel.

The hotel was on Jane Street, which is down in lower Manhattan where they still have named, not numbered, streets. Since I was at 47'th street, that meant I had at least 47 blocks to go. Forget that, I took the subway. Three dollars and a magic train ride later and I was four or five blocks from my night's repose. The mobs of Times Square were replaced by the peace of the west Village.

I checked in, the hotel looked rather posh. My keys were an anomaly. There was a key fob to open the door and a brass rod to activate the lights! Maybe it's a nautical thing. Anyway, I used the lumbering elevator to get to the third floor and navigated around the landing until I found my room. The decor included portholes. The room was small. Cozy. The bed just a bunk. Bathrooms were shared. No men/women. Just a room with stalls and a shower. If you need to go bad enough, you will.

I liked it. It reminded me of when I was in a youth hostel in Edinburgh. They had coed bathrooms, too. Stalls for toilets. Stalls for showers. One sink. What's the big deal?

I went out looking for dinner. In this part of Manhattan the streets are more European. Less of a grid. I was in no hurry. I passed pizza places and hash houses. I had my heart set on Italian. I saw W4'th street. I remembered eating at a Spanish restaurant there once called Sevilla’s. Why not? Let's see what's down there. What I found instead was a very nice Italian restaurant. It was small and cozy and looked authentic. That's for me!

I had a cocktail, Carpaccio, Scottish Salmon, and chocolate mousse. Very nice.

When I went back to the hotel I decided to check out a lounge the concierge recommended to me when I checked in. I got a Manhattan and sat in the lounge. It was like being in the past days of New York glory. The room breathed class. From the immense fireplace to the stuffed rams and rich curtains. This was a place that held stories. And secrets. And lies. I went to bed pondering the past.

And woke up ready for adventure. After a shower in the coed bathroom, I checked out. There were bell hops by the entrance opening the doors for me and wishing me a good day. I could get used to this.

I made my way downtown, being careful to stay on smaller streets and avoiding the avenues. By this I came upon a park with a Farmers' Market in it. I got myself a banana nut mini loaf and a container of apple cider. It was nice sitting in the park and breaking off pieces of the bread and eating them. The birds weren't too impressed with my efficiency. The park had a statue in it. I looked but the inscription was worn and hard the read. By passing my fingers over the inscription and concentrating, I read that this statue had been placed here to commemorate those who had given their lives for the Great War. Ah. Of course. Back then it was The Great War. It hadn't yet become World War One. I paused in respect.

I continued down, passing various types of architecture, to ground zero. I could see the new Freedom Tower from a long ways away. It looked new yet held homage to the twin towers. It is square like the towers, but has a contrary cut shaving off two of the edges giving it a modern look. The effect is striking.

The memorial is gripping as well. The museum was mobbed, so I just stayed outside. There are these fountains, if you can call them that. Two, to be precise. They are square pits sunk into the ground. Water flows over the walls and down into the pits. At the bottom of the pits are smaller pits dropping down even further, the water drops into them. Outside there are walls around the pits with smooth faces on them, on these are the names of everyone who died here on 9/11. They place a rose on each name on their birthday. Remember the dead.

The monument is not finished. There is more to do. More to remember.

Thoughtful, I turned east and continued. I had a mind for lunch. I remembered getting lunch for Kristin, Matt, and me at an Indian restaurant once. It was... somewhere. Around 2nd street, I think? I headed over to China Town and turned uptown. Mott Street. Bowery Street. Houston Street. I quested back and forth around China Town, Little Italy, and the Lower East Side for an hour or so looking for Little India. I asked for directions, but people didn't know. Until the last. A couple I saw around Houston Street. Excuse me. Are you from around here? Yes. Can I ask you a question? I was here years ago and ate at an Indian restaurant. I thought it was around E2nd street, but I can't find it. Do you know of anything like that? You mean a street with a bunch of Indian restaurants on it? Yes, exactly. Sure. That's on 6th street between 1st and 2nd Avenue. Great! Thank you!

So I was off. With solid information. New Yorkers love their city.

I found Indian Alley and had a great meal of chutney, pickles, basmati rice with shrimp, and Nan bread. Stupendous.

I still wanted to see Rockefeller Center. So I found the nearest subway and hopped on board.

What a nightmare.

The train was packed. I had to assume the sardine stance. It was about six stops to my stop. With each stop I was pushed further into the human packing foam. I reached my exit and wormed my way out.

Rockefeller Center. 30 Rock. Prometheus and his skating rink. The big Christmas tree! What I found myself dumped into was a huge underground fun house. I checked the map to see which train I should take to Grand Central. There really wasn't a good option. Meanwhile, the station was full of noise.

I found a sign directing me to Rockefeller plaza. I followed it into another cavern of confusion. The noise really was disorienting. There was this background din, punctuated by the occasional buffoon laugh or high pitched female voice admonishing something. It was the acoustical equivalent to finger painting. As I pushed through the throngs I found myself getting mildly psychotic.

And I followed another sign into another gallery of stores, restaurants, food courts, and the ever din of humanity. It was starting to get to me. It began to take on that surreal quality of a nightmare. The din punctuated by shouts and barks became carnival in nature.

Another sign. Another door. Another room of sonic sadism. A kaleidoscope and Calliope of sounds from sights. I was in a horror movie where the Ferris wheel and popcorn and balloon bearing public pitch and sway back and forth drunkenly and blur with the colored lights and the dizzying music. With a laughing clown face or a girl on a trapeze bursting in horribly. Bright lights and circus performers grinning from painted faces. And the merry-go-round swirling on and the gaudy mechanical clown playing the ghastly organ. It went around and around. Finally ending with me on the ground looking up at shutter box images and sounds of confusion, light, and madness.

Or maybe the crowd just annoyed me.

I finally found the exit. And there I was. Rockefeller Center. It was mobbed. While trying to get across the street to the Christmas tree, I spotted Radio City Music Hall. I really had been close yesterday morning. I got a glimpse of the tree. And old Prometheus. He looked better than his reputation. And the mobs were still too much, though at least here there was sky overhead. And no clowns.

I walked back to Grand Central Station when I had had enough of Rockefeller's Circus. No more carnival subway stations. The sidewalks down Fifth Avenue were crowded. But I soldiered on. A couple with a baby carriage came my way. The mother dropped a baby bottle right in front of me. I reached down and picked it up. Here you go, I said, giving her the bottle. She said thank you in what I thought was a Southern accent. I hoped that I had given some visitors a good impression of New Yorkers.

Grand Central Station was just a block or two away. Amazingly, the next New Haven train was in fifteen minutes. So of course I headed for the bar. I had a Manhattan, in Manhattan, and chatted with some people from Switzerland before getting on the 4:59 Metro North to New Haven. It was an express train! Small favors.  The doors closed about thirty seconds after I got on.

Altogether a successful trip.

Wednesday, November 9, 2016

Trump won!



How's that possible? I suspect he had a lot of close call elections. 49 to 51 or so. But it doesn't matter with our electoral college. We should have a Parliament. But we don't.

Still. This was a very strong voice for democracy. At least as we have conceived it. Our system produced Trump. Maybe we need a new system.

Trump won.

Fair and square. This is our system. There it is. Accept it. The majority of the American people have spoken. Well, the majority of the electoral college. Remember Al Gore?

But what did they say?

They are tired of being the flyover states.
They are tired of being second class citizens.
They are tired of seeing their jobs fly over seas.
They are tired of being squeezed for every dime they have.
They are tired of being lied to.
They are tired of watching their culture vanish.
They are tired of being the last sheet on the roll of toilet paper.

I know. I have all the reasons why these arguments are invalid rolled up in a wad in my tee shirt sleeve next to my Luckies.

They are all racists.
They are all sexist.
They are anti-Semitic.
Their eyes don't focus strait.
Their knees clang.
They are all-Wait.

Has anyone asked them what they want? Has anyone talked to them? These alleged knuckle draggers? Has anyone ever included them in the dialog as equal partners? Taken them seriously?

No?

That's what they think. And maybe feel. There is Us. And there is Them. But we have always treated them as Them.

Them just spoke.

Listen?

The alternative is civil war.

Red State, Blue State. False State, True State




So, it's done. Donald Trump is to be the Commander in Chief of the most powerful nation on earth. God save the republic. Looking at an electoral map of the nation you see pretty much a sea of red with some blue splashes on either coast, and a few others:  New Mexico, Colorado, Minnesota, Illinois. But mostly red.

Maybe we should think about a breakup. After all, if the states are so divided maybe we should be so divided. It's happened before. In 1990 Mikhail Gorbachev and Ronald Reagan engineered the breakup of the Soviet Union. That was unprecedented. Empires are not known for going gently into that good night. They managed it without civil wars and barbarian invasions and cannibalism and all that stuff traditionally associated with the fall of an empire. Why not us?

So how would the breakup proceed? Well, there would be an Atlantic Republic along the east coast. A Southern Confederacy. Texas, for sure. A West Coast corridor and a Midwestern confederation. The Southwest might vote to rejoin Mexico. Canada can have pieces of Maine and Washington and, oh, why not? Alaska. Hawaii never wanted to be a part of the US anyway. You can have your kingdom back.

There! Everybody happy now? If you like your socialism you can keep your socialism.

But something doesn't quite add up. In Connecticut, a baby blue state, Trump got 41% of the vote! And in Texas, as red as the good earth, Clinton got 43%! New York voted 37% Trump. California voted 33% Trump. Alabama voted 34% Clinton. I don't know what's red or blue anymore!

The designations Red State, Blue State were invented during one of the Bush II elections. They were another way for the news madia to shirk its responsibility to report and analyze the events of the day. Gone were the nuances about demographics and economic levels. No more discussion about race or class distinctions. No more hard issues that had no easy answers. Just, boom! You're either red or blue. They didn't just paint people with broad strokes, they dispensed their paint with a fire hose.

In this entire country there are red and blue states. And in every state there are red and blue counties and red and blue cities and towns and villages. And red and blue households and red and blue people. And in every person there are red and blue opinions, ideas, and needs. And red and blue questions for which there are no black and white answers.

Let's talk about them, shall we? Or we could just tear it all apart.

Wednesday, November 2, 2016

Chronicles of a Baby Boomer - Google



Be careful what you Google for.

I was putzing around thinking of old friends from long ago and decided to google one. An old girl friend. I know. It's voyeuristic. And peeping-Tomish. But I knew a little about her after we broke up. We were still friends. Though we not exactly kept up with each other. But I was still curious where she might be today. A little. I Googled her. Shoot me.

Nothing.

So I got introspective. I thought, Why not try that Twilight Zone thing? You remember? The one where the guy has the truth glasses that allow him to see what other people are thinking?  He uses them to cheat at cards until he starts learning things about his friends he'd rather not know? Like his wife's cheating on him with one of them? Then he finally puts them on and looks in a mirror?

I Googled myself.

24760 matches came up for Jonathan Loux. Not exactly punctuating.

Jonathan Loux obituary. Pensacola, FL. Better stay away from there.

I'm listed on a Town of Canterbury document getting $35.09 back in tax rebate. I don't remember getting the check. Bastards! Well, yes. I do. Now that I think of it. OK. We're even.

I'm in a database group discussion list talking about DB2 auth ID errors. Ah. I remember those days. That's when I used to have a real job!

There are several sites that will tell me all about me. Phone number, address, age, sign, blood type, skin PH. For a fee, I suspect.

Oh. Here's a connection to the theatre. Jonathan Loux to stage Agatha Christie murder mystery. Nice!

This one says, "This site may harm your computer." I'll click anyway. Google gave me a stern warning. Enter at your own risk! You could have malware installed on your computer! Your brain turned into mush! Abandon all hope ye who click here!

OK, already. I don't trust anybody with my name, anyway!  So I relented. I don't want to be possessed or unencrypted or downloaded or anything. Though I wondered...

Blah, blah, blah. More genealogy. More fishing expeditions. More various Jonathan Loux's around the world. How uninteresting. Isn't there anything scandalous any of my doppelgangers are doing? Do I have to do all this myself?

MySpace profiles. VMware blog. Some entries in French. LinkedIn. Facebook. Some crap from Twitter. A couple of my blog entries. Interesting. I wonder why those ones bubbled up? I write a lot of blog entries. Why index these? An org chart from UConn. Oh, look. I remember when they thought I was organized! How naive!

Ooo, look. My casting in an upcoming show at the Bradley! Old Joe in A Christmas Carol! Nice and current.

A review of a previous show. Blood Relations. That was a good show.

A comment on some other blog from 2012. What a loud mouth! Though I was right, of course.

A newspaper article from when we had to move a show from Putnam to Danielson at the last minute due to infrastructure problems. The ceiling collapsed in our home theatre. I described it as 'guerilla theatre' because we had to be quick on our feet. God. We just needed a truck, a flatbed, and a lot of willing hands! I'm glad we had all! It was still a great show.

And lots of other random references to lots of other Jon, John, and Jonathan Loux's in lots of other mindless circumstances in lots of other stupid places. How boring.

Not a scandal to be seen.

My work's cut out for me, I see...

Sunday, October 30, 2016

Chronicles of a Baby Boomer - Family



I remember. After my accident. A few months. Going out to visit my kids. My daughter and her husband, Seeth, in Oregon.

They had spent a great deal of time by my side when I was in the hospital. A great deal. And when I came home, put back together piecemeal by the competent people at UMass Memorial Hospital. Kristin stayed with me for a few weeks. To keep a check on me. To look after. To make sure I was OK. To-Well, to be a daughter.

So. She went home and a couple of months later I followed her. They wanted me to come out and visit as soon as I was able to travel, so I did for a few weeks or so.

I slept on a couch in the living room. We watched movies together. I cooked dinners. And went to a park nearby and wrote my memoirs. Chronicles of an old guy with a motorcycle. A stupid old guy.

Once we went to the beach. We got cheese and crackers from Tillamook dairy and went to the shore. We ate cheese crusted with sand and ran in the beach. I laid down for a nap on a blanket on the sand. I gently stroked the sand through my fingers as I lay.

"Are you OK, Dad?" Kristin asked, noticing my agitation. "I'm fine. I'm just sifting sand through my fingers." She worries. I don't want her too. I'm glad, anyway.

After my accident I had few memories. I remember being in the ambulance. Talking to the EMT's. Seeing my brother, Dan. And then nothing until I woke up in the ICU in UMass. Drugs and shock. No sex or rock and roll. Though there were hallucinations. Not quite the same. And recovery in the rehab hospital. I was intent on getting out as fast as I could. I made a grilled cheese sandwich for a couple of the cute rehab technicians and charmed them with my balancing skills. I wanted OUT. Kristin picked me up and brought me home.

Then hell began.

But this story is about what came next.

I recovered.
I grew.
I got better.
I still was in need.
I needed help.
And I got it.
It meant the world to me.

I took my laptop out to the park next to the apartment and wrote about my experiences.

And came back.
And tried to make friends with the cat, who never loved me. Stupid cat.
And pet the dog, who loved everybody. Nice dog.
And prepared dinner, which everybody loved. Nice people.
And was grateful for those who loved me. Good family.

And I still am.

I love my family.

Saturday, October 29, 2016

Chronicles of a Baby Boomer - Dating



We are attracted to people because they are attracted to us. Circular reasoning, eh? It's visceral, OK? It's sex. Male. Female. Hormones. Pheromones. What else? We want a mate. We want a partner. Someone we can play around with and feel satisfied by and hang onto with kisses and passion and whatever tools evolution gave us to hang onto a mate. What's wrong with that? Not a thing.

But, guess what? After the sex we have the choice. To stick around with the person we just had sex with and let our non-sex lives coexist with theirs or go away. Or, in the old days, the female bit the head off the male and used his protein for egg production. It was a very efficient system. In many ways superior to our own.

So now. Since I'm no longer in college and am too old for the matchmaker, I go on dating sites. Match.com. Pof.com. Get_me_a_bang.com. You_mean_your_not_having_sex.com. There are tons of them. And sometimes I  date people. Though not often anymore. Not a lot of prospects. Not a lot of winners. Though I'm one to talk. I have no idea what they want. Or what I want. I'm too old for this.

So what do I want? A girl. An amazing sex partner, sure. Why not? A friend. Of course. Someone to go to bed with me at night with lust in her body and wake up in the morning with druel on her chin. And race me to the bathroom. Better make it two. Don't want to trip. And gurgle over coffee and stumble over the day's plans. And gladly greet the day in our own ways. And then come back at night. Lovers and fastest buds. A pragmatist. A comedian. A buddy. A friend. Did I mention the sex part?

So. What am I looking for, exactly. A perfect girl? One that's sexy in the evening, pleasant in the morning, and intellegent all day round? Great. Order one up right now, why don't you? Get real. No such creature exists. I'm certainly not anything like that. I don't expect more.

I am attracted to women and fancy that one or two of them might be attracted to me. So there. I'm human. I want to date someone who might want to date me back. By date, I mean go somewhere together; a park, a restaurant, a city by the bay, a street in the suburb with a remarkable restaurant, and maybe a walk, hand in hand, in the central park. By the river. Two people who are out sharing a moment. Not expecting anything more. But wondering if they might want to share something more. And not certain. Not sure. But wish and hope they could. And that's grand. And that's exciting. And that's...

I want you! Oh, I wish to want you! Though mostly we don't.. I think. Do you wish to want me? We're both thinking it... Isn't it grand? Maybe? Don't pretend. When you date, you're thinking about sex, too. We all are. So what do you think?

No sex required. Well, not at first. Let's face it. We date because we want a partner to have sex with. There's no shame in that. It's quite natural. It's quite nice, actually. It's quite. Well, human. Sure. We want someone we can play with who is not a jerk. That's secondary. A close second. But you wouldn't go on a trip to Aruba with someone who you thought wasn't a good lay.

An expectation. A hope. The all in all. The want of body for body. The joining of two bodies in play and fun and acrobatics that equals joy. The touch of love. That which can be most inclusive or brutally one sided. The first one we call love. The last one we call rape. Why do we have rape? It's because sex is so intimate, so familiar. The violation of it is so monstrous. It's not just a body rape. It's a soul rape. And that is a rape of the whole community. A violation of everyone.

Of course, in all relationships there is that hint of the most intimate of encounters. When I ask a woman out on a date, I'm not just saying, Let's go exploring! I'm saying, Let's go have some fun together and explore each other, a little bit. Maybe, while we have dinner or walk a canyon or get ice cream, we can each look at a little bit of each other's psyche. Our souls. And see the undergrowth! Check the verge. Glean the parts. Well, the parts we're willing to expose. Which aren't usually very many. It's hard to open up when you're so insecure.  When you're trying to be on your best side! And trying to find out as much as you can about your partner. Your date. And wishing. Wishing. Wishing it works out. Wishing you could ask for a second date. Wondering, Is this OK? Is there a future? And you give a little bit of you. And she gives a little bit of her. And you probe each other. And you learn. And you want more.

Such is dating.

Every flirt carries a hint of love. And a hint of rape. And a hint of mutual consent. And a hint of wanting what we can't have. And a hint of regret. And, sadly, a hint of wanting to do it again. For this time we will be conquerors. This time we will succeed. Though mostly we don't.

And Sadness. Or hope?