Wednesday, November 12, 2008

Love is the drug from hell

Anita the Presumptuous demanded that I open up another can of worms, quite possibly the largest and most destructive can in both the known and unknown universe. Don't ask me how I know about the unknown; ancient French secret. If I did open up said can, and I'm stupidly leaning towards doing so because I've got zip lined up comme d'habitude, they wouldn't be those those cute, fuzzy annelids, but a mutated, flesh-eating variety, 'cause nothing can chew you up into a sticky paste and spit you out like the worthless sludge of crap that you are comme l'amour.

How's that for romantic?

Before we go on any further, I'd like to state, for the record, though I understand the reasons why we name ourselves the way we do -- easier for the monolithic police state to maintain full dossiers upon its subjects and other fine points of tinfoil hattery -- but c'mon; Aethelred the Unready? Louis the Spider? Charles the Bald? Ivar the Boneless? That's just groovy stuff, so much better than, say, oh, Randal Graves. I could be Randal the Long-Winded or Randal the Annoying.

"Randal the Stupid."


Before we go on any further, partie deux, why is everyone a fucking moran today? Not you, dear readers, the fucking idiotic fuckers in the real world. Gonna be a long ass day.

Can asses be long?

"Are you done?"

Yes, now fuck off.

So, the statement, by some, of the hour: l'amour n'existe pas.

Millions of theories have been written on this by people far more intelligent, experienced and edumacated than I; billions of poems, most of them bad and most of those mine, so which illegal substances is the 10,374,442,683rd person ever to exist -- or wherever I am on the list -- possibly smoking when he thinks he can add a fresh take on the subject? Well, I couldn't no matter how hard I tried, but through the ancient Art of Bullshit, with a little help from The Google, I've managed to craft a post without too much work -- while duping at least two or three of you to read this far, ha ha ha! -- thereby freeing up more brain energy to ponder the eternal questions surrounding this beautiful hell and if and when I come up with any answers to placate my fragile sanity, quietly keeping them to myself to save another embarrassment of foot-in-mouth-itis because though I could pen -- well, type -- thousands upon thousands of scattered, nonsensical words on this eternal torment, it's better that I don't.

For me, it comes down to this: through various methods, emotional or otherwise, and their assorted corollaries both tangible and abstract as we explore reality and dream, each of us invents some archetype, our ideal, and then we hope someone out there in the ether will match most of the characteristics of said ideal. That's the easy part. Now go find someone and hope they reciprocate. Bonne chance, sucker.

Of course, there's an inherent danger that one isn't in love with anyone at all, but with love itself and that we merely project that sentiment onto a flesh and blood human, adjusting the toxicity of the lies we tell ourselves up and down depending on new discoveries and/or fluctuations in our ideal and/or just how much this living, breathing human does indeed match due to their originally encountered composition and, later on, new discoveries and/or fluctuations in said human.

Man, that sounds too fucking scientific. Now I'm even more depressed.

"Is that a pheromone in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"

Ha. Nice try, brain. And on top of that, I don't even know what the point of this post was. The world's longest prologue to an open thread? At least it's an overcast, cold autumn day. That makes me a little bit happier. So does not being clear on anything. Where's the fun in having everything sacred and profane spelled out, because if there's one thing love is, it's fun, right?



MRMacrum said...

Back when amour or love or admit it, lust was numero uno in the trashbin I call my mind, my efforts to find it always seemed to land shy of the goal. Maybe it was because I tried too hard. Maybe it was because I was too short. It certainly was not because I was too tall. Or maybe it was that nervous tic and my spontaneous exclamations of "suck this" that caused the objects of my desire to beat hasty retreats.

But once I stopped looking for it, damn, if it did not find me. If Love did not have the double edge, would we be so inclined to play around with it?

KELSO'S NUTS said...

RANDAL: I've only loved one woman in my whole life. My first wife. When we split up we did it with mutual consent and no rancor because neither of us wanted to force the other to live a life the other didn't want. We're still friends and I'm godfather to her son.

Other than that, nothing close. I've learned how to fake it, of course, because I'm sort of a dog but it has been 15 years since I felt what I believed to be love.

I kind of always had a hard attitude, though. I have a very low shit threshold, so even in my teens if a girl I was going out with got weird on me, I'd tell her to take a hike. And I really don't put myself in positions to get my feelings hurt with women and haven't since I broke up with my first wife. I've been married and divorced again and have a son with my 2nd wife but I never loved her.

I feel like I've reached a station in life at which I really don't HAVE to visit in-laws or put on an act or do anything that bores me because it's important to somebody else upon whom I MAY or MAY NOT be able to rely.

I really don't want to interrupt my work, my blogging, my reading, my TV, my time with my friends or anything I enjoy to "communicate" or say how I think or feel if I'm not in the right mood.

I love my son. I love my parents and sister. I love a handful of friends. That's it.

What I wrote wasn't exactly nice, but it was "different" than the other 10^10, si o no?

Non, Je ne regrette rien said...

Like I said. L'amour n'existe pas.

Not so very long ago (okay well maybe a couplahunnerd years or more, but time is a relative thing) love was not even a concept.

It was all about property, survival, etc. Then chicks started to rebel and the downward spiral began.

I think chicks need to get hold of themselves and start advocating for their own non-love-related existence. because we've been drinking to kool-aid for far too long.

it's funny, I've been ruminating about tackling my phrase *l'amour n'existe pas* in a post of my own. especially since I didn't think you were going to take it on.

I still just might.

Utah Savage said...

Well, for the first time ever I'm finding myself in line with Kelso and his nuts.

I really only loved one man. And he was the first man I fell in love with. What did I do with the knowledge that I was in love with this man? I ran like hell, as fast and as far as I could go. While I was gone he got my best fiend preggers and the rest is history or histrionics. He married my friend after the son was born. I married thrice never once to a man I loved. Once married to me, all three of these husbands acted like perfect assholes, and eventually I left and then divorced each in turn.

I did end up living with that first love and we lived together off and on for roughly twenty years. I am hard to live with (I know this because I live with myself, and it's not easy task) and I found myself yearning to be alone. This might be one of the reasons I so identify with Anita The Presumptuous, whose old Avatar was Garbo. When living with my first love/last love, I often found myself wanting solitude. Alone, alone, alone. And so finally, I am alone. And quite frankly I like it that way.

Randal Graves said...

mrmacrum, you were Friedman before there was Friedman. No, that was 'suck on this.'

One day I might think you can't look for it, the next I might think you can. I vacillate between every possible dual permutation of this hideous subject, but your last sentence I'll always agree with. If it was as easy as buying a cheeseburger, then what's the point?

kelso, I wouldn't label what you said as 'not nice,' but simply honest. So many of us fall prey to delusion or expectation.

I really don't want to interrupt my work, my blogging, my reading, my TV, my time with my friends or anything I enjoy to "communicate" or say how I think or feel if I'm not in the right mood.

I hear you on this. I loathe the family thing, the holidays, all that crap. I don't loathe the people necessarily -- okay, most I do -- but there's always something I'd rather be doing, and that's just the surface phenomena.

JNRR, hey, don't be shooting holes in my romantic soul with this 'love ain't shit' trip. I don't want to have to write poems about cats and dogs, the weather or some old fool behind the counter at the local diner.

Not that I don't want to read your post on this. In fact, as a member of the patriarchal caste, I insist. I've got more, but it sure as hell isn't going up here. Filtering, mon amie, filtering.

utah, yeesh. I'd wager, though I wasn't there and kelso is expert gambler 'round these parts, pas moi, that those particular dudes just didn't dig a headstrong chick. I know that's one of so many clichés, but most want conflict-free environments, most men wanting conflict-free/me-be-boss environments.

I think I had one semester to myself. Not counting that, it was typical 0-18 year old, then married pop. Might be why I enjoy the rare moments of alone time.

I am hard to live with (I know this because I live with myself, and it's not easy task)

Heh, heh. I chuckle 'cause I can relate. I mean, I'm fucking awesome, just ask my wife.

Dean Wormer said...

Put me in the romantic love variety column.

I've been "in love" with lots of women but only LOVED my wife.

It was only the former that I might comfortably say I was projecting my love on.

(After typing that last sentence I feel dirty all of a sudden.)

Übermilf said...

What's love got to do with it?

What's love, but a second-hand emotion?

Frederick said...

Love your neighbor, till it hurts...

KELSO'S NUTS said...

@ NJNRR: I hear you. I still think politically the concept of feminism and pay equity are very important. Ibsen's A DOLL'S HOUSE will always be one of my favorite plays.

With strong, bright, feminist women, I've always had great times. It's the readers of the women's magazines with all the ersatz-feminism of "comminication" that give me panic attacks!

@ UTAH SAVAGE: Por que te caigo mal? Tal vez se otro lugar otro tiempo otro cielo con otro exisetencias pudieramos hacernos amantes huevados, pue'! Sin nada de pedir, ni mandar. Y a mi? Que me importa tu fuerza? Mis padres son super-fuertes. Mujeres fuertes y maduras no me molestan pa' nada. Me gustan.

Kelso he not bad man. City boy. Ambitious. Aggressive. Cynical. World weary. Capitalist. Economic conservative, social and foreign policy left-wing radical.

But not bad man.

Randal Graves said...

dean, sometimes I love my wife I think and I'm sure she thinks I'm marginally passable. And you have forever soiled this blog with such pornographic talk. For shame.

übermilf, I bought it second hand, and when I tried to sell it back, the cashier told me to get the fuck out of the store.

frederick, if you saw and knew my neighbors, you'd know what a hideous statement that was.

La Belette Rouge said...

I might surprise you with this. I do believe love is initially nothing but chemistry(increased levels of dopamine) and projection( which causes the increase of dopamine). When we realize our beloved is not all that we projected them to be it is then the opportunity for real love occurs but by this time the attorneys have been called and assets have been divided. 50% of married people decide that the person they have projected onto is unworthy of love and that it is time to find another person to project onto and so goes the pattern infinitum. Ah, love. Le sigh!

KELSO'S NUTS said...

RANDAL: DON'T FORGET. 11pm et on blogtalkradio...Torrance, Lovebabz and I are doing an NCAA and NFL show on RAW DAWG BUFFALO RADIO.

If you do miss it, it'll be up on Dr T's and Babz's sites archived. But there's a chat room and you can call in if you listen live.

KELSO'S NUTS said...


Randal Graves said...

LBR, I'm shocked, you're about as cynical as I am. Sure makes being a romantic a pain in the fucking ass, lemme tell ya. Don't mention anything about projection though, dean might come back and misbehave himself again.

kelso, thanks for the heads up, and glad it's tomorrow for at 11pm tonight I'll be on the bus on my way home from work!

okjimm said...

Dude, I wrote a reply-thingee at work. It got ate up somewhere.

I kinda gave up on love. Too many break-ups, reconnections, re-break-ups.

I gave up high diving too. One busted eardrum was enough. One divorce was too many.

Not saying that it may not occur.... weird shit happens. I may even get hit by a motor vehicle while riding my bike..... again.

See, never say never until you are snuffed out by a force larger than yourself.

La Belette Rouge said...

I am a weasel of contradictions. And, yep, I am very cynical. I do believe that knowing that love is a projection makes real love possible(once you unpack the projection). Real love is hard work that is the equivalent of a PhD in soul making. Love ain't easy---but it is so worth the effort.

And, Dean has taken projection to a whole lower level and I think he may be thinking of another -ection word.

Randal Graves said...

okjimm, I heard that BushCo released an army of nano-gremlins to fuck up the internets during the last days before the armageddon of tribulation.

Never say never until Sean Connery says "watch my strictly-for-a-payday remake so I can get another royalty check."

Ain't as funny since you can't hear my bad Connery impression.

LBR, unpack the projection? What hath been wrought upon this place once holy? We better call Pope Ratz and get one of those crack exorcist teams in here. Or I can finally turn this into a smut site and make a few bucks.

Oh, a comment on love. Dramatic pause. No comment.

Missy said...

Wow. Random.

Chemistry? Yes, absolutely. Projection? For some, not all.
A real romantic knows the love you give away is better than the love you keep.

You can love anyone you decide to love. But some folks sure are hard as hell to love.

I think LBR is some kind of rock star of love.

DCup said...

There's a thin line between love and hate.

susan said...

I couldn't agree with LBR more. C'est vrai.

S.W. Anderson said...

Romantic love defies analysis, even in hindsight. That said, true, abiding love provides plenty of hindsight to analyze, for those foolish enough to waste their time on it.

Better, if you're blessed to share abiding love with someone, to simply give that person a hug, a kiss, and say, "I love you."

S.W. Anderson said...

Randal wrote,". . . get one of those crack exorcist teams in here," revealing a penchant for watching "Cops" reruns.

Dr. Zaius said...

"l'amour n'existe pas."

Peut-être pas dans votre coeur sombre. ;o)

Agi said...

Love the one you're with.

Randal Graves said...

missy, You can love anyone you decide to love. But some folks sure are hard as hell to love is very true, which is why I don't love Dick Cheney, for example.

If LBR is going to be a rock star of love, doesn't that mean she'd have to have a cheesy hotpants teevee show?

dcup, there's a fine line between clever and stupid.

I thought this post needed to go up to eleven.

susan, see LBR, your adoring fans want you on the teevee.

SWA, if you're saying that watching reruns of Cops is a waste of time, then billions of Murkans are going to be angry with you.

dr. zaius, hey, je n'ai pas dit celle-ci phrase !

agi, with these jokers at work? Hell no, sir.

La Belette Rouge said...

Thanks Missy and Susan for the nomination. But, I am more of a easy listening meets Philip Glass star of love. Oh, how I wish I was deserving of that title. But, I would happily have a cheesy hot pants teevee show if I could talk about Schopenhauer and Freud's take on love. I fear, even with hot pants, the show would have abysmal ratings.;-)

dguzman said...

Randal, Randal, Randal.... I know why you're so depressed about love: loving the Browns has got you down. I don't blame ya. Lovin' the Boys has got noise? Well, it's gotten me shit this year, whether that rhymes or not.

Love is a mystery, I guess--and I really gotta be in the mood for a mystery. After 6.5 years of servitude to love, I'm quite happy with all the alone time. Sometimes it's lonely, but it's just such a pleasure to know I can do whatever the fuck I want. I guess right now, I love THAT.

Missy said...

Lovin' the Browns has got nothing on lovin' the Lions. They are breaking league records this year!

Sal Kilmister said...

My favorite Twisted Sister record--Love is for Suckers.

Randal Graves said...

LBR, funny you should mention Philip Glass. I had this irrational aversion to anything minimalist in a classical sense, then I heard one of his symphonies that sounded like a cold, autumn day in aural form and have been checking his stuff out since.

Oh, I still say you go with the hotpants teevee show. ;-)

dguzuman, how about some haiku:
suck without Romo;
Terrell whines, Wade's funny face.
I laugh forever.

I think a lot of us vacillate between wanting the mystery and enjoying all that me-time. Since you have the latter, definitely enjoy it.

missy, that's a good point. You should be even more miserable than I! Still, I think that nabbing Culpepper, if definitely not a coup, can be an upgrade once he gets more of the playbook down. Too bad he doesn't have Roy Williams any longer.


I wanna blog!

Bubs said...

After reading your post, and all these comments, I have arrived at the conclusion that I am one overly sentimental, possibly delusional fucktard. I likes me some solitude in very, VERY small doses, and can't imagine being alone any more. I fell in love once or twice before meeting my bride, and we've managed to renew things and transmogrify every few years now for nearly 22 years--and we had 7 volatile years before we got hitched.

Randal Graves said...

You say 'delusional fucktard' like it's a bad thing. Although given your disdain for alone time, you just might be! ;-)

KELSO'S NUTS said...


Funny you should mention Philip Glass. While I like jazz experimentation a lot (like Ornette Coleman and Pharoah Sanders, not like some dildo in a coffeehouse!), I really never liked contemporary composers, other than the more out-there John Cage stuff which I appreciated for cleverness value not for sound.

This led me to the only moment in my life when I truly acted like how I imagine Chimpy acted as a younger man. I was a senior in college and I decided it was now or never to take a contemporary music class because it was taught by a big star in the genre, Alvin Lucier.

The Philip Glass was tolerable, I guess. The Robert Wilson was OK. I could not abide Reich. And the worst of the worst for me was Terry Reilly. His shit sounded like Morticia Adaams plucking that mandolin and screeching to me.

What do you know? On the last class of the semester, Lucier has Terry Reilly as a guest! He speaks. He plays for an interminable 50 minutes without pause. I'm having a hypoglycemic fit. I also wanted a cigarette. I'd have killed for a soda I was so thirsty. I also needed to piss real bad.

But there was a solid half hour left of class time. Reilly started talking then and didn't seem to be in any hurry to stop even when the class was 7 minutes overtime. I was beside myself at this point.

So, Reilly, who's got a Hindu beard and very long hair done up in some kind of Indian style, is still talking, saying "...and recently I've begun studying with some Indian sitar players..."

Before he could get a word out, I shouted from the back of the class "I don't fuckin know about sitar players, but you've obviously studied with some Indian barbers!"

Apparently, I was not alone in my frustration and that pretty much put paid, albeit 12 minutes over, to Terry Reilly's visit to my contemporary music class. I'm not sure if I'm ashamed of what I did or proud of it, though. For real.