Category Archives: love

Winter of my Discontent

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It’s all a lot of oysters, but no pearls
- A Long December, Counting Crows

This Counting Crows song is one of my favorites, and I especially like the quoted line above. There are certainly a lot of fish in the sea–well, oysters in this metaphor–but it is sure hard to find the catch.

The difficulty and seeming impossibility of it all is put into words eloquently by none other than the psychobabbling, cynical-but-romantic Woody Allen. Boris Yelnikoff (played by Larry David in Allen’s movie, Whatever Works) found his love only through sheer serendipity. In Boris’ words …

“And through an astronomical concatenation of circumstances, our paths cross. Two runaways in the vast, black, unspeakably violent and indifferent universe.”

Maybe I should stop looking so that I may finally find it. But I doubt it makes any difference, for we live in an indifferent universe indeed.

Romantic Equations and Its After”math”

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Everyone is seemingly looking for the One. Look anywhere and you’ll see it evident in the desolate eyes of bar-going, speed-dating, soulmate-searching singles.

But who, may I ask, came up with the idea? Idealists? Artists? Novelists? Hallmark? De Beers? Hollywood?

Whoever the heck it was that brought this notion into our collective hearts and minds, it is, no doubt, a brilliant, idealistic scheme that transcends all peoples. It’s a nice thought; however, it is likely that its main legacy in this needful world of romantic followers may as well be an all-consuming curse that amounts to a wasteland of lifelong, fruitless quests.

Are you looking for the One?

* The “1″ to give value and meaning to the “0″ bit.
* The one crucial score that brings life to an otherwise dull game.
* The one twinkling, little star in the all-consuming darkness.
* The elusive One in a million, within a sea of faceless billions.
* The messianic One that brings salvation to the unrelenting believer.
* The heroic Neo — an anagram the One — that embodies all hope for one’s personal Matrix.

Does the One really exist?

(If not, do not fret, my fellow singles, there are always twins. Just kidding! What I mean is, there are infinite numbers and, therefore, possibilities out there. )

“won’t you be my number two
me and number one are through
there won’t be too much to do
just smile when i feel blue”
- Be My Number Two, Joe Jackson


Note: Originally posted 4 years ago at my now-defunct blog on Yahoo! 360.

The Frog and the Absentee Princess

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As I was leafing through the visually cheery  “little book of i love you” at Barnes and Noble on Sunday night, one image practically jumped out at me: It was a picture of a frog with a caption above it that said, “Me, once upon a time.” Sadly, the sentiment doesn’t apply to myself.

On Tuesday, I attended one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to. Green Day rocked a thrilled crowd at the HP Pavilion in San Jose. But just as a genteel reminder, when the band played this song, its words struck the same chord that the image of the frog did days earlier:

“My shadow’s the only one that walks beside me,
my shallow heart’s the only thing that’s beating,
Sometimes I wish someone out there will find me,
till then I walk alone …”

- Boulevard of Broken Dreams, Green Day

Obviously, I’m now construing signs all over reminding me of my desolate, prolonged singleness. And as I imagine what the future may bring, I really don’t want to end up as one of those slimy toads who hop from one singles bar to next, settling for the next available barfly. That’s surely not the fairy-tale ending I have envisioned.

With that said, I shall now go about my days with rekindled inspiration and determination. My princess is out there, and I shall find her. Surely, my love story is far from its conclusion. As the saying goes, it’s not over till the fat lady, err …

Today, I was in San Francisco and saw this lady singing an operatic piece on Maiden Lane, a small avenue which I shall now refer to as the “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.”

The Fat Lady is singing ...

Not a good sign at all. Unhappily ever after it is.


Addendum (08/24/09): Here’s the trailer of the upcoming Disney animated film, The Princess and the Frog. Poor frog … even after finding his princess, things don’t go as expected.


The Sweet Spot

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photo by madmonk

In this month’s GQ, Adam Sachs posits that the golden (prowling) age for the contemporary single male–when one can snag and/or shag an eclectic array of ladies, from their roaring twenties to their rocking fifties–comes in his mid- to late-thirties. He calls this period the Sweet Spot. And as yours truly is a man in this so-called period in my life, I buy the logic behind Mr. Sachs’s theory. Sadly, practicing that theory is beyond this author’s realm of capabilities at the moment.

Why, you may ask? Well, for one, I am guilty of sign #10 in another article I came upon this weekend, AskMen.com’s Top 10 Signs You’ve Been Single Too Long:

#10: You Assume You Repulse All Women – When a girl walks by and smiles, most guys take it as an ego-boosting compliment. However, being single for a prolonged period can start to wear on your confidence. Before you know it you start assuming these flirtatious glances are really smirks at your expense, probably aimed at your frumpy hair or bad outfit …

Sooo me. While “repulse“ may be a bit too harsh a word, the snippet above sums up the state of my confidence right now.  I’m sure there’s some Freudian explanation for it, but I’m too distracted to ponder such profundity. (Shallowness is indeed another one of my disparaging character traits.)

So, for a glorious summer day such as today was, when the opposite sex delightfully wear their fetching sundresses to seduce non-repulsive men, what does a doomed man like me do? I certainly could not and did not even remotely charm the panties off of a wanton woman. I did, however, end up royally scrubbing the scum off of my freakin’ toilet. Something definitely stinks in my life, but at least it’s not my bathroom.

Nice Guys Finish Not

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Broken heart

Broken heart,
originally uploaded by bored-now.

I’ve written tons of sultry lines
for countless girls on Valentine’s;
etched their names in aging wood
wooed their hearts as best I could.

But tiny gestures and silly rhymes
have failed me half a million times;
none of them have ever withstood
the charms of boys up to no good.

The Age of Reason

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Lost in TranslationOver the weekend, I watched Lost in Translation again after seeing it once before when it was originally released a few years ago. Maybe it’s because I can easily relate to Bill Murray’s midlife crisis. (Another umpteenth birthday is drawing near after all). Or perhaps I feel comforted by Hollywood’s assertion that love comes at any age, and transcends ages even*. Or maybe it’s the premise of a lovely girl falling for someone other than the predictable Adonis. Whatever the case may be, I love the movie.

Since I am a guy after all, surely I can’t post about the film without mentioning Scarlett. God knows I need such color in my hueless, clueless existence. I can only wish the heavens, with its infinite mercy and (hopefully) extreme compassion for the truly desperate, will introduce me to such an angel … ’cause my pathetic self definitely won’t have the nerve or luck to accomplish the feat without divine intervention.

* If you’ve ever wondered what the accepted age gap is between 2 consenting adults, I first heard the following formula from a couple of friends: the man’s age divided by 2, then add 7. (Note: This only applies for men 22 years of age and older.) For example, if a man is 30 years old, the youngest mate he can date within ethical bounds is someone who is 22 years old (30/2 + 7). This theorem has since achieved factual status after being mandated in Barney Stinson’s venerable publication, The Bro Code. It’s Article 113, Bros.

I want a soulmate, not just a sole mate

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As I find myself in Hillsboro, Oregon, amidst a heavy downpour, the last few weeks have been a drought in terms of subjects to write (or is it whine?) about. I’ve either been too tired, lazy, uninspired, busy … yada, yada, yada. To keep the readers — er, all 2 of them — of this blog from completely forgetting about it, I am reposting an entry I made on my old blog (the one that had just 1 follower). It was first posted on June 7, 2007.

It’s a bit forlorn, now aged with a tad of scorn, but each line of prose, holds true since first composed …

I want a soulmate, not just a sole mate
The sight of whom would make my heart palpitate;
Leave me breathless, my mouth agape,
Like a spellbound fish to an enchanting bait.

I want a soulmate, not just a sole mate
That special someone to be my lifelong date;
Dinners by candlelight till we’re ninety-eight
Bingo every Friday in our retirement estate.

I want a soulmate, not just a sole mate
I’ve spent far too long now, lying in wait.
I ought to stop trusting it all to fate;
Don’t want to wait till I’m in a funeral crate.

So soulmate, dear soulmate, don’t show up too late,
I eagerly await you telling it to me straight;
IM me, email me … just be sure to clearly state,
“I’m your soulmate, not just your sole mate!”

Luckless Romances

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Crestfallen. That’s my new favorite word.

You see, dear readers, when you first meet someone you like, and they seem to like you back, you feel like you’re on top of the world — like a shelved flag suddenly hoisted at a summit, wildly waving and visibly vibrant. Your very being is taken over by the winds of irrationality: your heart nonsensically palpitates with every text message you receive, every phone call is greeted with unfounded optimism, every endeavor out in public turns into an opportunity for hopeful happenstance …  everything simply begins to revolve around this someone.

Alas, when each SMS, each ring and each venture turns into anguish — each of them innocently turning into prickly practices in disappointment — it becomes a lot less fun and a lot more excruciating.  Eventually, that flag of yours, once full of life, loses its luster and color. It turns into the white flag of surrender; defeated and falling fast.

Goodbye, my almost lover
Goodbye, my hopeless dream
I’m trying not to think about you
Can’t you just let me be?

So long, my luckless romance
My back is turned on you
Should’ve known you’d bring me heartache
Almost lovers always do

- Almost Lover by A Fine Frenzy*

And so, here is where I find myself now: Basking in the beautiful state of Hawaii, trying my darnedest best at forgetting my personal Sarah Marshall. At the end of this week-long sabbatical, I hope to fly the figurative flag at half-staff to finally mark the demise of my short-lived infatuation.

But until I stumble upon another source of inspiration that shall hoist me again to the heights of exuberance, you shall find me with both my flag and spirit down. Although crestfallen, I can be found floating amidst the waves’ crest somewhere in the shores of Oahu for the time being.

* If you’ve never heard this song, you should.

Don’t sell yourself short (Pt. 2)

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As prefaced in my previous post, relationships are like jobs: there are ones you stick with for the long haul, some are intentionally ephemeral, and others are bound for the desolate vacuum of nothingness. See a more definitive breakdown of possible employment statuses in the relationship market below:

1) Committed relationship with another person – Full-time/Permanent status. The whole package.

2) Quasi-relationships with attached or noncommittal persons – Contractor/Temp status. You’re like a full-time hire … but are actually not. You don’t get any or all benefits.

3) Flings – Intern status. Services are required for a limited engagement only.

4) Friends with Benefits – Consultant status. Only called in when specific services are needed.

5) Casual Encounters/One-Night Stands – Day Worker status. Get in; get the job done; get out.

6) Single – Unemployed. Still looking for the right opportunity.

7) Loner – Sole proprietor. Out to make it on his/her own.

As is my preference in jobs, at this point in my life, I like the permanent status (#1), so I’m not particularly interested in the brief or solitary stints. (If you’ve read my blog before, you’ll know that I’m currently a hapless #6.)

While I can imagine other people preferring to either be alone (#7) or opting for a fleeting relationship (#3, #4, #5), I can’t imagine anyone intentionally wanting to be a relationship contractor (#2). It’s just such a sheer waste of time and effort — not to mention, money. It is, quite simply, an agonizing state of limbo. So if you find yourself stuck in such an unfortunate predicament — um, you know who you are — I say, stop selling yourself short! Go find someone who’ll give you the real deal. It’s going to be difficult at first, but the sooner you break loose, the better for your quest in finding more gainful employment.

As a final precaution, don’t let Landon Pigg’s song be the soundtrack of your sorrow. It’s a great tune, but it sadly epitomizes what it is to be a relationship contractor. (See the official video here.)

Landon Pigg – Can’t Let Go (live acoustic performance)

Let yourself fall

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While playing basketball a few months back, I fell hard and tore the ACL and the meniscus on my right knee. Today, I finally had arthroscopic surgery to repair it. Thankfully, it went well without any incident and I don’t feel any pain (yet), which is a very good thing.

Lying in bed and letting my knee heal isn’t terribly exciting, though, so I’ve decided to write about another ailment that plagues the same joint. I am talking about being weak at the knees … in the figurative sense. The surgery today made me remember the poem* below, which I snarkily wrote a couple of years ago to herald in Valentine’s Day; it cites the said symptom and other related ones. As you will see, I’m quite a romantic … not!

just call this if you will — a diagnosis;
weak in the knees? hmm, osteoporosis;
the heart skips a beat? surely arrhythmia;
blinded by love? definitely glaucoma.

so don’t trust no horoscope
the truth’s in the stethoscope
despite a few niceties,
love … it is but a disease.

It’s been quite some time since I’ve felt weak at the knees. (Way too long if you ask my mom.) Pondering about it now, I realize I miss the feeling of being utterly smitten by another person. Dare I say, I think I’m ready to be in a relationship again — despite the sarcasm in my verses above.

The monumental problem is, of course, I have not found anyone, nor has someone come along, to bring me out of my anesthetized state. Sure, there have been one or two who have made my heart stutter. But that’s about it, just small blips in the EKG. What I need is to find someone who can defibrillate my heart out of its current, comatose condition.

With that said, once I fully recover from my bum knee, I hope to be on a tear of a different kind. I shall embark on a mission of romance. I will bring some spring back to my step in the search for a woman who has the antidote to my sedentary heart. I shall ditch the crutches and hopefully move into the clutches of a female’s warm embrace.

Just thinking about it makes me feel better already. And so I ask … who wants to play doctor, ladies?

* The poem was first posted on my old Yahoo! 360 blog on Valentine’s Day, 2006.