The Hensonic War

The tired, green-furred monster stood facing east. His once-proud eyes now betrayed the weariness plaguing his mind. In the distance, campfires burned menacingly. Campfires that belonged to enemy soldiers. Enemy soldiers who wanted only one thing - to destroy what little remained of Sesame Street. The green monster, known for years as Oscar the Grouch and now simply as "sir" to everyone around him, closed his eyes.

He tried to remember happier times before The Awakening. When he and his fellow Jim Henson creations had simply been puppets. Puppets who starred in a children's television show. Even then they had all possessed a crude self-awareness, though faint and almost distant. But then came The Awakening. Every single member of Sesame Street "awoke" one morning to discover themselves very much alive and surrounded by a real-life version of their television set. The buildings had no false fronts; no sound crews lurked behind walls. No puppet masters guided The Streeters (as they would later decide to call themselves), and the humans who had coexisted as part of the television program were gone as well. No Maria, no Gordon. The Streeters were alone.

After the initial hysteria passed, the Streeters began to explore. They discovered that their "city" contained a fully-stocked grocery store, which was good because they needed to eat. Elmo helped them all discover another interesting fact that day - they could bleed, which he discovered by falling off a window ledge. Though his skin appeared to be covered by a terry-cloth-like fur, the scratch on his face indeed bled.

Oscar smiled wryly to himself as he thought of those first few days of life. None of the Streeters knew why or how they had been brought to life. But with life came a strange curiosity. Before the first day was done, they had explored out to the edges of their city, which they discovered sat beside a large lake. As day turned to night, they also discovered they had electricity, though no power plant could be found. That night brought with it another shock: lights burned on the opposite side of the lake as well. Excitement, marbled with small currents of trepidation, rippled through the city. Who would it prove to be? The Electric Company? The Teletubbies?

They shouldn't have been surprised by the answer. Of course it was the Muppets. Who else could it have been? On the north end of Sesame Street's lakeside sat a set of docks with five motor boats, each boat large enough to hold around ten Streeters. At sunrise on Day 2, one boat left the docks headed east, with a mission to make contact with the camp on the opposite shore. Oscar was on that boat, sitting in the middle, finally free to move beyond his trash can. At the bow of the small craft, Harry Monster stood triumphantly, his blue fur rippling in the breeze. Oscar remembered thinking at the time how regal Harry had looked, his eyes locked on his target, a small smile across his lips. That determination is undoubtedly what led to Harry's being elected the first mayor of Sesame Street one short week later. For ten years he led all government (what little there was) for Sesame Street. But it wasn't an election that ended Harry's time in office. It was the blade of Kermit's dagger.

Kermit the Frog. Once a part of the Sesame Street television show, but now its greatest enemy. Whereas he once reported news to the Sesame Street faithful, he now populated the majority of the gossip which served as news for the battered Streeters. His actions, his rantings, his latest methods of attack - they filled the waking thoughts and torturous nightmares of the Streeters. With his deceptively friendly voice and his humorous mannerisms, Kermit seemed the least likely of all the newly-born Hensonians to turn to dictatorship. That was what made his betrayal all the worse.

Awash in reverie, Oscar didn't hear the approach of his second-in-command, Colonel Grover. The sound of Grover's gravely, Yoda-like voice snapped Oscar from his thoughts. "Sir," the blue Streeter said politely, "the council awaits. You have to speak , or surrender will surely prevail." Grover looked out towards the Muppets' campfires. He knew that if Muppetown prevailed in the war, he would be killed for no better reason than the man who designed him gave him blue fur. Kermit had decreed blue creatures the enemies of proper Hensonians, and he promised to kill every last blue alive, ridding the world of their evil. It ain't easy being green? Grover thought. Try being blue, asshole.

"I know, Grover. But even if we convince the officers to stay in the fight, will it be enough? What are the Muppets' numbers?" Oscar rubbed his forehead, trying to quell the tension headache that had been bothering him for... well, five years now. Since the Blue Incident, the heralding of what became The War.

"The Count puts their numbers around five hundred strong," Grover said with a sigh.

Oscar laughed softly. "And we both know he's right. If he said there were four million of them, I'd take his word for it. He's frighteningly accurate." Grover nodded solemnly. Not surprisingly, the Count lived up to his name. When troops approached, he was an invaluable intelligence source.

Grover paused a moment in deference to his commander. Without a moment's hesitation, Grover would sacrifice his life to save General Oscar. After the murder of Mayor Harry, Oscar had been the voice of reason who encouraged his fellow Streeters to fight the Muppets in their quest for blood. Had it not been for Oscar's leadership, Sesame Street would have fallen. And with it, freedom.

Oscar stared once more at the enemy. For the briefest moment, he allowed himself to believe he saw a face flicker amongst their fires. The face was one he knew painfully well - that of his beloved wife, now many years gone. Prairie Dawn, who had died at the hands of Scooter, Kermit's personal assassin, during the Bunsen Campaign. Oscar thought of the early days after The Awakening, when he and Prairie had fallen in love. That thought led inevitably to the image of their child, also killed by Scooter's blade. Too much death....

But there wasn't time for such indulgence. Oscar stepped away from the wall. With a grim determination he looked over to his trusted friend and fellow warrior. "Let's go," he said and began walking towards headquarters. With Grover in tow, Oscar strode defiantly, stopping to speak with groups of soldiers as he did.

With thoughts of his slain wife and child assaulting his senses, Oscar allowed himself the luxury of directing a piercing thought towards his greatest enemy. One he was sure no one but himself would hear, but he felt better for thinking it. I hope you can hear me, Kermit. Your days are numbered. With the Henson as my witness, your days are numbered.

Frankly, Dr. Atkins, I Don't Give a Damn

Back in February, my wife and I started on a low-carbohydrate diet, in an attempt to deny the inevitable. Megan did the proper research, discovering all the different vegetables (quite a few) and fruits (basically, none) that can be consumed on a low-carb diet. We noticed that most people who go on low-carb just eat cheese, bacon, and steaks until they feel unhealthy and then quit. So we decided we would make sure we were getting plenty of veggies, thus defeating being fat. Hooray!

To my surprise, it really worked. Within the first ten days I lost ten pounds. Additionally, I felt better than I've felt in years - less weighed down, more energy, generally healthier. And fortunately, hard liquors have no carbs, so whiskey, scotch, and vodka are all cool. (You want to mix that vodka with orange juice? Not on my watch, mister. This is a diet.) Nothing could possibly derail my journey of weight loss and my inevitable arrival on the Island of the Beautiful People.

Oh, right. Turns out I'm hopelessly addicted to carbohydrates. For breakfast, I like breakfast cereal. For a snack in the morning, a sleeve of Townhouse crackers will do just fine (I couldn't find a good picture of Townhouse Crackers on the Internets.) For lunch, a sandwich with chips or a Spicy Chicken Sandwich with Fries will fit the bill nicely, thank you very much. For dinner, pizza or anything with rice of potatoes is what I'm craving. And for an evening snack, I like to grind wheat into a paste which I shovel into my mouth with my hand while I watch television commercials for more crackers.

The point is I love carbs. And for me the Atkins diet was akin to kicking heroine. I've never actually tried heroine, let alone found myself addicted and needing to stop using, but I've read about it (the second "Dark Tower" book by Stephen King was my source material), and it sounds pretty similar. I got chills, fevers, the shakes, lots of quality time on the toilet as my butt was busy throwing up, anger, sadness, dizziness, vertigo, confusion, and massive amount of sweating. I would go to the cupboard and look longingly at the unopened box of Townhouse crackers left in there, but then I would eat a string cheese, hoping it would stop up the mass evacuation plan recently instituted in my bowels.

After about a week, the physical symptoms of my withdrawals ended. My body was purged of the massive amount of sugars coursing through my veins. I was losing weight and generally feeling pretty damned good. One little problem - I couldn't stop thinking about crackers.

I can live without almost every other carbohydrate, whether simple or complex, starched or natural. Pizza? I can be happy without it. Bread? Despite my love of the fresh-baked bread from Trader Joe's, I really didn't miss bread too much. I honestly did miss orange and apple juices, but it wasn't critical. But slap me in the face and call me a serving wench, but I can't live without crackers. I'm sure my parents and my upbringing are to blame (I tell them so as often as possible), but I'm a cracker addict. The day before I finally went off the diet, I was so bad that if someone stopped me on the street and offered me a handful of Town House crackers in exchange for a blowjob, I would have had a hell of a decision to make (and sadly, I really, really like crackers).

So I did what I always do when times get tough - I quit. On that fateful day (day ten), I ate an entire box of Townhouse crackers, threw down half of a pizza from Fong's (the pizza place across the street), drank most of a bottle of whiskey, and later threw it all up with a smile on my face.

I rule.

The Manner in Which I Live My Life is Identical to Vanilla Ice's Vandal-Like Microphone Rocking

When I was ten years old, I had my own apartment.

It wasn't fancy. One bedroom at the end of a hallway. I lived upstairs from my parents. I wasn't allowed to have girls over. But it was mine. At the time, my family was living in Germany in military housing. We lived in an apartment building where each stairwell had six apartments (two per floor), and on the top floor, there were old maids' quarters, from back when being an American serviceman overseas was akin to being a Chicago alderman today - swimming in bitches and money. The maids' quarters consisted of a locked hallway that contained three small bedrooms and a bathroom. Tradition dictated that the three families in the stairwell who had been there the longest got the rooms, and then when one of them got reassigned and moved, the senior of the newest three families got that room, ad infinitum. When our family's turn came to pass, I asked my parents if I could use our room as my bedroom. It wasn't a (completely) unreasonable request: my family's apartment was directly beneath the small room, so I would be close to family. Plus, our room was directly over my parents' bedroom, so they would hear if I was up to shenanigans of the female kind. And before anyone asks, to my everlasting shame, I never got freaky with a girl in my bachelor pad. I guess it just never occurred to me. ...Or something? Man, I suck.

Anyway, the room. My mother, of course, was against it, but my dad, having been a bit of a player himself, saw a chance for me to seek some independence and stop sharing a room with my little brother. So I got the room. It was sweet as hell. Room for my twin bed, a small dresser, and a little desk. On that dresser? A 9" black and white television. So, to recap, at ten years old I had my own apartment with a TV. If it would have had a little fridge, I would have been elected king of the elementary school. I even had my own keys - one key for the door at the end of the hallway, which all three families had, and a key for my room, which only myself and my parents had. I was living the life.

Time for an aside. When I was five, my father came into the living room and found me holding a kitten over my head. Our cat (Kinky) had recently had a litter of kittens which my parents hadn't managed to yet give away. My father asked me what I was doing. I told him that I heard at school that if you drop a cat it will land on its feet. My dad confirmed that to me. I told him I had to find out for myself. He told me that by doing so I could hurt the cat and I should just take his word for it. I reiterated that I had to know for myself. He told me that if I dropped the kitten, I was grounded for two weeks. As he tells it, I looked between him and the kitten for a good minute before finally whispering, "Dad, I gotta know." So I dropped the cat, it landed on its feet and was fine, and without being prompted, I headed for my room, knowing full well what grounded meant. As I was leaving the room and my father was dealing with the realization that I would either become a Nobel-winning scientist or a genocidal dictator, I stopped and said, "I wish I hadn't done that." Then I went to my room to serve my time. But I had to know for myself.

I tell you that to explain the following. During the utopian period of my childhood when I had my own pad, my family was traveling through West Germany on the autobahn (which is German for paved automobile conveyance surface), and we stopped at a German truck stop. Their truck stops are very different from ours in America. First off, they're on the metric system, so they're only six feet tall. Plus, all their gas is sold in liters, so it doesn't get you nearly has high as the gas here. While there I went into the bathroom, and was amazed at the color of the water in the toilet. I remember thinking, "My God, how many times would you have to pee in a toilet without flushing for it to get that color?" Sure, I could have consulted a scientist or a book, but that wouldn't be learning, would it? Fortunately for me, I had access to a toilet that no one peed in but me.

So I started my experiment. Despite wanting to turn back on more than one occasion, I pressed on. I even made my friends refrain from flushing when they came over (not a hard sell for ten year olds), but I dutifully counted their toilet usage in my logbook. Yes, I said logbook.

Do you know how many times it takes to get that awesome shade of yellow/gold I saw that day? It's not 24. I don't know how many it actually is, but I know it's not 24. And I know that because the teenage bitch from the second floor talked her parents into letting her live up there, too. I assume the argument went, "If a ten year old boy can, why can't I?" To which I assume her parents replied, "Because that little mother fucker has mad $killz that we respect all day, son." But she eventually got her wish, and during the move-in, felt the need to pee. And that was that. She was so disgusted that she scrubbed the entire bathroom and had a lock put in. And she didn't give me a key! They said I could come down to the second floor apartment when I needed the key. I overheard her arguing with my mother and she said, "He wasn't even flushing!" I didn't want to explain why I wasn't flushing. Suddenly in retrospect, it felt silly.

Well, you science-hating harpy, I've changed my mind. Much as Einstein came up with the courage to print his 1905 essays on electrodynamics and special relativity, I'm here to reclaim peeing. That was my experiment. I'm sure you're out there somewhere right now upset because your first grandkid was born out of wedlock, wondering where you went wrong. Since I don't know you and can't exactly remember your name, I don't know for sure, but I'll bet you're to blame. You probably never encouraged your kids' desire to learn, instead ramming rote memorization, adherence to structured learning, and your dictatorial mandate that they flush the toilet. You are reaping the wretched harvest you sowed yourself. You are all that is wrong with the world. You are the earthquake that kills thousands. You are the tsunami that destroys hope. You are the network executive who chooses to cancel excellent television shows before they have a chance to thrive.

I hope you're happy with yourself. Two lives were lessened on the the day you killed science. And to think how different it could have been. If, instead of stabbing a child's dream in the face with a salad fork, you had instead trekked to the end of the hallway (because much as on a school bus, the cool kids reside in the back) and knocked on my door, we could have been so right together. I would have taken your hand, laid you on my twin bed, asked you to ignore the smell of my clothes hamper, and we could have made sweet, scientifically-driven love. Then afterwards we could have worked together to solve the great problems of our era, including that situation with the pee in the toilet.

I'll bet it was 26 times. Damn, I was so close.

The Holy Trinity

Science fiction is like crack - when you love it, you can't get enough of it and you don't want the neighbors to know you use. Also, because of its stigma and illegality (okay, it's not a perfect metaphor), the quality of production varies wildly. For every Alien, you have to sit through thirteen SyFy channel original movies starring cast members from "Stargate: SG1." It's a difficult genre to crack open. Producers want more blood, three-breasted women, and explosions. Fans demand more character development, three-breasted women, explosions, and thinly-veiled criticisms of modern fascism. Rarely do these seemingly dichotomous demands weave together in a tapestry of perfection, but when they do, life becomes a beautiful thing. Only one man seems to have perfected the art. I am speaking, of course, of Paul Verhoeven and his legendary science fiction trifecta of RoboCop, Total Recall, and Starship Troopers. I go so far as to say these are the three best science fiction films made in my lifetime.

Last night I threw down the gauntlet while spending quality time (i.e. drinking) with two good friends of mine. These fine gentlemen are movie nerds with shockingly vast and encyclopedic mental databases when it comes to movies. Needless to say, they were less than impressed with my viewpoint. As Rory began making a case, Brad simply stood, went to his DVD case, removed Aliens, handed to me, and whispered, "The defense rests." (Note: this did not actually happen, but it's a good way to sum up that three hour argument). I don't disagree with them. Aliens was a great movie. But it didn't say anything. Aside from excellent action scenes and a distaste for giant Blackwater-like corporations, it was really Die Hard starring a woman on a spaceship. If only the agents Johnson would have listened, then their helicopter wouldn't be exploding right now!

For anyone who has seen Starship Troopers, it might seem ridiculous that I'm stating Paul Verhoeven has any idea how to paint with anything but a six-mile-wide paintbrush (especially the "Do Your Part" segment with the kids stepping on cockroaches - good God, I actually left the theater feeling sorry for the roaches). It almost seems subtlety is beyond his film making abilities. That's why he's a genius. He seems to be slapping you in the face with a construction crane screaming, "Look how bad the bad guys are and how good the good guys are!" And he is. But you have to peel back the layers and look at the foundation upon which the entire film is sitting. Yes, there's a bad guy doing bad things. But why? Why is their society so mired in crime and violence? How far is their world from ours in the spinning multiverse?

That's what makes the Holy Trinity so breathtaking. In each, a dystopian quasi-fascist (and completely fascist, in Starship Troopers) government sits atop a society roiling with unrest and social disturbance. In RoboCop, old Detroit (which probably now wishes someone had come in, bulldozed, and built a weird Epcot-looking city in its place) seethes under the guns of drug-fueled criminal gangs. The police have been privatized, and a giant corporation almost seems to be trying to make things worse. In Total Recall, the world seems calm, but notice the full body scanners for anyone getting on any public conveyance. And we later learn that rebels on Mars are constantly interfering with the government's attempts to mine a precious mineral (if only the rebels had been blue and in 3-D, I guess). And then we come to Starship Troopers, the crown jewel in the treasury. The book of the same name (considered by 99.99999% of people to be better than the movie, which makes no sense to me - the book is good, but did you watch the movie, man?) paints the picture of a thriving, functioning fascist society that has achieved peace and happiness yet still allows for peaceful dissent (Rico's parents aren't super-happy with the government, but never end up in a gaol). Paul Verhoeven, who has a certain perspective on fascism after being treated to a Fascism Beginners Course by some very motivated German teachers, decided to go the other direction. Instead of painting the fascist society as totally cool with dissenters, we are given that appearance, but then 180-ed when we see the fate of "Port Joe Smith."

If you're not really watching for it, it almost seems to just be a way to show the audience that bugs are bad. But we got that in the opening sequence, when Rico's unit is basically wiped out. So after the movie then flashes back to before the war even starts, we get an official government "news" feed that mentions how, quote "Mormon extremists" disregarded Federal warnings and established Port Joe Smith deep inside the Arachnid Quarantine Zone. We then see that the arachnids (the bad bugs of the movie) have wiped out all life there. Well, that was sure silly of them Mormons. Or was it? Let's say you're a fascist government who is tired of a group of people who won't worship at the alter of the Federation. So finally this group says, "Look, it's not really working out. It's not you, it's us. Why don't we just go and establish our own planet somewhere so we're not bothering you." I imagine it took a second and a half for someone to say, "Hell yes, that sounds great. We know just the planet." I mean, you can't have them leave, start their own planet and thrive. That would only encourage others to do the same, and then you have a fractioned human existence in the galaxy, and eventually a group of rivals who might decide to get froggy and jump, militarily speaking. But if they go to a planet where some bugs show up and wipe them out, you can point to the bodies and say (on the Federal computer network), "This is a tragedy. We tried to warn these religious weirdos. Sure hope no one does this again for a long, long time. Now back to a televised execution!"

So we have three universes in which to play. In RoboCop, a good man becomes a soulless killing machine, and we cheer as he cuts a swath through Detroit's crime waves. But his old partner wants him to remember who he was and embrace his humanity. As he does, he finds himself on the wrong side of his corporate masters and they attempt to destroy him, even employing the cop-killer gang who originally killed Murphy, making him in the cybernetic hero he is. Of course, the evil gang has been working with Omni Consumer Products's President, Dick Jones, the whole time. Privatization of government services wound around lawlessness, governmental neglect, a criminal culture, and a dude who totally explodes after being doused with toxic waste and hit by a speeding van.

Total Recall gives us a similar tale. A man named Quaid (wh0 in all actuality is probably having a coma dream) who's tired of his boring job, boring life, and (apparently) having sex with his smoking-hot wife, suddenly finds out he's a super spy and he alone can bring down the evil government that's oppressing the settlers on Mars. And because he turns against his one-time masters, they come down upon him with great vengeance and furious anger, sending in the greatest killing machine of modern time - Michael Ironside. Quaid must ally himself with the unwanted dregs of society so that he can bring peace and freedom to all by giving air to the people instead of letting the government control it. ...I guess. That's the point, right? I was distracted by the woman with three breasts.

And finally we get to Starship Troopers. As any of my friends who have watched this with me will tell you, I can go scene-by-scene and point out the cascading levels of awesome that is this movie. The strangest part is how much it pre-guess would happen in our second war in Iraq (I'm not making this political - I'm not saying one way or the other whether that war is a good thing. I'm just pointing out some similarities. Go with me on this). First, there is a big "terror" strike on a Federation city. Innocent civilians are dead and the government immediately mobilizes for war. So the humans decide to make a massive strike on Klendathu, the insects' home world. Okay, great, but they didn't seem to do much in the way of long-term planning or recon work. So the troops land (with their embedded reporter) and they discover they may not have done all the math necessary. Realizing he messed up big, the military's leader, Sky Marshall Dienes (Rumsfeld), resigns. Which kinda happened... eventually. So the new Sky Marshall devises her battle plan to fight the bugs, which is a longer-term plan involving more troops and actual, you know, strategy. And even though this movie clearly finds fault with the Federation government and its methods, you never get the feeling there is anything but respect for the actual men and women doing the fighting. Some fight well, some are terrible, some run scared. But it's clear they're in a shitty situation the average person can only imagine, and they're doing their best.

Oh, and somehow Doogie Howser becomes an SS Colonel, and it doesn't seem strange. Damn, this movie is crazy.

Some people may think I'm selling the writers of these films short. After all, without the written word, there is nothing upon which to build. And that's true. I'm a screenwriter, too. I know they should get paid tons of cash for their sweet screenplays, especially hilarious pirate-themed movies. (See the movie poster to the left. Note: that movie hasn't actually been made... yet). But in this case, we cannot give the credit to the screenwriters. It just can't be done. Sequels have been made, and they were terrible. (I gotta be honest here. I was certain there was a Total Recall 2 that was made as a made-for-TV movie. But when I put "Total Recall 2" into imdb.com, it took me to the page for Minority Report. So I'm counting that as the sequel, and it wasn't very good. But I'm still pretty sure about Total Recall 2). Ed Neumeier, the man responsible for Starship Troopers and RoboCop, is a good writer, but only (apparently) when Paul Verhoeven is steering the ship. I'm not trying to say he's not a good writer. I actually liked Anacondas: Hunt for the Blood Orchid (the sequel to the J-Lo, Jon Voight tour-de-force). Its directing and acting may leave something to be desired, but from a story standpoint, if you're asked to write a movie that explains how snakes are getting to be giant and fight-y, it's well done. The point is that Paul Verhoeven makes any script 150% better and makes movies that make the world happy.

[Defense Attorney: Your Honor, objection! What about Showgirls?

Daryl: I've never heard of such a film.

Judge: Me either. Objection overruled. ]

I have to stop writing now, or I will go on forever about how Paul Verhoeven's worldview, artistic visions, and force of will made these films required viewing for any would-be science fiction writer or director. I could point out how each of the films' heroes (Robo, Quaid, and Rico) would find themselves right at home on Nazi recruiting posters. I could expound upon the films' central themes mirroring each other with the power and righteousness of the individual standing above the authority of government. I could, but as I say, I need to stop.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go watch Starship Troopers in the dark while crying. After all, it's Saturday.

So Happy Together

Welcome to the launch of what will soon be a blog read by tens of people across the globe. In this inaugural post, I thought it best to share with you, my loyal reader, the story of when my life changed, leaving me forever reshaped by love.

Now, I'm a painfully good-looking guy, as you can plainly see. And you would think women would be lined up around the block to have the chance to luxuriate in my chest (and back) hair. Believe me, I thought they would, too. But it seems in this era of worshipping at the alters of reality television and regular personal hygiene, a man with a certain old-world charm isn't welcome at the adults' table anymore. That reality was painful, but when it came, I did what great men always do - drink a bottle of spiced rum, cry a little, punch a hole in the wall, and wake up naked in your apartment building's entryway.

But then I bucked up and moved forward. If the ladies won't come to me, I shall go to them. But where would I find these ladies for whom I burned so badly? Well, like most young men in the Midwest in their early twenties, I felt the siren song of the Windy City bestirring my soul. So, never having actually been in Chicago or any surrounding suburb even once in my life, I decided to move there. I sold my house, quit my job, and packed my belongings in my Dodge Neon. Boom - like Cousin Larry from "Perfect Strangers," I was off, but (you know, since I'd never been there), not even sure where my new apartment actually was.

So began my quest. It wasn't long before I realized I had no idea what I was doing. Sure, I went to bars with my friends and tried to make my move whenever possible, but I found (to my utter surprise) that I'm incredibly bad at talking with women in whom I have any interest. One time, in trying to tell a woman that I'm allergic to crab (why would this come up? Why would I say that to a woman? Because I'm Daryl), I must have slurred a bit, because her response, "Why the f*ck would you tell me you have crabs?" didn't seem to fit the conversation I'd been having up to that point. Another time, I was out with my roommates at a bar they worked at, and we were sitting with three women who, another friend of ours who worked there told us, were lesbians. Turns out, our friend was a jerk. So there I sat, talking about all manner of subjects with my not-lesbian table-mate, having a great night. One of my roommates then blurts out, "It sucks you're lesbians. You guys are awesome," to which my not-lesbian table-mate replied, "We're not lesbians." We all exclaimed in surprise, and then I saw my roommates moving in for the romantic kill on their not-lesbian table-mates. Then I realized what I'd been doing with my not-lesbian table-mate. I'd been hitting on this attractive woman for an hour and a half. We'd been buying each other drinks. She loved my football team. She was super cool. I was practically already in.

So, of course, I quickly left the bar, unable to handle the pressure.

The point I'm making is that I'm bad at finding love. Which is what made it all the more exciting when it finally happened.

I'll never forget the night. I'd gotten home from work and headed over to Armanetti's, a very nice, upscale liquor store in my neighborhood, and I was searching out a bottle of Jameson's Irish Whiskey for my drinking pleasure. As I was walking down the aisle, I felt a strange glow of the eternal, a certain tingling of kismet. And that's when it happened.

For the first time in my life, I encountered Oban, 14-year Scotch.

Now, I'd drank other Scotch whiskeys before. This wasn't my first rodeo. But this was different. Imagine subsiding your entire life on gruel, and then one day a benevolent worker in the orphanage gives you Oban 14-year Scotch. For the first time, I saw color. As I sampled its light, woody bouquet that teases with the whispered hint of crisp fruity flavor, I knew the joy of childbirth. With each reverent sip, I felt the exhilaration of reaching the pinnacle of financial success. I had found nirvana in its amber radiance. As I reached blissful intoxication, I realized what I had really found: love.

There are some in our work-a-day, cynical world who would decry my passion as youthful ignorance. "How can a man with just over one-and-a-half score years claim to know what love is? Just because you have resplendent chest hair, an excellent disco outfit including kick-ass platform heels, and outstanding taste in music?"

Yes. For all those reasons exactly.

So, as you slog through this life in the search for love, know that it's closer than you think. Take a trip to your local liquor store. If they don't have it, try a bar. And if you can't find it there either, order a bottle online. But whatever you do, never stop believing in the love that can be found encased in glass.

Oh, and just so I don't get in trouble, I should also mention that I met my wife in Chicago, too.