Valentine and the Common Loon

This is the only Valentine I’ve ever really cared about. Darnell, my man.

When I was in my salad days, life was absurdly wonderful, I exploded out of adolescence with the funneled power and unleashed virility of the opening gate at a horse race. I was in and out of the arms of a ridiculously varied cross-section of American women. When you crack an agate down the middle there are many layers of colors, degrees of sizes and styles of layers that represent every natural occurrence that made that sweet stone’s treasure grow. Ain’t geology grand?

If I had a girlfriend she would love this ridiculous mustache I’ve got taking over my face. She may hate it, actually, but there would definitely be no middle ground about it.

I love romance. Miss having the desire or wherewithal to sweep a woman up and damn the consequences. Fair ladies nowadays need written permission, references, Facebook pages and background checks to give you the time of day. If not, then they obviously must be strumpets, wanton tarts lascivious to the point of criminal. If you can’t text faster than the next schmuck you might be in for a long mission, not to mention ever getting a chance to hop behind enemy lines. War metaphors always seem to work when describing the chase and conquest of those we desire. Weird. Ever put a joke in a text that didn’t come across as anything more than an insult because letters don’t convey inflection? Good luck recovering from that fox pause, especially if all your charm rests on a combination of wit, sarcasm and self-deprecation.

I often wish Jerry Reed was named Jerry Reid.  

Was there ever a day when people enjoyed being looked at as if they were a luscious turkey leg or juicy steaming tenderloin like in cartoons when desire would be personified with a hot piece of meat? For me those days stopped around 2003. Terrorists and suburban country culture destroyed what once was a purely physical fulfillment. Casually we would flooze around with whomever we desired or whoever would have us, every one of us has those days either behind us or we’re swimming in it right now.

Ever wonder where the term “halcyon days” originates? Kingfishers, baby. One of the birds my dad taught me about as we flipped through the giant Audubon book of birds from the public library.

Common Loon was the other bird that has fit my life quite perfectly.

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