Love and Sandwiches

I’m that Tired Guy, the one listening to the sound of rolling thunder in the distance, deep, powerful, a profound resonance lingering at the edge of hearing even after its passed.  I’m that Tired Guy fixated on the past and focused on the future, forgetful of the present and wondering where the hell I left my keys for the umpteenth time.

How appropriate is it I have some Morrison playing.  Bear witness to some beautiful poetry my peeps, because Jim swallowed a muse whole.

Riders on the storm
Riders on the storm
Into this house we’re born
Into this world we’re thrown
Like a dog without a bone
An actor out alone
Riders on the storm

Dig it.

I know you can.

I will maintain until I’m blue in the face the greatest decade of music will always be the ’80s.  That said failing to respect where we came from would be tantamount to me becoming a Yankees fan.  The Doors didn’t just orchestrate the melodies.  These guys embodied the powerful sounds, the vivid images, the soulful anthems of a generation who would ultimately shape those to come.

But enough about you, let’s talk about me.

I’m in a rambling mood tonight.  Sometimes I like chips with my sandwich, and sometimes I want pickles.  Wheat, baguette, hoagie, Wonder, whatever as long as the sandwich has the right collection of ingredients it’s all about the substance without the blather.  Mustard and mayonnaise be damned!

At the end the day it’s really about true love.

“Sonny, true love is the greatest thing in the world, except for a nice MLT – mutton, lettuce and tomato sandwich where the mutton is nice and lean, and the tomato is ripe…they’re so perky, I love that.”

And now for a shocking reveal – I’ve been married three times.

::insert explosions, manic thematic sequences and probably an ’80s montage for my friend Wayne::

I’ve discussed some of the pain and anguish in this space previously but I think it’s high time I did a shout out to the very few lucky souls who found their better yang and continue to waltz toward the inevitable happily ever after.

Oh you know who you are.  Staring deep into the adoring eyes of your other and lapping up the platitudes and pleasantries like kittens and fresh milk.  Should I cue the St. Elmo’s Fire love track?  We walk fingers entwined, my head upon her shoulder, a lone tear streaking her perfectly rouged cheek, an idyllic seascape spread before us with softly crashing waves, purpling skies as the sun sets in the distance and the end credits roll.

Those summer nights when we were young
We bragged of things we’d never done
We were dreamers, only dreamers
And in our haste, to grow too soon
We left our innocence on Desert Moon
We were dreamers, only dreamers
On Desert Moooooooooooooooooooooooooon

No, I’m not that cynical.  And I do like that song (it’s playing on my iTunes right now) quite a bit.

Believe it or not I really am a romantic.  Of course Mrs. Tired Guy would calmly describe me as more of a drama queen…but that’s a topic for a different blog entry.

Tonight?

Tonight we feast upon…love.

Well for a little while.

I love my dogs, I love my job, I love my family, I love vanilla soft-serve ice cream, I love the sound of breaking glass, I love gladiator movies (more “like” than “love”), I love fried whole-bellied clams and fries at Harry’s, I love singing really loud, I love lying on my bed listening to movie soundtracks, I love crying when Andy and Bonnie open the box of toys, I love screaming in agony when my Sox, Patriots, Celtics and Bruins lose (ok…maybe not that), I love the first bite of a freshly-made pizza, I love it when a plan comes together and I certainly love chuckling when my kids laugh or say something funny, silly, witty, extraordinary (a daily occurrence).

I love a lot of things, too many to recount here.  And so do you.

Let’s face it folks, love is relative.  It’s not rocket science or the culmination of an epic quest to vanquish the villain and save the prince.

(Prince?  Yeah because women are as strong, if not more so than a male lead when placed in the right movie with the right director and the right script.  I’m looking at you Ripley, the Bride, Ouiser and M’Lynn, Thelma and Louise.  But I digress.)

No love is unique.  It’s perception and perspective.  The visceral quickening of your heartbeat when she shows up unannounced with a smile on her face and a gleam in her eye meant for you and you alone.  The up-swell of pride and the light and the joy and that sense of accomplishment when you accept that high school or college diploma.  The calming encouragement, strong hands lifting you back on your feet as the aches and pain and embarrassment fades.

Even shaking hands that can barely hold the scissors as you clumsily cut the cord.

It’s about belief, conviction, honesty, sharing, caring, writing, reading, watching, acting, wiping runny noses and letting go of the bicycle so he can ride it on his own.

It’s about sobbing and laughing, winking and smiling, comforting hugs and soft words telling you everything will be all right.

Love is stability, solidarity and partnership, faith and devotion.

Love is about letting go, growing up, growing old, gaining wisdom and losing teeth, stomping in frustration and caterwauling to the universe that life sucks, isn’t fair, isn’t right and bad things still happen to good people.

Love is saying hello, waving goodbye and accepting another regardless of skin color, sexual orientation or college affiliation.

Love is watching football with my dad and my brother and my grandfather on a lazy autumn Sunday afternoon.

Love is knowing a broken heart can heal even when things seem bleak and gray and full of nothing. 

Love is all around you.  Yeah.
Love is knockin’ outside your door
Waitin’ for you is this love made just for two
Keep an open heart and you’ll find love again, I know

It’s about texting “Luvewes and our boys” each and every single morning without fail.

And it’s absolutely about twice hearing that first singular cry of indignation, need, hunger, fear and discomfort each time in the delivery room knowing our lives have been changed forever.

Maybe Crash said it best.

“Well, I believe in the soul, the cock, the pussy, the small of a woman’s back, the hanging curve ball, high fiber, good scotch, that the novels of Susan Sontag are self-indulgent, overrated crap.  I believe Lee Harvey Oswald acted alone.  I believe there ought to be a constitutional amendment outlawing Astro-turf and the designated hitter.  I believe in the sweet spot, soft-core pornography, opening your presents Christmas morning rather than Christmas Eve and I believe in long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.”

Yep.

G’night folks.