A Message on the High Seas

Way back on the sixth of this month, our beloved Willamette Week did a story about some singles in Portland. Always my favorite story, I looked forward to this years singles and what they had to say. One in particular, Rose Bottle, got my attention. Big eyes and a heart shaped face. Her crooked smile. The librarian glasses are always a bonus. But my opinion is worthless. I'm afraid that I cannot offer help to either Rose or any of the others. Dating was never my strong point, and, as I am married, I cannot offer any talents or abilities that may be of use.

This doesn't stop my counterpart and I from indulging a hypothetical situation which may, as mythology did for the Greeks, offer Rose another way to relate to her world and consider her situation. So, I'll turn the rest of this post over to The Byronic Cat.

Sincerely,

The Alley Cat

I'm going to quit my job. Gonna tell them to go to hell. Throw a pipe wrench through a monitor. Burn the bridges. I don't need them anymore and I don't fear homelessness either. The American Red Cross just got a new peep, Rose Bottle, and she's providing an "emergency warming center." Booyah! Three hots and a cot!

Okay, seriously, let me say, with that same pretentious manner The Alley Cat uses, that the world of the single person must, at times, be like floating in the middle of the ocean. As my friend Ishmael said, "The intense concentration of self in the middle of such a heartless immensity, my God! who can tell it?" I agree, and upon that heartless sea I spied a lonely slender glass object, and within it was a rolled up paper. I retrieved the object, so delicate, removed the cork, and read the message; the solitude of a young rose. What may I do? I'll offer my answer to the S.O.S., and so it reads...

"I want something more long-term. I'm almost looking to skip over the giddy beginning phase..."

It doesn't take a degree in family therapy to know that, with someone named The Byronic Cat, you will rocket, as with a JATO attached to your back, from giddy infatuation to domestic combat in a dizzying second. Don't forget your helmet.

"I used to have [a type], something between nerdy and cocky... but now I'm branching out."

My trunk is thick, and the roots run deep, knotted with dark moods, expanding with joy. At times I flower; at times I am bare. Call me White Ash.

"On a second date, I went to a party with this guy, and he spent the whole night talking to a girl [with] breasts as big as my head."

Oh, the boob thing. At twenty-three, I'm sure they haven't reached your knees. That will do for me, and I never get distracted.

"I do my best to turn on the charm and show why I'm so right for [someone]. [But] sometimes I get so fucused on making the relationship happen that I ignore potentially serious issues. Then I wake up six months later, in bed next to the person, and I'm like, what was I thinking?"

You know, it took The Wife three years (give or take) to get to the point where that question arose, and she's smarter than everyone.

"I'd be lying if I told you I [didn't] start out with a negative preconception of the people I work with. ...a lot of guys on the streets are really kind people... it really opened my eyes. If the guy asking for spare change can be a worthwhile person, then so can they guy scanning your groceries...even the guy writing you a parking ticket."

Is not the pathway wide? Is not the door swung wildly open? Between impoverishment and oppressive policies of the state, there is indeed more than enough room, a world of room, for someone like The Byronic Cat. Considering I am half the asshole I used to be, while still holding the same level of moodiness, the amount of room is double! Think about it, I bring in the pay, steady like a rock, I don't lie, and I'm honest. Statistically I have only thirty years left before I die. That means you'll be fifty when you cash in that monster life insurance policy -that's a worst case scenario, of course.

Well, enough of my foolishness. As The Alley Cat mentioned, we are married, and, as we are unbelievably spoiled and so looked after, we are not about to jump ship. And there's more to the marital glue than that. The Wife is the only person we can count on, the only person we can turn to, and the only one who understands us. What I can do, truly, is to make a wish for those who remain at sea, waiting. Don't give up Rose, and don't let go. (Oh, that was so Titanic.)

Tags: An offer for Rose Bottle.