Wednesday, October 18, 2006

Dear Van Morrison...

Hi Bitter Amanda.
I've been reading your blog for a couple of weeks and finally decided to chime in.
I watched American Pie III (the one where Band Camp Girl marries "Petey") the other day with a friend of mine and it all hit me when they struck up "Into the Mystic" for the wedding dance. Not only is it one of my favorite songs, it is also on the Moondance album (along with the song of the same name, of course) which is what actually rustled up the memories. Being the Full Harvest Moon of October, as in the song Moondance, I again was made painfully aware that another f-ing year had come and gone without a Moondance - some silly romantic notion of mine that has yet again been dashed mercilessly against the rocky coastline of my earthly existence. Then, that Olive's "Moonlight Chess" deal pushed me over the edge. And I thought I was whacky. Yowzers!
Back to the point. So I'm a guy who always dreamed of a Moondance 'neath the cover of October skies with that special someone. Sounds like a simple enough desire that shouldn't be too GD difficult to fulfill. It is niether weird, nor demented, I believe. Perhaps a bit sappy, but I can live with that.
A few years ago, my computer password was actually "moondance." I had this for at least two years, probably more. There happened to be a lass that I worked with, lets call her Julie for no particular reason, that needed to log into my computer while I was out of town. I had to give her my password by phone, and did so, not being embarrassed as I would be for what it is today. Whether it was or was not true, she proclaimed, "Moondance! Why that is my favorite song." That incident lit the fuse for a short, yet magical, relationship that saw Julie being the catalyst for me filing for divorce. Truly, without Julie showing me what a good relationship could be like, I probably would not have had the guts to cut the ties as swiftly and surely as I did with the then wife.
Naturally, I romanticized about our October (any month would have done) Moondance, which never came. Turns out, Julie was just kind of looking for someone to keep her company while her boyfriend was out of town on business. Also turns out, she reeked of mothballs and insisted on bedtime stories and sleeping with an assortment of very old stuffed animals. I did manage to convince her that squadrons of moths were not planning Pearl Harbor jobs on her ratty sweaters, but the stuffed animal thing could still be going on, for all I know. I imagined that somehow I had drawn her to me through the repetition of and my emotional connection to Moondance! Far fetched? Try this one on for size. I met my future ex in high school. A year before I ever met her or ever even saw her, all I knew was her name. And I was so enthralled by that name that I found myself repeating it over and over and over, trying to figure out who was the enigma behind that haunting name. The next year, she wound up in my homeroom and we were soon dating. We didn't give it up until Julie, not to mention my ex's boyfriend, showed up, years later.
Watch what you ask for! Behold! The power of prayer!
I'm definitely no stranger to the bitter biz. I've gotten to the point of actually hoping for those glorious Detroit Daze when that cold, thick, dank air, that smells like my first chemistry experiment run amok, slides up my nostrils and takes umbrage there. Then, I can truly bask in my abject bitterness and invite it in for a nice hot cup of tea and a plum-blueberry cobbler. Perhaps listen to Dylan's "Time Out of Mind" just to drive the point home, with a melodical, methodological force - them's good times, let me tell you.
I don't know if I can ever give up my ole pal, Bitterness. Now, I don't know if I want to. Bitterness to me is like one of those clingy, needy, old friends that constantly calls asking, "So, how's your day? What's new? How's it going?" and yet has absolutely NOTHING in common with you nor nothing to say, EVER. But they just hang on and on and on and you don't know how to shake 'em.
Strange maybe, but oh, so true!
I may have finally hit rock bottom: I experience real pangs of jealiosity when I see that my lesbian neighbor's girlfriend had spent the night, as evidenced by her SUV in the driveway. I have an attractive, single woman, my age, living a mere two doors away ... only one small catch ... and there always is.
So, in summary, another year, another Harvest Moon gone by, and yet another unfulfilled Moondance.
Yours truly, in Sheer and Utter Bitterness,
Despondent in Dearborn

P.S. Which is worse:
Sheer & Utter Bitterness or Abject Bitterness.

Dear Van Morrison,
I had to read your letter three times before I was able to confirm my initial suspicions. There was no question. So I guess you just wanted my thoughts on the subject. Lucky for all of us, I have opinions aplenty.
A bit sappy? You think you're being a BIT sappy? Whatever you have to tell yourself to feel good about it, I guess. As long as you can live with sounding like a 14 year old girl on the eve of her first Fall Formal dance with the pubescent boy of her dreams.
So "Julie" (forgive my heavy use of airquotes here) screwed you over. Sucks. On the bright side, it sounds like she's got a serious case of crazy, which I'd say you're better off without.
I'm going to do everyone a favor and skip over the parts of your letter in which you obsess over a name and wish for the disgusting scent of Bitter to reside in your nasal cavities. Because I thought they were weird.
Bottom line, Sparky: grow a pair. Get over the ladies who got over you, be a man, and go find some sappy woman to fulfill your sugary-sweet fairy tale. (Gross much?) Looks like the Wild Rover himself is touring as we speak--that might be your best bet.
Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda


Formerly Despondent in Dearborn said...

Oh Bitter Amanda!

You are oh, so wise! Thank you for your most astute comments and suggestions. As always, you are right! I need to get over them all ... those wicked wenches, stop being so GD sappy and syrupy, and set my sites on my real dream: I must find, at all costs, my building's former facility coordinator, lets call her "Cassie", wearing only a semi-opaque, neon-orange, Evacuation Team vest and 4-inch heels, forcefully barking out building evacuation orders on her megaphone which she holds firmly in her left hand, while simultaneously, and at the same time too, deftly puffing on a cigarette perched on the lower right corner of her oh-so-sultry lipset.

I can hear that deep, ruff-on-the-edges voice now, the long, straight, silky black hair, big brown doe eyes ... and all the rest!


Thanks for setting me straight, Bitter Amanda!


Amanda said...

Dear TMI,
Um, thanks. That was gross. I guess I need to post the rules around here or something.
Solitarily yours,
Bitter Amanda