Love American Style

COME GATHER ROUND PEOPLE, DON'T BE SHY. MEN, WOMEN, LADIES, GENTLEMEN, KIDS OF ALL AGES AND SIZES! MISFITS, INSOMNIACS, BROKEN HEARTED, OR YOU CHATTY TYPES! THIS AIN'T NO BOGIE, THIS AIN'T NO BERGY, THIS IS THE 1990'S AND YOU ARE ON LINE! ALLS YOU NEED IS 9600 BAUD! YOU NEVER HAVE TO LEAVE THE SAFETY OF YOUR OWN HOME. STEP ABOARD AND TYPE ON IN. IT'S SIMPLE, PAINLESS AND FUN!!! CHECK OUT WHO IS IN THE ROOM TONIGHT:

Samantha was a woman who knew that the quickest way to a fellow's heart was by wearing a good hat. She rode her bike recklessly through the darkest parts of town. Together, they never did finish a crossword puzzle. Never knew all the right words. She did a jig, and in pure happiness he told her he cared. She went on to better things yet still stuck around. She was very good at making him feel so insignificant. Has anyone seen her lately? Could anyone possibly tell her that through it all she is forever stuck inside, a wistful regret, for whatever it may be worth? She clearly showed that where he was at is entirely up to him. She doesn't want it to mean anything and he guesses in a way it just can't.

Eddie was a man who was cursed with being accused of knowing more than he did. It was pure accident the rare times he was able to stumble upon the truth. Hail could kill, buildings could explode, and Eddie stood blank, trying to fill an empty page. She didn't know him that well, and in a superficial way, she pitied him.. Yet his presence was one she'll never forget, or understand.

Sandra was a woman with a pronounced limp. She appeared in his dream. Her name was never Lisa Lette. On the sandy beaches of Australia, or in the middle of downtown Kingman, the home of the Militia, she made him feel comfortable and at ease. Her quirky sense of humor punctured his growing ability to take himself way too seriously. Her absence is slightly greater than her lingering presence. In the End, she is the One who is missed. She caught on way too quick.

Sir Frankie loved to walk. He was a loner, a person that prized his privacy, his quiet thoughts he didn't share and he hated to be touched. Sleepless nights built upon themselves unfortunately into something that approached the usual. Yet he was the loneliest person she ever encountered. And he brought it all upon himself.

His favorite mother of two is in many ways an extension, an older version of Sandra; tapping into the same feelings of familiarity, of acceptance and forgiveness. That is truly appreciated. A friend of faith, her beliefs are admirable and her voice is one of reason. Without her calls, one might argue insanity would be the reasonable alternative. Never has one taught as many important lessons in such a confusing time. Always slightly out of reach, she nonetheless remains a shooting star, someone who one can eternally wish the world upon.

Maria was so screwed up it was fatally contagious. Time stopped, and words couldn't be written. Unresolved and unexplainable, the current crisis was somehow never linked with the past. Yet, would he be where he is today if they hadn't collided? No way. The cliché of she became more beautiful every day he knew her was all too appropriate. When the avalanche finally made its impact, he couldn't be prepared. And she too, tumbled away.

The Piano Player hit his keys in a chaotic regularity. No one really listened, because in the end it was just noise. Yet he persisted because he didn't know what else to do. His was a pathetic story, about squandering one's blessings, the gifts of life and feeling way too sorry for one's own story. She never did understand him. Never did care. He was the President' of the Quitter's Club in high school until everyone else had had enough.

Kentucky Woman used to call every night. One hour or two, didn't matter and one month the phone bill was $468. She promised that the past was behind, that the mathematician's figures added up in the end. But they didn't. She stood in the rain and melted away. Somehow it was destined. Somehow it didn't really matter.

The boss wrote a lot of letters. Whenever he saw a societal wrong, he would grab his pen, or his LAPTOP, and jot down his own feelings toward the wrong he witnessed. He was full of hot air and either self love or self hatred, we never knew. While some considered him pathetic, others saw his deep feelings, and his listening skills. The jury is still hung about him. Either you forgive or you forget. Can't have it both ways.

The above referenced are all purely fictional; any resemblance to real persons is judicially coincidental and not meant to hold anyone in judgment. A cast of characters, a case of paranoid schizophrenia, one shouldn't be so hard to dismiss or look away. Look in the mirror: is it a mere reflection or is it something much more significant? Stumbling from time to time, place to place, people to people, one must finally give in or forever drift away. Drunk in an alley, despondent and desolate, it isn't a sight for sore eyes. Eight years is a lot of time to lose track of. With tomorrow like every day comes the changing of the guards. Tomorrow never does know. Really.