THE GAME

Open up your mind and let me step inside
Rest your weary head and let your heart decide

It's so easy
When you know the rules
It's so easy
All you have to do is fall in love

Play the game
Everybody play the game of love

--Queen, "The Game"


Yes, love is a game, but the only times that anyone wins is when they decide to lay down their arms and stop trying to take control of the relationship.

I went into My Space today, checking my profile. Someone had left a comment for me. It was from some girl whom I've never met, some 17 year-old girl who found my profile and wanted to be a friend. Since there are literally dozens of people in my personal profile whom I have never met, I figured one more wouldn't hurt, right?

The comment went as follows:

I HATE YOU BEANER GO MAKE BURRITOS AND PICK STRAWBERRIES

Huh? I did a double take. Where did this come from? Why did she write this? What the dillio?

I did a little investigative reporting and discovered that this girl's profile has been hijacked by an ex who won't let go of the past. Other friends of this girl left comments along the lines of "Whoever is doing this to ____'s profile is a dick".

The ex changed the name of her profile to IMA SLUT and left horrible remarks in the Info sections, the kinds of remarks that do the poor girl a huge disservice. After a little digging, I found the profile of the ex, a 16 year-old boy who somehow got access to her username and password.

My only sin was leaving a comment on this girl's profile a while back. My comment: "I think you should start a blog." Apparently, he figured I was some one-night stand for this girl, and sent me that racist comment as a form of payback.

Of course, when people bring it to me, they receive it in kind. I won't go into the specifics, but suffice it to say that some teenage punk from a beach town in L.A. is not scary to me in the least.

But it was depressing to ponder how badly relations between the sexes have degenerated. Yes, they are high school kids and don't know any better, but it still makes me heartsick, because most likely these people are going to grow up physically but will stay mentally adolescent.

They are the future, and the future doesn't look too bright.


*/*


When you're feeling down and your resistance is low
Light another cigarette and let yourself go

This is your life--
Don't play hard to get
It's a free world
All you have to do is fall in love

Play the game--
Everybody play the game of love


ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK should be the sign at the door of the House of Love. Everyone knows that opening up yourself to someone else takes big balls and a lot of courage. The risks people take with their emotions are dangerous, but the alternative is to sit on the bench and wait out the action, which can be good but leaves one feeling alone and unloved.

I woke up yesterday and realized that, although I was right to call Eve on her bullshit, I probably could've been less of a cold-hearted dick. Because I truly love her, and because I didn't want her to be mad for petty reasons, I called her and left a message on her phone, apologizing for the way that I acted. I didn't apologize for what I'd actually said-- rather, it was the tone of my sentiments which I regretted.

I don't expect to hear back from her, but then again if all I wanted was a quick fix I would've called her when she wasn't at work. I'm waiting until after Valentine's Day... and perhaps after her birthday in March. That way, there is no grey area-- if she is afraid that I am trying to fall back in love, waiting until after the Danger Zones have passed is wise.

I don't want to hurt her, but I also can't take that puppy-dog stance with girls anymore. Eve is not the first girl who has done this to me. Anyone who has known me for a long time knows that there was once a girl who literally crowded my life with her personal demons. I refer to her as Amy Coates, in my fiction and my blogs.

Amy was my first girlfriend in high school. I was told that I had a secret admirer, and when I found out it was a blue-eyed red-haired beauty, you can imagine how jazzed I felt. My self-esteem at the time was at an all-time low, and I was positively elated by the prospects of a pretty girl digging my style.

Amy turned out to be a moody, emotionally damaged young woman who could never be happy with anyone or anything. I bore a lot of the brunt of her anger, but I also threw it right back at her. Compared to the other love casualties she left in her wake, I got off lucky: two guys I know who'd had crushes on her ended up going gay later on in college; my good friend Sal tried his hand at taming the shrew, only to have his head and ego handed back to him promptly; any guy who pursued her paid a dear price for their devotion.

I always hung in there, because I was one of the few guys who gave it back to her as hard as she threw it at me. I secretly liked the idea that I was the one guy who would not fold under the strain. It made me feel like I was a worthy opponent, her perfect match in a way.

It got so bad that I would automatically elicit sympathy from other girls, because they knew what a bitch Amy was and they thought that I must've been the sweetest guy, since I was able to put up with her. Those girls didn't know that Amy was able to bring out the worst in me, to bring me to her level.

Amy and I were on-and-off countless times between 1990 and 1997. Then, one day, she chewed me out over nothing, and instead of trying to argue back, I let her talk. She did not stop. She tore into me with a fury that I'd never before witnessed in her. She said I was a 'bad man' and a horrible person, and I didn't try to dissuade her. She told me never to call her or speak to her ever again.

I didn't take it seriously until that following Christmas, when I sent her a card. She actually went out of her way to call me and complain about my sending her a Christmas card. That's when I knew that I was over this girl.

I spent three years writing about our relationship in my novel, FREE TIME. It was the first time I ever tried to get to the bottom of why I am such a doormat for crazy bitches. I came to conclude that I am two people, a split personality of sorts. On one hand, I am a sensitive little boy who only craves attention and love; on the other hand, I am a somewhat jaded and world-weary old man who has learned how to deal with stress by escaping into the world of art.

This synopsis echoes what Eve said to me a few months ago (please refer to the second part of "Three Extra Pieces"). Eve has never read my novel, even though she is a minor character in it. She has no idea that I came to that realization about myself years ago.

Anyway, years passed, and by the time I was dating Jeanie in 2000, Amy Coates was back in the picture, talking about how I was the one who broke off relations and that she wanted to know if I still wanted to be friends. Imagine my disgust at reading that in a letter-- after all of her bullshit, she had the gall to imply that I was the one who called it all off.

I sent her the kiss-off letter to end all kiss-off letters. She responded by calling me on the phone, pleading with me to not give up on us. We made peace, and decided to be friends... but that was also the last time we spoke to each other.

Last I heard, she got married and went to live in Santa Fe, New Mexico. As for me, my life got infinitely better after that.


*/*


My game of love has just begun
Love runs from my head down to my toes
My love is pumping through my veins
Driving me insane
Play the game
Play the game
Play the game
Play the game...


My dealings with Amy led me to break up with Jeanie, because I saw that I was headed down a similar road. It was hard to tell Jeanie that we were through, because she was a great lay, an awesome cook, and she really liked me. But she was also a headache-- drunken outbursts, embarrassing scenes in public, constant nagging and jealousy, brazen flirtatiousness with other guys... all of my female friends told me to get away from her ASAP.

Every time I think that I made a mistake in letting Jeanie go, I pick up my notebook from that time period, and I turn to any page, and there-- in handwritten ink-- is solid proof that I made the right decision. The pain expressed in that notebook is a sober reminder of what I endured in the name of love.

After that, I went on a mad pilgrimage to make peace with all of my exes. I squared things away with any girl that I had felt any level of deep emotion for, and it was really great to see some of them again. It was also cathartic and therapeutic.

Eve was the only one who I couldn't make peace with, largely because she resisted any attempt on my part. But I think that what she and I went through recently counts as some sort of long farewell, and now we're Even Steven.

However, the fact that it all boils down to who gets in the Last Word doesn't escape me. Last night, while talking to Bro Man, I summed it all up like that:

"It's all about who got in the last word. I've been aching over Eve all of these years because I never had the chance to tell her what I really felt. I always believed that she held the upper hand, and now... well, even though it's not quite over, I feel a lot better, and it has to do with the fact that I said what I had to say and nothing more."

I'll admit, part of my ultimatum to her last Friday was based on my fear that she was eventually going to break off whatever it is that we had for the last few months. I wanted to get her before she got me. It's the ages-old Battle Of The Sexes-- nothing new, nothing surprising there...

We always seem to hurt the ones we love. If this is true, then why bother loving anyone to begin with?

I wish I knew the answer to that one.

All I know is, I have a lot of love to give, and one day I'll meet a girl who wants to play nice, who wants to share (and not control) a healthy relationship. I have hope, I am optimistic about my prospects, because (as Morrissey once sang) I've seen it happen in other people's lives.

Until then, I'm a rolling stone, a man who wants to love women but finds himself expecting too much from them. I want them to be my equal, not behind me, not in front of me. I want them to inspire me, for better or for worse. I want them to listen to me, when I need someone to hear what I have to say. I want them to treat the boy in me like a man, and to treat the man in me with a grain of salt.

I guess I am asking for too much. But it wouldn't be the first time for me, and if you ask me, it's not unrealistic to want to be happy.

And besides, all you have to do is fall in love, and play the game...

...and remember-- it's not about whether you win or lose, but how you play it.