My Happy Ending

I could’ve gotten it perfect, but it’s so much more fun to get it close enough.

Picture it. I’m two beers into a Monday night. I step out onto my deck. I’m shocked by the quantity of stars. My iPod’s on shuffle. Avril Lavigne’s “Happy Ending” comes on. Wait a second: don’t hate the player, hate the game. Say what you will about the ‘lil pop tart, but the song’s good, ok?

So I step inside. I pour a glass of wine. I learn the song. And I record it. My cell phone rings during the first pass. I turn it off, and get the second pass, eh, close enough.

It’s a good thing.

So, the subject matter: The Happy Ending. No, not the Asian massage kind. The Hollywood kind. We’ve been here before, right? I’m pretty sure we’re in agreement, right? As in, no such thing?

Well, a guy can dream. And a guy can fool himself into believing there is such a thing. A guy can even take a step or two in that direction then be like, “Oops!” ‘Cuz it only lasts so long. And I’m pleased to report to you, Dear Reader, that this guy has learned.

See, I’ve been off the grid for a minute. I haven’t kissed a girl — ‘scuse me, a woman — in this long since, well, since I started kissing girls. And mostly, I’m ok with it. Though I gotta’ say, my people are dropping like flies: my friend John, my friend Aimee, my friend Matt: married, married, married. Which is to say nothing of the babies, babies, babies.

But hey, you read The Daily Journal, you read “Handshake Drugs” and Modern Love, and hell, you might even own the albums — all eight of them. It ain’t like I haven’t given it the old college try. Or eleven or twelve. It’s just that, yunno’ what? It isn’t you. No really. It isn’t. It’s me. And I’m ok with that.

‘Cuz you know where to find me. I’ll be upstairs, blogging or writing or recording or reading or … or just pacing the deck looking at the stars. And eventually, I’ll come back down. And when I do, when I’m ready, it won’t be so much a happy ending, but some kind of beginning.

Until then …