Day: November 30, 1996

Written by Mark Scarola

“I merely stir, press, feel with my fingers, and am happy,
To touch my person to someone else’s
is about as much as I can stand.”

— Walt Whitman, “Song of Myself”

So, having been informed that the topic of this issue is the ever-elusive “perfect love” (or, as Winnie-the-Pooh might say, “the emotional Heffalump”), I sat down and took pen in hand. Oddly, I simply couldn’t bring pen to paper. At first I thought it might be fear that my current companion would take offense at something I wrote and abandon me, forcing me to rewrite the entire essay. That certainly wasn’t the case, so I stared at the paper for a few minutes, and then it struck me. The problem is that “perfect love” does not exist.

You see, “perfect love” is an oxymoron. Anyone who has experienced love can testify that it is awkward and clumsy, ill-timed and clammy, embarrassing and demeaning, elevating and debasing, and yet there is no greater endeavor. To expect love to be pure joy and elation is to miss exactly what makes it so wonderful. Love allows one to experience the full range and scope of human emotion. The highs give you nosebleeds, and the lows set you up for the bends. Even the time in between is filled with interesting emotional spasms. (Personally, I enjoy the moments following a phone conversation, when I realize I’ve said something very inappropriate, and verbally thrash myself out loud for the next few minutes.) If one experienced only the euphoria and not the nagging doubts, then one is not truly in love but truly moronic. If only the exaggerated moments of self-loathing are explored, then once again, it is not love but phone sex.

True “lovers” are deaf, blind, and mute. They hear the intonations of voice and carefully chosen words of their companion, but are unable to register the meaning of these things, leading them to ask questions like “What do you think he meant when he said he really likes me?” and the inevitable follow-up: “Do you think he really likes me?” One in love sees his lover’s face in microscopic detail, yet is completely incapable of reading its countenance. “What in the world is she staring at?” asks the man who cannot fathom that another might find him attractive. The one in love presumes it is a physical deformity that is being assessed, rather than the beauty he possesses.

Of course, the greatest disability of a person in love, and the one that causes the most pain to those who surround him or her, is the inability to semicoherently express feelings through the use of language. Some try anyway, which is why we are tortured by such songs as “I Can’t Smile Without You,” “I Honestly Love You,” and “Hey, Did You Happen to See the Most Beautiful Girl in the World?” (not to mention “Georgy Girl”). A lover who happens to possess a simulacrum of taste chooses instead to say as little as humanly possible, for fear of blurting out something like, “Hey, you know, Debbie, I just wanna let you know that I got all these feelings and stuff that I got for you and I wanted to let you know because sometimes I think you know but I really don’t know if you do, so I figured I’d tell you.”

Trying to deduce the feelings of your possible mate is perhaps the most anxiety-provoking part of this enigma we call love. And for those of you who need a bit of assistance, I offer an ancient piece of wisdom that I have just recently concocted. My theorem states, “The strength of one’s feelings towards another is directly related to the number of segues used in normal conversation with that significant other.” One who has been smitten by another is often over-cautious when approaching a conversation, especially if the conversation is of no interest to the listener. Rather than directly stating what needs to be said, the conversation is characterized by the use of particularly awkward segues. For example:

Woman: I was thinking that we might see a movie tonight.

Man: That sounds good . . . which reminds me that I just saw a preview
for that new John Waters film, Serial Mom, and I got to thinking that I’d call my Mom because I haven’t talked to her in a while, so I did,
and then I started to feel bad because she hasn’t gone out much since Dad got his goiter, so I invited her along with us tonight, if you don’t mind.

Here we clearly hear the nervousness and hesitance in the man’s words, because I would have rewritten it if we couldn’t. His verbal constipation is demonstrative of his desire to please his companion. Compare this with the speech of a man who has little concern for his prospective mate’s feelings:

Woman: I was thinking that we might see a movie tonight.

Man: Quit yapping, I’m scratching myself.

My theorem is correct! Just as I would have hoped!

Love is buoyant and unsinkable. No, that was the Titanic. Love, in fact, is fragile and easily corrupted. Into each relationship we carry the weight of all our past relationships. We expect love to raise our disenchanted and world-weary spirits and we simultaneously expect it to heal old wounds. What it really does is create new and more painful wounds — so painful that we simply forget about our old scabs, which eventually fall off, leaving us with only the new ones to tend to. Much like a good parachute jump, love must be approached with great fear and determination. (Note: the elderly, those with heart problems, and pregnant women please be warned.) In fact, love is like falling into a bottomless pit with Astroturf walls: one simultaneously feels the euphoria of freefall combined with the intense pain of rug burn when one accidentally brushes the sides.

Despite my obvious wisdom and level-headedness, I would hereby like to let you know that you should discount all that you have read so far. I’m an idiot. I know nothing. I’m in love.

By David Melito

When contemplating the search for the elusive perfect love, I feel the need
to borrow a phrase from the Diet Coke Diva herself — “Learning to love yourself is the greatest love of all.” It’s true, Whitney: the greatest love of all is easy to achieve; all it takes is self-confidence. But how do we become self-confident? Can it really be achieved alone? that’s not as easy an answer. You see, Whitney, there are two types of people: those who grew up with a sense of well-being and security, and people like me. We are the Painfully Insecure People (PIP) of the world. What does this have to do with the search for the elusive perfect love? Stick around: it will all make sense.

Written by Mark Scarola

For some, culture shock can be an ugly and brutal reality

Mark Scarola has suffered the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. He fled Los Angeles shortly before I arrived there. This is his story.

“What folly,” archaeologists muse as they survey the ruins of ancient Pompeii, “to have built a city along the side of a highly active volcano!” Tracing the edges of urns and caskets with their fingers, they note that the citizenry of Pompeii were highly skilled craftsmen, but lacked any semblance of common sense. I wonder what archaeologists will say, centuries from now, when they inspect the ruins of Pompeii’s spoiled little brother, Los Angeles. Will they sort through piles of stucco and asphalt and cry, “These are the remaining fragments of an over-burdened metropolis?” Or will they simply acknowledge that twentieth-century man had such little sense for an animal with such a voluminous brain.

Los Angeles is, much like Pompeii was, a city that simply should never have existed. It is as if Angelenos are fighting a war against good judgement. Death knocks on their door biannually in the form of mudslides and brushfires, yet instead of abandoning death’s favorite vacation hideaway, they try to ignore his golden tan. “It would be so . . . East Coast,” they
say, “to be worried and tense about something over which we have no control.” This remark is often made from a cellular phone in the midst of heavy traffic. Their attitude is often described as “laid back,” but it does not take much of a psychologist to see this as a form of self-defense using state-of-the-art passive-aggressive techniques. “Run for your
lives!” we scream at them, hoping that self-preservation will take hold and they will scramble for safer ground. But they refuse to budge: they struggle to appear not to be struggling — to show us how a stress-free life is led. They are more concerned with earning a merit badge for “Most Masturbatory Form of Disinterest” than they are with simply surviving. They pooh-pooh the notion that they are only an earthquake away from being permanently laid-back, noting coolly that it’s supposed to be 85 degrees down in San Diego on Tuesday, with four-foot waves.

I must admit, being a New Yorker, that I do sometimes feel that I’m a bit too judgmental, and perhaps I exaggerate when discussing the City of Angels, but I feel I have a right to. I lived in Los Angeles for a six-month period ending just before the Northridge Earthquake. In a town where one industry monopolizes the money and the attention, I was an outsider. Interesting social conversations (those that did not involve Hollywood film) were rare, as I had no desire to discuss the film industry. I soon grew tired of listening to stories about people I didn’t know and things I’d never see (much less care about). And, as you might already have guessed, everyone was too busy relaxing to have taken notice of my perpetual boredom.

The “laid-back” nature of Angelenos leaves them, as we have witnessed in recent years, in a state of chaos when havoc strikes. The hands-off approach to improving race relations resulted in the 1992 riots, and the relaxed police department exacerbated the already disastrous situation. It still amazes me that there are people sleeping outdoors after this year’s earthquake. “Hmmm,” says Mayor Riordan, “perhaps we ought to build a few shelters, seeing as we live in such an earthquake-prone region of the United States.” “Your honor,” replies one of his many aides, “then we might seem concerned about our own welfare.” “Good point,” says the big white guy, “forget I ever mentioned it.”

I left Los Angeles knowing that I was heading back to New York, the drug-infested, foul-smelling, crime-ridden center of my universe. I know that I’m placing my life on the line every time I take a stroll after midnight. At least I can take a stroll after midnight.

Angelenos, by the way, take to walking like cats to the backstroke. Angelenos have never heard of public transportation, either. (Note to Angelenos — “public transportation” is when the government supplies you with an inexpensive and moderately efficient means of moving around urban and suburban areas. I don’t expect you to know this now, but you may be tested on it later.) When my car decided it needed a few days in the shop after the cross-country trek to L.A., I was rendered absolutely immobile. As my car racked up additional wear and tear, I found that if I stayed in L.A., and my car passed into the next world, I’d have no need to work, for I wouldn’t be able to get there anyway. Besides, I’d certainly be helping to decrease the density of the smog, even if I had to starve to do it.

It seemed to me that the only days I enjoyed being outdoors in L.A. were the days after it had rained. The air seemed somewhat cleaner, and certainly less arid. Of course, it only rained twice while I was in L.A. (one of those days was the day I left), so perhaps my opinion isn’t truly an informed one. I like having precipitation, and there are only two kinds in L.A.: 1) rain and 2) brushfire residue. My experience allows me to tell you that ashes and soot fall more commonly than rain, so if you are asthmatic, consider yourself warned. Before I finish with my tirade against dry, sunny, 75-degree weather, I’d like to let you know that as I write this, I’m suffering from the flu brought on by the 24 inches of snow N.Y.C. has received during the past week. I’d still rather be here than in Los Angeles.

Almost as annoying as the climate of L.A. was the environment. Mainly, I would like to address the fact that L.A. has approximately twelve palm trees per square foot. This would not be notable except for the fact that palm trees aren’t even indigenous to California, and quite simply, they’re ugly. In essence, the city is overcrowded with imported, ugly trees. They line the streets, the hillsides, the patios, the beaches, and the indoor malls. They’re all over the place, and they’re hideously unattractive. (Have I mentioned how ugly they are?)

Above all, L.A. lacks any sense of history. Being so concerned with setting trends, it has forgotten its own past accomplishments. I remember the day I stepped out of the Subaru dealership where my car was being operated on. At my feet was a plaque that read, “This site was once the home of Hal Roach Studios.” I’m willing to bet they don’t even remember who Hal Roach was.

I think I ought to now spend a few seconds extolling the one virtue of L.A. Just outside of La Brea on Fairfax is L.A.’s one beacon of hope — The Silent Movie Theatre. The only silent movie theatre still in existence, it contains all of the magic that L.A. has squandered. A live organist improvises to the films of Harold Lloyd, Buster Keaton, et al., while the rest of L.A. goes to pot.