A
few years back, I was thumbing through the Encyclopædia
Britannica. I wanted to know the origins of this Cupid chap who is supposed to be flying around this week. He's Roman, in case you didn't know (I didn't, which is why I was looking him up in the first place). He apparently enjoys archery and he is a menace to our society. Britannica says that "his wounds inspired love or passion in his every victim." WOUNDS???? VICTIM???? He's hunting human prey, for Christ's sake! Clearly this guy is a terrorist and needs to be stopped at all cost! We need to ship his wing-ed little ass off to Guantánamo and find out what his real agenda is!
As you may have guessed, I find Valentine's Day to be a disgusting and crass holiday. Even in the days when I had a girlfriend, I still wasn't fond of it (although I will admit it was a lot more fun). Personally, I don't understand the concept of it. Some poor schlub gets his head lobbed off and I'm supposed to be romantic about it? "Y'know, honey, we can go out to dinner and a movie anytime. Why don't we watch someone get martyred?" I don't know about the rest of you, but I certainly get hot whenever I think of someone getting decapitated. Valentine's Day... Bah! Humbug!
Now don't get me wrong. I'm a hopeless romantic. Or maybe I'm just hopeless...the jury is still out on that. Consequently, I'm not a fan of what I call "institutionalized romance." I don't like being told when I should be romantic. I prefer to do it on my own, whenever the mood strikes me.
I normally try hard not to rain on anyone's parade. And the other 364.25 days out of the year, I don't. As such, I feel entitled to have one day out of the year when I can. So, every February 14, I dress in my finest black suit, don a pair of sunglasses, and proclaim myself to be the anti-Cupid.
Can you blame me? Beginning the day after Christmas, retail outlets and the media promote it ad nauseam. They promote it as a holiday for lovers (and, I suppose, rightfully so). Never mind how many people are consequently ostracized for the crime of being single. No one ever talks about those who celebrate this "holiday" alone. Valentine's Day and those who orchestrate it couldn't care less about us. I guess that's only fair. After all, we couldn't care about them. I guess we're like the homeless. If they don't see us, we don't really exist.
Seriously, what kind of crap is that? There are a lot of us lonely, embittered people out there. Where are our cards and flowers and candy? Where is our holiday? Who speaks for us?
At this point, I'm reminded of the words of Rob Fleming, the protagonist of my favourite novel, Nick Hornby's High Fidelity (or Rob Gordon if you're a fan of the film starring John Cusack), who points out that people worry about kids playing with guns or playing violent video games because they might turn into violent people themselves. But nobody worries about these same kids listening to literally thousands of songs about pain, heartbreak, and loss. Fleming poses an interesting question: "Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music?"
Either way, all we socially unacceptable single people seem to have on our behalf are the countless pop songs that people have been writing and performing since the dawn of civilization. They say what those who force this holiday upon us are too ashamed to admit. As members of the J. Geils Band, Peter Wolf and Seth Justman claimed "Love Stinks." Felice and Boudleaux Bryant said that "Love Hurts." Bob Dylan declared that "Love is Just a Four-Letter Word." The late, great Leonard Cohen pointed out that "There Ain't No Cure For Love." And my idols, the Rolling Stones, professed love to be a "Bitch." As someone who's been passed over in favour of married men and suicidal drunks, I can attest to the fact that all of those are accurate.
I'm sure there are a lot of you out there who are deeply in love with your soul mate. You may be happily married and have a litter of offspring and you still swoon every time you see each other. That's great. I'm happy for you... seriously, I am. All I ask is that you stop rubbing it in the faces of those of us who aren't as lucky as you.
Now don't get me wrong. I'm a hopeless romantic. Or maybe I'm just hopeless...the jury is still out on that. Consequently, I'm not a fan of what I call "institutionalized romance." I don't like being told when I should be romantic. I prefer to do it on my own, whenever the mood strikes me.
I normally try hard not to rain on anyone's parade. And the other 364.25 days out of the year, I don't. As such, I feel entitled to have one day out of the year when I can. So, every February 14, I dress in my finest black suit, don a pair of sunglasses, and proclaim myself to be the anti-Cupid.
Can you blame me? Beginning the day after Christmas, retail outlets and the media promote it ad nauseam. They promote it as a holiday for lovers (and, I suppose, rightfully so). Never mind how many people are consequently ostracized for the crime of being single. No one ever talks about those who celebrate this "holiday" alone. Valentine's Day and those who orchestrate it couldn't care less about us. I guess that's only fair. After all, we couldn't care about them. I guess we're like the homeless. If they don't see us, we don't really exist.
Seriously, what kind of crap is that? There are a lot of us lonely, embittered people out there. Where are our cards and flowers and candy? Where is our holiday? Who speaks for us?
At this point, I'm reminded of the words of Rob Fleming, the protagonist of my favourite novel, Nick Hornby's High Fidelity (or Rob Gordon if you're a fan of the film starring John Cusack), who points out that people worry about kids playing with guns or playing violent video games because they might turn into violent people themselves. But nobody worries about these same kids listening to literally thousands of songs about pain, heartbreak, and loss. Fleming poses an interesting question: "Did I listen to music because I was miserable? Or was I miserable because I listened to music?"
Either way, all we socially unacceptable single people seem to have on our behalf are the countless pop songs that people have been writing and performing since the dawn of civilization. They say what those who force this holiday upon us are too ashamed to admit. As members of the J. Geils Band, Peter Wolf and Seth Justman claimed "Love Stinks." Felice and Boudleaux Bryant said that "Love Hurts." Bob Dylan declared that "Love is Just a Four-Letter Word." The late, great Leonard Cohen pointed out that "There Ain't No Cure For Love." And my idols, the Rolling Stones, professed love to be a "Bitch." As someone who's been passed over in favour of married men and suicidal drunks, I can attest to the fact that all of those are accurate.
I'm sure there are a lot of you out there who are deeply in love with your soul mate. You may be happily married and have a litter of offspring and you still swoon every time you see each other. That's great. I'm happy for you... seriously, I am. All I ask is that you stop rubbing it in the faces of those of us who aren't as lucky as you.
