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JJ Wienkers » 2010 » December

He loves me, he loves his wife not.

You’re never too old to fall in love.  Nor – as was illustrated by a story that ran in the “Vows” section of the New York Times a fortnight ago – too married.

According to the feature, 40-somethings Carol Anne Riddell and John Partilla met in 2006 at an Upper West Side school where they both had young children in attendance.  There, an instantaneous friendship was forged.  Spouses and spawn were introduced soon after; and the two families began sharing dinners, hosting joint parties, and even taking vacations together.

All was kosher.  All was kind.  Until Carol and John began to develop romantic feelings for one another, that is.  Then what could be the plot structure of a Disney movie took an unexpected turn down Woody Allen Lane.

To their credit, neither he nor she shared knowledge of their growing desire with anyone else, much less each other.  Not at first.  Instead, they toiled silently, painfully, until he invited her out for a drink one evening in 2008 and the climax of this real world drama was staged.

INT. O’CONNELL’S NEIGHBORHOOD BAR – NIGHT

Carol and John sit at a table, each with a pint of beer.

John
I’ve fallen in love with you.

She flees, knocking her glass of beer into his lap, as she told the Times.

DISSOLVE TO:

TITLE CARD: Five minutes later.

Carol returns.

Carol
I feel exactly the same way.

FADE OUT:

From there, “[They] did a terrible thing as honorably as [they] could,” John is quoted as saying.  Officially separating from their spouses by the end of 2008.  Moving in together, July 2009.  And finally, marrying at the City Clerks office this past November before staging a small ceremony for family and friends the following month.

So began the rest of their lives…and, as the U.K. Daily Mail Online reported last week, an onslaught of critical feedback.

“Is it a sign of our times that personal responsibility to one’s spouse and children takes a back seat to selfish, self-centered love?” one reader is said to have written in to the New York Times.

Considering that divorce is far from a new trend in American society, the true sign of our times is not so much the subject of the previously summarized feature, but the feature itself.

We are living in the Age of Over-sharing…and Carol Anne Riddell and John Partilla are
-4,308 over the 140-character limit.

They have since expressed regret, telling the Daily Mail “…if we had had an indication afterwards of the nerve it would have struck, we obviously would not have shared our life in any way publicly.” Yet, like a Tweet forever lodged in Google’s cache, there is no retracting a factually sound piece of journalism. And anyways, harm done, parties fouled –

This is a love story.

Sure, its telling may appear a bit self-serving.  Especially since Carol did say that “the part that’s hard for people to believe is we didn’t have an affair…I didn’t want to sneak around and sleep with him on the side. I wanted to get up in the morning and read the paper with him.”

But, duh.

For a pair of A-list stars this would be a standard public relations move.  One at which many would certainly scoff, of course.  But still, when it concerns a couple of only-somewhat prominent people – she is an award winning New York television news anchor and reporter, he the chief of operations for a large Japanese advertising agency – far fewer folks seem willing to find merit and redemption in their actions.

Carol and John’s reputations aside, this could also be read as an extreme, 21st century take on sitting your children down for the “it’s not you, it’s us” talk.

“My kids are going to look at me and know that I am flawed and not perfect, but also deeply in love,” she told the Times. “We’re going to have a big, noisy, rich life, with more love and more people in it.”

Certainly not the route one would expect a journalist who launched a weekly segment focusing on family and parenting issues to take; but at least they – as well as John’s kids – know the truth behind their parents’ splits.

And it’s not like there is any empirical evidence proving that children suffer from too much communication.  A severe or complete lack of honest dialogue between the young and the old, however, the absence of an open discussion about the complex realities of being married, of being in love, of being HUMAN – the effects of that reticent approach to child rearing can be seen in and sited as largely responsible for the dysfunctional relationships of hordes of people from every generation.

The kids will likely be all right.  It is Carol and John’s former spouses that are sure to be the two most affected by this story.  Although Carol’s ex-husband, Bob Ennis, told Forbes that his concern was mostly for his children, even in text his tone wafts of bitterness.

But again, duh.

It is hard enough for one to see that a lover from his or her recent past has changed their relationship status from single back to “In a relationship,” on Facebook.  Imagine having to read in the third best-selling newspaper in America – as John’s ex-wife did – that the father of your children, “…didn’t believe in the word soul mate before, but now [he does].” Not even a preventative installation of the Ex-blocker – a free and easy browser add-on that hides any mention of your former flames from the Internet when surfed from your personal computer – could have protected her from that knife to the heart drive.

Yet, as painful as that revelation would be, it doesn’t mean that John never truly loved his first wife.  Perhaps the feelings he had for her were the strongest he had ever felt for anyone before Carol came into his, into their lives.

Regardless, the hard truth behind marriage is that it is not “till death do us part,” so much as, “I love you enough to make leaving you an expensive and frustrating hassle.”

Cynical?  To some, maybe.  But ultimately we can not really help with whom we fall in or out of love.  That is not to say that we can never completely trust those we love.  Just that part of hearing “I love you” means allowing ourselves to believe that even if the love fades, the memory of what we once shared will ensure that he or she who rescinds the sentiment will take care to break our hearts into as few pieces as possible.

“Pain or more pain,” is how John Partilla says he and Carol Anne Riddell saw their options.

And whether or not everyone may agree with the decision to share their story, hopefully it will inspire others in a similar predicament to make the humane, albeit complicated, choice, as well.


In the heart of the YouTuber.

Love knows neither class nor taste.  Not in the humans for whom we fall.  Not in the music which we fall to.

As alternative as one may profess their aural preferences to be, and however minimal or voracious their appetite for popular culture – it takes but one listen during a particularly unbridled wave of romantic giddiness for a previously unheard, dismissed, or even scorned pop song to latch on to our hearts and become the soundtrack of our most recent infatuation.

Hence, the reason why I danced around my kitchen listening to Katy Perry’s “Teenage Dream” 37 times in a row one evening last July.

I had just been on my first date with a boi guised Dishes and was perusing his Facebook profile ever so obsessively.  Below his photo he had typed the title of Perry’s aforementioned hit.  Yet, because my radio dial rarely reads anything but 89.9 KCRW, those words meant nothing to me…until I typed them into the YouTube search field.

Then they meant EVERYTHING.

I don’t really wear make-up
And of course I’m funny

Even when I tell the punch line wrong
ButohmyGawd;
he thinks I’m PRETTY!
And he actually gets me. I know he gets me.
So I WILL let my walls come down, dowww-owww-own.

Before I met him – two weeks ago – yeah…I was alright
But yes, things were kinda heavy; he fucking brought me back to LIFE.
Now six months from now in February, he’ll TOTES be my valentine!  My first VALENTIIINE!

Or so I thought and sang at the time.

Alas, Dishes will never send me any handwritten, heart-shaped letters of devotion, as I did not get another chance to let him put his hands on me in my skin-tight jeans or get drunk on the beach together, much less fuck him in a fort that we built out of bed sheets.

In fact, he publicly rejected me the second time I ever attempted to see him.  And a mere 15 minutes later our (albeit unbeknownst to him) song began to play.  FLEE, though everyone’s first instinct would be, my friend Joseph forced me to remain on the dance floor, a bear’s length away from Dishes and his posse.

Painfully ironic though that may sound, it did not actually exacerbate the heartbreak and humiliation I had just endured; but rather prompted the realization – and continues to do so every time I hear “Teenage Dream” – that no matter how many more Dishes morph into douches, I am finally ready to allow myself to fall in love.

Of course, even when there are no regrets, few if any can escape such a situation completely unscathed.  However large they may be, however long we allow them to fester – there is bound to be a wound and eventually we must address it.  Only then can the healing and new growth begin.

Some scarring is inevitable.  Sure.  But like all remnants of emotional anguish – past, present, and future – it is a sacrifice worthy of the knowledge we obtain in exchange.

“Love Is A Battlefield,” after all.  And so long as we carry on, there WILL be a day when “One Life Stand” replaces “Why Don’t You Love Me” as our amorous anthem.


Own your bone.

Nerd, jock, burnout, closet case – whatever our social demographic growing up, there is, at the very least, one fear which all young men share:

An Inconvenient Boner.

Oh no…No!  No Gawd, no.  No, please. Please go down.  Go!  Go away!

Uhhh…uhhh…Baseball…cold showers…baseball…cold showers…MARGARET THATCHER NAKED ON A COLD DAY!  MARGARET THATCHER NAKED ON A COLD DAY!”

UHHH, that’s not – it’s – who is Margaret Thatcher, anyway?

OhGawdquick – quick, look away.  If you don’t make eye contact, then the teacher won’t call you up to the…to the…

Hey!  Hey it’s gone!  It’s GONE!

OhthankGawd.

…What class is this, again?

Whether one went or will go through puberty long before, during, or years after the initial run of Mike Meyers’ bawdy film, “Austin Powers: International Man of Mystery” – if a boy is in class, mass or any type of worship service or setting in which he could, potentially, have to stand up and walk to the front of a group, some variation of the aforementioned internal crisis control will ensue when an erection threatens to poke visibly through.

Fortunately, age and experience tend to assuage this apprehension.  We still get spontaneous stiffies hurr and thurr, of course.  And yes, few beyond a particular brand of exhibitionist relish the thought of poppin’ a weasel any time or place where the stealth adjust-and-tuck(-beneath-the-waistband-but-not-over-top-the-shirt!) concealment method is all but impossible to enact.  Yet as consenting adults, especially consenting gay adults, we can and must weRRRq, not hide our hard ons.

It may take some time for one to wrap their topmost head around this evolved notion.  That’s understandable.  In fact, it wasn’t until I joined the West Hollywood dodgeball league, early this year, that I began my own journey toward enlightenment.  A journey that culminated in my playing in nothing more than a pair of magenta suspenders and a tie-dyed, butt cheek-baring Speedo during our latest battle for a spot in the season finals.

Shit… I began to fret as I strolled to the baseline, taking in the 100-plus horned up, expressly toned, short shorts and tank top-clad men populating the gymnasium around me.  What if I spring a BONE? Eh. Oh well.  No going back to put on more clothes now.

And there was no need to.  Because the question, gentleman, should not begin, What if, but rather, SO what if.

Who cares? No one should. Not in any sense of the verb but the positive.  For all anyone in our vicinity knows, it’s as much a compliment to him (or her) as it is a sign of confidence in us.

I’m not suggesting we all walk around in a perpetual state of obvious, observable arousal.  That would be a bit desperate.  Not to mention painful and possibly damaging to long-term reproductive health.

I am only proposing that finally, we release ourselves from the burden of any erratic erection-related embarrassment.

Let go.  Minimize the display when need be.  Then, like our tips, hold our heads up high.

After all…

These hard times are the good ol’ days for which we will eventually long.


‘One Whore Open Lay.’

Coming – it’s – it’s coming! – to a holiday-themed gang bang section in the sex shop nearest to you.


How Not To Delude Yourself Into Believing That Your Next-door Neighbor’s Apartment Is NOT Haunted.

Maybe she left the TV on to keep her dog company while she’s away for the holidays.

Maybe…uhhh…Maybe it’s the radio?

Or the neighbors across the alley.

YES!

Yes, it’s totally them.

It has to be.


Fuck.

FUUUCK!

Well

At least she won’t hear my ensuing night terror…

Again.