A-Hole’s Anonymous

Look it up in the yellow pages, and come find me in the far back- last row.  I’ll be snickering as I smear a poem with a bleeding blue pen on my sweaty palms, watching the ink dribble down into a murky oil topped puddle on a finely waxed floor.

The man sobbing at the front looks like GW with two lazy eyes and elfish shaped ears. Woman to the left: Palin with a mustache. We are all self confessed a-hole’s in need of rose colored glasses.

Honestly, I hate crowds, OC tans, mini foo foo dogs (side note: I was forcibly led to love one name Mindy, a “Morkie”. And over time this petite Falcore looking ragamuffin has worn on me with her shag cuteness and constant barrage of licks.) and think the tea party was written by the deaf and blind.

But I learned a good lesson this last Friday at the nearby Judaic Worship and Cultural Center, listening to Holocaust survivor Helena Weinrauch speak about her horrendous experience with calm, insight, honesty, and yet still, an appreciation for humanity. Read her story here.

It is evident, Sir’ Paul McCartney and Lennon were prophetically clear and righteously on to something, when they wrote their harpischord ballad, “all you need is love.”

Yes the intangible of love–a boundless entity without shape or size. The fleck of feeling that with it’s heart-like tempo, can turn a grainy sun scorched and expression-less skyline, to a swirling majesty; an art painting of the surreal; a smeary energetic dream; a dozen wind waifed butterflies bobbing like yo-yo’s over a fist of emerald grass.

The older I get, now approaching a pre-midlife crisis at twenty-nine, seven months and counting, I come into agreement with love and its power to transform the lens in which I view things. The American culture is built on a white and black paradigm of belief structure. Right or wrong dominate our upbringings. But they now lilt in the exposure generations x, y, and z have had with the riverine nature of relativity. Nothing is black, nothing is white. Grey is the chic’ fashion forward.  

And i’m wearing it: the cloth of Love. Not guns, racism, greed, but love.

The bond shared between my cousin and I as we shoot text back and forth in regards to Kobe Bryant and the Lakers. He is a believer, and I, a cynical realist jab through stereophonic air waves.

Laker hater. You just hate it when the Lakers win–Cousin Chad

No! I don’tare when the Lakers win. I am not a Laker hater because Pau saved Kobe’s career. If that makes me a Laker hater, than so be it.–Me

The seam that ties together unity, bonds the sinner to the saint, christens society with an infatuate need for universal brother and sisterhood, is love.

I think Kobe Bryant is a phenomenal player.

And an un-phenomenal person.

Do I wish him any harm? Absolutely not. Is losing harmful? No. How about jumping a car, only to clip your feet, flip in a circle, land on your back, and get paralyzed? Is that harmful?

I love him.

God that’s gross.

So I try like this, re-enacting the famous scene in Jerry Maguire when I, Renee Zelweger, confess my need for Kobe, Tom Cruise.

After Kobe’s deep serenading poem of appreciation, I pause. My eyes crystal over, and my lower lip begins to twitch erratically (which means love is overwhelming my feminine bosom) and I whisper, “you had me at hello.”

It is the fakest job done in Hollyweird. I sound like a mumbling Vin Diesel.

Which is why you met me at A-hole’s Anonymous in the first place. I want to get over this thing.

Step one) Admit your are an a-hole. Check. Step two) Make a mends with those whom you’ve harmed. Che…..ck.

When you found me, I was wallowing in another Laker grind it out victory. No matter how cutely Chris Paul sliced and diced the Laker defense, Kobe found ways to win with his classicaly killer instinct. This according to Seahawks running back Marshawn Lynch, is going into beas’ mo’. Which if translated into correct English, means beast mode.

I am giving up on the a-hole way of living. It is cold hearted and cruel. The very man I love to see lose, got swept by a Mark Cuban Mavs team built from the ground up.

But it did not make me feel any better.

This time I languished in my childish banter. I am turning over a new leaf. I care about sports, but obviously not enough any longer.

From this day forward you will never (never say never) hear another anti-Kobe statement from me. In fact mark this down: dude is top fifteen of all-time. No, make that twelve.

I need to get back to church: drink wine and fill myself with the charity of their crackers. Oops, scratch that.