Romance is the pornography of the heart. My entire day was dominated by the plight of a close friend who is trying to bring an extremely messy love affair to a close. Messy? Think: "Of Human Bondage." Think: "The Blue Angel." Think: just about any Woody Allen movie. The whole smitten older man/cute little sociopath thing. My friend (who is my best friend) is an incurable romantic--as if that were a GOOD thing. Unfortunately, romance, in addition to being the smut of the ticker, is (or should be) a childhood disease. A 42-year-old man falling ass-over-teakettle for a 22-year-old free-love-practicing bohemian chick is a preordained train wreck. A third party, a local "shaman" (with the accent on the first syllable) who reminds me of Rasputin without the stamina and Svengali without the staying power, who received regular financial contributions from my friend, knew of his attraction to this girl, and not only did not inform my friend of his prior history with her, he (to put it plainly) fucked her in my friend's bathtub. Sweet, huh?

Well, my friend finally decided (after a brief and overwrought fling with the girl) to save his sanity. He was going to send her a rip-snorter of a break-up letter, one that reminded me of nothing so much as the Spanish translations of certain old popular songs (that have nothing to do with the original lyrics--all tearing one's beating heart from one's own chest to hand to one's love if she will only turn and smile, etc.)--fortunately, some of us were able to dissuade him from sending the girl such a screed. (He posted it to about five of us as an e-mail!) His final draft was terse, cordial, and without romantic bombast. I hope he'll be all right. We'll have a Beer Therapy session soon. (Time and Pilsener heal all wounds.)

"Love is the fart/Of every heart;/It pains one when 'tis kept close/and others doth offend, when 'tis let loose." --Sir John Suckling (1609-1642)