"...it flows like water, burning with the hope of insight…"-Icicle Works

I'm a writer. I love verbal images. When I hear 1000 words that carry the art of one picture, I'm like "Yeah!" The Writer's toolbox is filled with instruments to bend, torque, and capture this. Metaphors and similes are a set of these tools. A well wielded metaphor is a surgeon's scalpel of flawless precision. A haphazard simile though, is the bloody brick of malcontent bludgeoning relentlessly. When it hits you in the head, the body goes limp and the brain goes numb, but only after it's bounced off the skull countless times.

Driving to the doctor's office today, one of these haphazard things sprang from my radio. It hurts me more when it comes from music. It's like "Et tu?" I feel betrayed.

Today's betrayal was an incubus song. Today I heard the following lyrics.

The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it.

Today I tried to drive my car into a wall.

Usually, when I use simile, I like to compare two things that the reader may not usually draw together, but still give a vivid image. "The dog spun his legs like a paddle wheel." See? Dog, paddle wheel, two separate images united to create a picture. A backlit canopy with holes punched in it? Let's dissect that with the simile scalpel, shall we? "Backlit canopy," that usually implies that somebody has gone to the effort to put a light source behind said canopy. This suggests motive. Furthermore, the fact that the holes are "punched" in it, and not "rotted," "frayed," or "eaten away" continues that idea. It's a plan. Somebody has set up a canopy, lit it from behind, and then put holes in it for a purpose. What purpose? Why would they do that? To keep rain out? To create little doggy doors for buggy entry? Mayhap to allow the scent of sweaty socks to burn in the backlit atmosphere? Nay, Nay my friends. Only one thought train stops in my mind, and it's not the 3:15 to Yuma (Ok, that's only funny if you know that I actually have family in Yuma, and then tie that to the movie, and awww, nevermind. Some metaphors just have the elasticity and strength of cooked spaghetti..) It's that they wanted it to imitate something else, sort of like a tactile metaphor. What would this project imitate? Only one image comes to my mind:

The sky!

So let me get this straight. The guy is singing about a sky that resembles a thing that's made to resemble the sky? That's like saying "The heart like the picture in the encyclopedia next to the word 'heart.'" Really? Huh. It's a infinite mirror of stupidity reflecting back upon itself into forever.

I swerved towards a wall. No, literally. I was in the car. The words exploded in my mind. My hands jerked in reflex. I just wanted to drive the words out of my mind—like words I didn't want in my mind. Luckily I have a new weapon in my arsenal. I have one thing I can trust to trample any other thought into cakey thought dust.

My Divorce.

When I think about my divorce, all my other problems slip away. If I had to create metaphor for my divorce, what would it be? How would I describe it to others?

Train wreck? Well that's too obvious. And very over done. Besides. I'm riding solo on this train. How often does that happen? That would make it a train wreck without a train. No good.

A bullet to the head? No, that's too quick. Granted, a misplaced bullet could leave you brain dead and not physically dead dead. Still, even that's not the same; right now, I'm fully conscious and aware of what's going on. Oh, I should also explain that when I say "misplaced" I mean "misfired" and not "Where did I put my pesky bullet?"

Torture is closer. It's drawn out and painful, but it's too vague. There's a Jelly Belly bag of torture flavors choose from. And lets face it, some people like the icky popcorn ones. I don't see anybody lining up for Disney's "Prince Charming's Harrowing Divorce" ride. Haven't seen that one? It's pretty scary. Just look for the sign in Sad Realityland of Prince Charming weeping into his palms. It's over by Mr. Toad's frog leg buffet. Apparently the wind stopped blowing money through the willows, ending his wild ride. Mr. Toad now does unspeakable acts for money.

Mmm…Tastes like chicken!

Divorce is a handful of raw meat. I don't know, it just sounded weird and gross. I wanted that image, Still, raw meat doesn't take it far enough.

This was where I gave up. I never give up but there comes a time when every effort is just spinning the wheels of futility. All my options had been taken from me, leaving me alone to redefine my world. Nothing is like a divorce. Divorce serves no good purpose, it's impossible to bear and I wouldn't wish it on anyone.

Divorce is a bad incubus song.

"Only A Memory Now…"-Shawn Smith

"Y Garble Blah?"

The words were foreign. I thought all the guys in my Bible study spoke English, but Mike spouted gibberish. Where's a babble fish when you need one? He wasn't speaking in tongues; we're
Lutherans. We nail or concise comments on doors so everybody can understand them.

"Y Garble Blah?" Maybe you can make sense of it. I'll put you in the scene. Five guys sitting at a semicircle of folding tables in a conference room. Chip's leading the group today. We've been wandering through Ephesians for the past six months; today we're stalled over the valley of Husbands and Wives (5:22-36). It's Paul's advice column to the new church. They were newlyweds, he wanted to see them as the old couple sitting hand in hand on Armageddon's porch.

Most people who read the Ephesians chapter hit "Wives submit to your husbands" and stop there. Wives turn atheist, Husbands high-five and demand a beer. Nobody ever reads through to see what's required of the husband. Oh, sure the word "submit" isn't used, but that's because Paul knew that men weren't strong enough to hear that kind of language. He'd have to dress it up in words like "protect." Quite the PR guy that Paul. I won't ruin his story. Go read it.

Chip likes this part; he's been married 3 times. Turning to Don, our usual leader, he says "What about this submit thing Don?" The room is suspended silence. Don's been married over fifty years. If anyone can shed light on marriage it's Don.

"I don't know, I'm not a wife. When I become the perfect husband, I'll worry about what the wife is supposed to do."

Sure. It's a cop out, but how do you top that? Right now, I'm the only one in the room watching the marriage train leave the station without me. I have no room to talk about being a good husband.

That's when Mike, the newest guy to our group chimes in. He says "Y Garble Blah?" Ok, so no, that's not what he said. His words were: "I don't understand. Where do you become friends? How do you do that?"

Y Garble Blah?

Huh? Become friends? I can't imagine a relationship that doesn't start at friends. Ok, Don't take now to point out that maybe that's why I'm getting a divorce. We were friends first, and I'd do that again no matter what. I told you, I'm an acquired taste. How can I stay long term with somebody who bristles before she's even woken up next to drooling Rob? MyUnwife and I were friends. I think she just liked the character more than the real man. Reality has a way of kicking you in the teeth during the coolest fantasies.

So this was my chance to be a steel toe in the teeth. I could set the world straight. I could dispel the men's fantasy that MyUnwife was anything more than an accidental footnote. This is where I could express the breakdown of everything between us. I could even point out that she never relented, let alone submitted—a plague of locusts on the fertile valley of my life.

"I think you have to be friends" are the words that crossed my lips. Then more words flew out. I began speaking of how MyUnwife and I started as friends. How we grew into a good team. The air rang with songs of the days when she and I were united. When we both played our perspective roles, and accomplished everything we tried to do. From buying a house, to a buying wood stain, we complemented each other. She carried my nouns on days I could only find verbs. These are the heinous accusations I put before my Christian brothers. These were her sins I demanded recompense for. These were the unpaid tickets blowing from the window of my car.

When I finished, everybody remained quiet. I was just as surprised as they were. Even though it was my story, I felt like it was something I'd just read from a book. Those things were so far away. That was another Rob, in another world, another language.

So Mike stares at me for a bit. Obviously he's trying to sort through everything I've said. Drawing his breath, he prepares a question. Something to scribble on the tab of the "Rob on Marriage" folder. "So, why are you guys getting a divorce?"

I answer without thought, "Y Garble Blah."

"Burning up the future…" Catherine Wheel

What's black and white and red all over?

A man-eating penguin.

I know, it's kinda stupid, but my other choice was "A seal-clubbing penguin." I decided to only offend one species. I'm a philanthropist and man-eating penguins seemed the safest to offend. I can outrun them so long as I don't look into their hypnotic metronome waddle.

There's a penguin coming!

I know, isn't he cute?

Well except for the electric carving knife and the bottle of Tabasco, sure.

You're just not open other cultures…

That was 5 seconds from Rob's mental theatre. The Penguins of the Apocalypse: Flightless wings of destiny. The acting isn't great, but the writing is topical and amazing!

Speaking of topical. Do you know what I found in my paper today? There in black and white, most stories I read dealt with the fires all over. We're still talking about them, but it's obvious we're straining to find new relationship ties.

Why did some homes burn and others didn't? New proof that angels drew straws!

Denzel Washington films Man on Fire, and years later a house burns down.

Burning Barbie sets neighborhood on fire. With her Nylon locks ablaze, screaming 12" posable doll shambles down block leaving ignited doorsteps in her wake. Fuming Butane-Ken has no comment.

Next week the articles will read of eerie foreshadowing: "Blue Oyster Cult penned the song "Burning For You." Coincidence? We think not. Why else would they worship blue oysters if not searching for divination? Nero fiddled, these cult boys rocked, LA burned. What else will the fortune tellers of our era uncover? Should we fear Godzilla? Should we not fear the reaper?" Only time will tell. Oh, sorry that was Asia. Yeah, I know bad joke. Again, I'm sorry.

But that’s kind of how my life is. No, not a bad joke, that's another entry. But three months after she left It's finding obscure things to relate to our divorce. Friends is on TV. She liked Friends. What does that mean? The toilet seat is always up; she always forgot to do that!

Everything is measured against the bar of "was" Is it because I don't know how to grasp "is" without comparing it to something old? Am I over-analytical? Do I ask too many questions? She thought I did. See? There it is again. I'm ok with the divorce, I've made my peace, but why do I continue to sift through the ash? What am I looking for? Answers? Even my dog knows they aren't there. He's just accepted I'll be his waiter this evening, and wags his tail accordingly.

Ben Franklin said that one move equaled one fire. Left-eye Lisa proved that moving on equaled one house fire too. Me, I just want out of here with all my limbs intact.

Time heals all wounds but what gets rid of the phantom twitch of amputated limbs? Does it ever go away? I don't want burden my future wife with shell shock from a previous relationship.

He just woke up screaming her name over and over.

What did you do?

I held the pillow over his face until he stopped.

Problem solved. Maybe time will kill the constant divorce association, maybe it'll be the love for somebody else. The desire to not burden her with my past mistakes. The desire to keep her from gritting her teeth at the mere mention of MyUnwife's name. Heck, whoever my future brings, I'm sure she'd like MyUnwife. Ok, not really, but without me, I think she would. Maybe after everything is finalized I should ask MyUnwife to introduce me to her friends. I loved her, therefore I should like people she likes. I could even give her the gore about our dates, and her friend's need to call me "daddy" during sex. I think MyUnwife would like that.

"Yeah, you know that thing you didn't like? She's into it! It's so cool. I like how she writhe—Hey where did the bloody penguin come from?"

"Do you break for distilled spirits…"-Green Day

There by the door, that's where she stood. Toes planted, legs cocked, ready to pounce. Me, the exit and her in-between. The throng of merry churchgoers pushed me forward like villagers bearing Tupperware to a sacrifice party. Normally I wouldn't care, in fact, normally I'd surf the mob to the woman, but I knew what she wanted. She wanted to make my life awkward.

She wanted to invite me to a social gathering.

I ask you, how can I continue whining about being lonely and alone if people are going to invite me to stuff? It really throws off my "pity me" persona. Do you know how hard it is to exude despair with people hokey-pokeying around you? The cheese stand alone, but apparently Rob's not allowed. Great. It's like designing a modern house and then having one of the Ringling brothers decorate it. Actually that wouldn't be too bad; they're all dead. Put a brush in his hand, he'll just lay there. Other than the stink, no problem at all.

"Hey, nice dead body with a paint brush. I wouldn't have thought about putting one of those in my living room."

"Thanks." Crap! Nothing's working right these days.

The woman blocking my escape wants to invite me to a gathering of "The Group." Yep, that's what they call themselves. It's a catch-all group of everyone who's too old for the youth groups, but too young for the seniors group. Her waiting to invite me isn't that bad; I'd already planned on going. I just wanted to show up uninvited. It seemed more my style. Besides then I could hold it over her head later.

"You didn't invite me."

"I tried."

"Sure you did."

"No really, if the crowd hadn't stopped when you pushed the pastor's wife down, I'd have given you an invite."

"But you didn't did you?"

"Well no, I'm sorry."

"That's better."

See that's all I want: To be a martyr to the Rob cause. What is the Rob cause? I don't know. That seems to be the tricky part. And without a purpose, I failed; she gave me the invite, and I went to The Group's gathering. It was small and outside. I made some coleslaw. It was small, and set with the other sides. Everybody brought something. Other people brought beer too: We're Lutherans, 4 out of 5 members are of German heritage. You won't get anybody to show up without beer and brats. (Brats: grilled sausage, not unruly children. The confusion of terms could make us sound like a less desirable group than just a bunch of lushes. And what exactly is a gathering of lushes? You know "pride of lions," "murder of crows," would it be a "bar of lushes?" Just checking.). To add to the enticement level, they added "Beer tasting" to the evening fun fest.

I was sort of nervous. This was my first social outing since MyUnwife left. I wasn't sure of the protocol. Did I need to announce my status?

"Hi, I'm Rob, I'm divorcing."

"Hi, I'm Rob, I'm divorcing…."

Was I invited as someone to spurn? Of course not. There's beer, we'll all be buddies by the end of the night. Still I don't like being surrounded by people I don't know. It's probably too many pod-people horror movies as a kid. I don't want to be just like them.

So I made my introductions. Shook hands, smiled, nodded., all the appropriate stuff. Most people were coupled off, so that was kinda awkward. On the other hand it was safe. I didn't have to worry about any kind of set up.

"Rob, this is lonely single girl. You don't have anything in common but you're both alone. Talk about that."

Yeah, I've attended that party. I've also had Lonely-single-girl say something like "I've seen you around. You hang out with this really cute looking guy. Is he single?" Ah yes, the scars of youth…

But this wasn't that party. This was a bunch of adults discussing life over numbered Dixie cups of beer. I was still the outsider, because I didn't know anyone, but I could see a world where that might change. Still, sometimes I worry about it. I'm a nice guy, but I'm also an acquired taste like asparagus or cyanide. Remember Mr. Rogers? Remember the experiment he did with dish soap and ground pepper? He poured a bowl of water, then sprinkled in pepper. After the pepper spread around, he put a few drops of dish soap in, and the pepper fled to the side of the bowl. It was all pissed, it had had the whole bowl to itself, and then the soap crashed in, ruining the whole thing. I am a soapy guy. It's ok, I like me, but I'm a little odd for some. I'm not gonna turn all pepper just to attract the pepper people, that's not who I am. Sooner or later more soap will show up and we'll both bubble with excitement.

So were my church friends soap or pepper? It's still too early to tell. There were definitely dark dashes there, but I think there were also soaps who were sprinkled with pepper. They just need cleaned up a bit. I hate to admit it, but I had fun. It's really about getting out there. The more you go out and try, the more you're find other blobs of suds. And see? With Lutherans, I can hide the soap as beer froth.

"I wouldn't drink that."

"Thanks friend."

"Our lives have come between us…"-Deep Blue Something

My toothbrush. I had an odd conversation with my toothbrush yesterday. Err, uh about—about my toothbrush. Ok, not necessarily my toothbrush but an extended metaphor involving dental hygene. I really do have one you know, a toothbrush. You'll be happy to know I use it. I know that people I talk to are pleased. They smile. I smile. No dangling black stuff. Everybody's happy.

Wouldn't it be nice if marriage were that easy? A few minutes a day and everything shines and smells like mint. So my marriage died, but my toothbrush, it's electric; it goes on. MyUnwife chose it. It has interchangeable heads and is really kind of cool. And if I hang onto it two more years, it will have lasted longer than we did.

When she left, I'm guessing she bought a new toothbrush, having abandoned her old one behind. Then again, who knows. Maybe she doesn't want a new toothbrush, some people don't.

It's funny now that I think about it. Throughout our marriage we used to talk about what we'd do if something happened to the other one. "Something" could have been anything from divorce to plane crash to a mad man with an axe. I remember during our 3rd or 4th year we'd joke about how best to split our stuff. Well, she joked. It wasn't really on my mind, I just went along for the ride. Besides, like the toothbrush, she picked most of the things we owned. Oh, I'm not saying that she's some kinda control freak with a credit card. Ok, I'm also not saying that isn't true, I'm just saying that that's not what I'm saying.

No, really. What I mean is that as long as we could afford it, I didn't care so much about the stuff side of things. The type of things I like are things like stereo equipment TVs and other electronics. We just bought our first TV together right before the divorce, and I never replaced my stereo. It's still the same one I had from college. Ok, that's not completely accurate. She got me a mini system for Christmas during our cute years. I really would have rather have bought components. I like the sound better, but the price is close to what we spent on her couch, and we couldn't afford that for a stereo. No, besides, I wanted music in the living room, and she wanted something invisible there. I can't blame her; who wants towers of sound taking up space. Well I do, but I understand: speakers are either built for aesthetics or sound, never for both. If I wanted sound She'd have to deal with giant boxes with hubcaps superglued to the front. You can't really disguise that.

"This is our uhm aquarium. Yes I know, you can't see the fish. But if you stick your ear next to it you can hear them breath."

And so, I picked a small invisible system. A living room compromise. Don't get me wrong, there was never a fight, or a hassle, it was just understood. That's how couples work. That's why when she wanted to buy the sofa, or the entertainment center I said "sure."

That's also why when we'd joke about who got what, I already knew the answers. I already knew what I had signed up for. The stuff wasn't important anyway. Maybe because she chose it, or maybe, as I'd like to think, it's because the stuff isn't why I got married. See? It makes me shine like a glistening god of altruism. Lord Rob, Neon Paragon. Yes, you can touch me as you pass. I won't smudge.

As time passed, we still joked, but the last few years I could tell the joking was less joke and more calculating. I can't explain it but the humor was gone, it felt more like searching a hillside for a vein of ore. Or like going to the eye doctor's.

You like couch or table?

Couch.

Treadmill or TV?

Can I see Treadmill again?

Treadmill...

And TV?

Or TV?

TV…

She got what she wanted. I gave her first fruits of everything. Sometimes I'm a little bitter about that, but not because of the stuff. More because I thought I married the type of person who wouldn't take it. Then again I thought I'd married the type of person who wouldn't drop when somebody shook the tree.

The good news is that I kept my toothbrush. The real one. The metaphoric one is gone, but I've got strong teeth.

"We want our problems, our age or our paychecks…"-Raine Maida

I've misplaced my toothbrush. No, not really, but that's how it feels.

It's hard to believe I've been on this ride for almost a year now. It's even weirder when I remember she moved out three months ago, and I haven't seen her ghost in over a month. I miss her, but not in great gasping aches; it's more like faint rappings at the back of my skull.

"Where's my toothbrush?"

It's something I had, something I needed daily, something I'll work around.

Sometimes it's tangibly real; all five senses set out tendrils, straining to grasp what's missing. Other times, it's a dry ice fog nightmare. Shapes and shadows with no sense. Speaking of such, I had one the other night. I dreamed I was sitting in a bar with friends. There were four of us squeezed into a booth, drinking beer and joking about our lives. Looking up, I see a girl at the bar, she looks back, raises her glass and smiles. She's cute. Totally the girl next door if I had a girl next door. Right now it's a contractor's family of boys and a would-be dentist. I have no reference point. In my dream I did: she was it. Rachel Weisz, Baby Spice, and Everything nice. I look to my left to make sure she's not signaling my friend. Yeah, even in my dreams I have this uncanny self confidence. Fortunately, in my dreams, my vision is much better than real life. Otherwise I never would have seen her smile in the first place. As it turns out my friend is preoccupied with the wine list. Even if she was looking at him, he never saw it.

So what better reason to refill my drink? In this dream, I'm not married, I'm not divorced. I'm just Rob. So, just Rob saunters to the bar and orders a fresh drink. He also offers to buy the girl next to him one as well. She's drinking wine—red—shaken not stirred. I'm cool, I know what she drinks. She likes what she sees as much as she likes her alcohol, she says "sure." and a conversation is sparked.

Soon, we're talking over everything. We mesh, it's like we've known each other forever. I offer her another drink, she accepts and we toast:

"To possibilities"

'To possibilities" she smiles.

We drink. The door opens and two arrows fly into the room. One for each of our chests. Collapsing to the ground, she dies. I live; I now have this incredible dream ability to shock myself to life. I stand arrowless and undamaged in a pool of her blood. I find somebody who understands me, and she dies. Awesome. I vow to avenge her death, but that's hard to do when the world spirals away and I find myself lying alone in my bed. I can roll over and go back to sleep, but I know the truth. Come morning I'll wake up unfazed.

"Where's my toothbrush?"

This dream touches on all the points of the divorce foundational pyramid. You know how all self help gurus create these awesome charts and slogans to sell at their every convention? You know, stuff like:

Why ask why when you should say "I know you are but what am I?"

Ok, that's lame, but we've seen how good I am at helping myself. It shouldn't surprise you. It doesn't stop me from making hip charts and pithy slogans though. Among my charts is the triangle drawing of the attributes that pull us through a divorce. Next to each angle is a word:

Self Pity

Slow-Mo

What Now?

It's the whiny "help me" trifecta!

I think that following a divorce, we collapse on this pyramid, relying on it to prop us up.

Self pity keeps holds us up like a concrete bog. The slow-mo reenacts every moment spent with our spouse. An endless loop, until the mental tape snaps. Then there's the "what next?" It's the tornado of fate lobbing cows of crisis at us. It's life's little way of reminding us "irony is fun!"

So here I am leaning on the slow-mo side of the wedge. I remember what we were. I see the things that work and the things that didn't. But mostly I shake my head. I wonder what she's doing now, but not in a creepy "Cant take no" kind of way. Just more like "huh…" Sort of like checking up on some TV show you haven't watched for a few seasons, just to see what's going on.

"Hey, I didn't know he'd been eaten by a bear…"

Still, I'm here, I care. I'd hate to think she'd been eaten by a bear. No, really! I swear! At my worst, trampled by stampeding ants, maybe.

It is kinda weird though. Being with somebody for ten years. Having them in your thoughts and even when you're at your most confident in your relationship, you still go back to think of them, because you can. Leaving that and coming to this point here, where I shrug when somebody says "How's MyUnwife?" is an odd sidestep. If you told me two years ago that I'd be in a place like this, I'd have told you that you were dreaming, and you should wake up before you found an arrow in your chest.

Nevermind those protruding feathers. Have you seen my toothbrush?

"although I know that's an absurd thought…"-Schoolhouse Rock

Yesterday, all functions shut down. It's been a long week and my body couldn't even marshal the energy to raise the white flag of surrender, it sagged in the office chair like a half empty blow up doll. Not that I'm familiar with the half empty blow-up doll; I told you, I'm a optimist: my blow-up doll is half full.

When I'm tired, the part of my brain that connects free association trains, stops discriminating. Suddenly, Dora the Explorer and a Girls Gone Wild ad lock together and writhe down a metal track to a brick wall. Flash Gordon, and Animal Planet, The Munsters and Predator, Entourage and Lost, nothings sacred in the conjunction junction of a tired mind.

Sometimes it's "Misery Business" and "Baseball Bugs":

The first one is a video for the Paramore song "Misery Business" the second the old Warner Bros. cartoon "Baseball Bugs." Watch the video. No, I'm not making fun of her Stevie Wonder bob, although the closed eye thing is kinda funny. No what we're looking for is about 35 seconds in. Ok, now go to the bugs bunny cartoon. Bump it in about 40 seconds and watch for the scre—ok, you can watch the whole thing first. Sigh…nobody can ever get enough Bugs. Done? Ok, now go to 40 seconds, watch the screaming baseball. Now screaming girl, baseball—girl—coincidence?

This are the hobos that catch my train of thought. So my most recent train is pulled by the locomotion of divorce, I shouldn't be surprised that everything hops a car here. Still, who connected the Rocky, Rocky II, Rocky III, and Rocky IV cars?

I'm working, and I guess October 31st is not only Halloween, it marks the end of "Rocktober." Yeah, and I thought my free association was out of kilter. If you were raised on classic rock radio, this term means something completely different to you. It's a month filled with "Twofer Tuesdays" and endless hours of "Get the Led Out." So to associate it with Sylvester Stallone is the same as mixing orange juice into your toothpaste. Give it a shot, don't look in the mirror though, if you surprise yourself with that warped grimace, your face will stay that way forever. At least that's what my grandmother used to say.

So What does the Balboa Express have to do with my divorce? Two words:

Yo Adrian.

In the first movie, she's just this little mousy thing; cute in a "needs a lot of work" kind of way. You wouldn't think that Rocky would have time to dedicate the type of attention she needs, while vying for the belt and beating on slabs of dead cow, but he finds it. That's dedication. By the time we get to Rocky III she's a whole new woman.

This Adrian is the only one who can slap around Rocky and show him his own heart. She knows her Rock, and she doesn't want to live with any man who can't clobber Clubber, or at least face him man to Mohawk.

She reaches Rocky in ways that Apollo can't. At least not until The Brokeback flashback episode in "Rocky 3.5" (you don't really think they were fighting in that at the end of the movie do you? Those closing punches were just foreplay.), but more than that, she's taken time to understand his psyche. Granted a psyche that size could be done over a cup of coffee, but she took the time to drink that cup. That's what's important.

Watching her yell at Rocky on the beach, I knew I'd rather face him in the ring than her. Especially if her family was at stake. Rocky might kick my butt, but she'd shred me like pork and probably throw on some good BBQ sauce and feed me to her family for lunch.

Yo Adrian: This time it's personal!

Still, it's what Rocky needed. She knew him, and sitting in my chair I felt the tingle of despair. A finger tapping on my shoulder.

"See? That's what you never had and never will."

Thanks.

I love it when my wounded psyche crawls out of my body to point out life's highlights.

The thing that draws me, is her concern is for her family. She doesn't want him to fight. She worries about him, but she knows what he'll become if he quits this way, with Mr. T. owning his soul like another piece of fake gold swinging from around his neck. She puts the needs whole over her immediate desires. It the most unselfish thing I've seen. That's what works in their relationship. Rocky and Adrian lift each other up, and in the Balboa cars become well oiled, stronger. That's what it's supposed to be.

Somewhere in my marriage that failed. Who slipped the track first? I don't know, I'm still on the divorce caboose, and that car is too far up the front. I saw the sparks and the burning jack-knifed accordion train of events, but never the source. Somebody in the train yard threw our cars together, but didn't check the linkage,

Maybe someday I'll find an Adrian car that locks in and stays tight. One that remembers that alone we're inert baggage storage, but together we're locomotion. You and I, we're fueled by each other to be the best train in the world. No matter what other free cars latch on to us. That's what holds the train together. That's what I need to stay on track.