It is not dead, nor doth it sleep

Who said romance is dead? Not this guy. Now, don't get me wrong here. Although in my own life it is - ummm - dormant, it is alive and well in the streets of NYC. Thank you, St. Valentine. I'd like to shake your hand some day. Maybe even give you a noogie.

For one day, the city changes. While 364 days a year millions of people walk the streets with the phrase "Go f*** yourself" deliberately written across their foreheads, Valentine's Day changes that, somehow. Instead, they walk the street with a stem rose in their hand. Suddenly, the phrase on their foreheads is different, friendly. Something like, "So I'm holding a rose. Go f*** yourself." If that's not romance, then what is?

My roommate flew off to Arizona and then to Las Vegas to spend Valentine's Day with her beau. Romantic? Afraid not. In order for romance to exist, there needs to be some sort of conflict, some sort of gravity. If two passionate lustbirds take a week off of work to go to Vegas and spend a lot of time yowzering each other, there is no conflict, there is no passion. In order for it to be romantic, there needs to be something else, something to make it real. Like if they lost all of their money and had to sleep in a sleeping bag in abandoned construction zones. Otherwise, it would be like sitting on the couch and eating fudge for a week.

Along those lines, there is no romance in the young man and woman who sit on the train and take turns licking each othersl ear lobes, unashamed of their busy, inquisitive hands. Romance inolves self control of sorts, like the couple who sit next to each other with almost no physical contact, but somehow interested in what the other is saying. No licking or nibbling involved, dull as that may sound.

By far the most romantic couple that I saw were two women who obviously had clearly defined masculine and femenine roles to play in their partnership. The woman of the women was doing the nice womanly things like telling the man of the women to tuck in her shirt, not to scratch herself, etc. Basically, telling her not to be a man, which is, of course, ironic given the situation. As they sat there on the train the "man" started to beat box and rap real seductive-like. Much like you'd imagine from Sinatra if he were an egg-shaped hispanic lesbian from the Bronx. And the woman seemed so taken by her, so happy to have found such a lovely masculine woman. It only seemed romantic because they found each other, somehow, probably online.

So romance exists, regardless of what the cynics (read "I") may say. And whether you consider it romantic to do things like waking up at 5:30 in the a.m. to clean the toilet and looking up the optimal viewing distance of a 32-inch LCD screen and rearranging the living room accordingly to accommodate what would be loosely classified as a date - and even more loosely as a Valentine - doesn't matter. What matters more is whether you consider it romantic to get a call at 7:45 at night with an excuse on the other line. I'd like to think it is.