Oh... I get it now.

This is a story so whack that it begged to be blogged. Infact, I believe that I said "I'm so fucking gonna blog this when I get home." after it happened. So, here I am.... (And it's all true.)

Brief intro: For the last two months or so, I've been getting acquainted with the city's public transportation. While sometimes terrifying (I once witnessed a weapons deal go down right in front of me) and sometimes disgusting (two days ago, I sat next to a woman who smelled like she not only bathed in cat piss, but then spritzed behind her ears, in her hair and on her pulse points for good measure)I've been pleasantly surprised by it's efficiency, and have found a strange kinship with my fellow commuters. That is, until today....

Here's what went down. As usual, I missed the 10:15 transfer at Stapley and Southern. It happens like three out of the five days I work a week. What I usually do is sulk for a moment, then patiently wait the twenty minutes for the next bus with my Ipod and book.Today, however, while doing my waiting- I was approached by a nice looking young man. He seemed friendly enough. He was dressed in scrubs, so I knew he worked for the medical industry in some way and he had a pretty casual demeanor. "What time is the next bus?" He asked.

"Oh- it should be any minute now." I replied. "They usually come in twenty to thirty minute intervals." I was feeling like a pro.

"Thanks!" He smiled. "Nice tie- you work for a restaurant or something?" Okay- so here's that moment in conversation with a stranger where you make a choice. It's like on a plane. you can talk to the person next to you for a minute or two- but after awhile, you have to move on. It's not like we're gonna become pen pals after we get to our destination, right? But my instincts were to be friendly. My horoscope said I would meet someone influential- maybe this guy was my key to finally meeting a Jewish doctor I can marry or something.

"Yeah." I said. "The Olive Garden."

"Oh- dude, the Olive Garden has gotten so ghetto!" Okay, was that an insult? I thought.

"Um- really?" I asked, not sure how to take his last comment.

"Yeah, like- I remember as a kid, it was such a fancy place- we used to dress up to go there. Now it's like the Denny's of Italian food."

OOOOookay. I actually share his opinion. "Oh, I know right?" I laughed out loud, "I blame soup, salad and breadsticks."

"Totally!"

So here I was making casual conversation with a total stranger! No big thing. I mean, I guess I do it for a living, right? Plus, he was sorta cute in a I-could-probably-dead-lift-this-guy way. Who knows, right? And then politics came up. Yeah, that's what I thought too. I usually don't even bring up politics with strangers. (because where I come from, people most likely still wish Romney had made it past the primaries)But, lo and behold, this guy seemed to share my political views. He too voted for Obama and was horrified by both prop 8 and 102. And then he said "I just wish they'd stop with this war bullshit. I mean, everyone knows now that there's nothing going on over there."

Certainly I'd misunderstood him again. "Yeah- I mean, we should be in Afghanistan, looking for Bin Laden, right?" I asked, again, treading lightly.

"No- I mean, there is no war. It's all made up by the media."

"The war is made up by the-"

"Don't tell me you're buying into this thing!" He interrupted. "It's just like every war. It's like entertainment. Like War of the Worlds- only now with all of the technology, it's not just a radio show- it's like a whole fucking movie."

Wait, what?

"I know some guys who've been to Iraq." I said calmly, "I can assure you that-"

"Oh, my GOD!" He laughed loudly (and I might add insanely) "You're totally buying it! Unbelievable!"

"Well- yeah! It's not fake! It's a completely real bloodbath brought on by our lunatic of a president!" I snapped.

"No, no." he said. "that's what they want you to think.There is no war. There's never been a war."

"In Iraq?" I asked.

"No. Ever."

It was at this point that I realized that the stranger I was talking to was in fact, insane. Like, completely batshit crazy. How to get out of this???

"Ever?" I asked, eyes wide with shock.

"There's never been a war. It's all made up! It's like how the Jews made up the Holocaust- or the Japanese made up Pearl Harbor. It's entertainment, man!"

"Dude, Pearl Harbor happened to us." I shouted, wishing the bus would appear, nowish.

"Whatever- you're totally programmed by the machine." he dismissed.

"I guess so." I said, reaching for my Ipod- slowly so as not to startle the loon with any sudden movement.

"That's so fucking sad too- because you're black." OMIGOD, WHAT?!?!

"Because I'm bl-"

"I mean, you don't actually believe in the Civil War, do you?"

BUS BUS BUS NOW NOW RIGHT NOW

"Well, yeah?"

"So sad. It's a scam, dude. Wake up."

Finally, the bus made its (late, very late) appearance at the stoplight only yards away.

"Wow- that's some theory." I said, hoping to wrap this completely ludicrous conversation in a tight little bow.

"Pshhhh." he laughed, "Theory. Listen to you. Brainwashed."

The bus pulled up and I hastily shoved my Ipod into the wrong ears. "I guess so." I said.

I practically ran to a seat as far away from him as possible.

Moments later, I was tapped on my shoulder by the Schlotsky's deli worker sitting next to me. I looked up to see my new lunatic friend frantically waving at me. "We should get together, you know? Talk politics." he shouted over the roar of the bus.
"I'm Greg."

"I'm a lesbian." I said and tore into the pages of my book.

I learned a valuable lesson today. Crazy people look just like regular people. I will never talk to strangers again.

All you need is love...

I wanted to talk about the love of my life. My first love, my most passionate love, the only relationship I've ever seen through- that is, of course, me and Theater.

I'll never forget the first time I laid eyes on Theater. I was seven years old and my parents had both been cast in Jesus Christ Superstar.It was their opening night, and the first time my parents had let me come with them rather than get a babysitter. I knew where they were going all those nights. Rehearsal. I mean, I was a little girl- I had no idea what it meant- what the word meant. I just knew that every night from 6-11, my parents went there. But this night was different. I held both of their hands as they led me into the Mesa Amphitheater. It was glorious, like a dream. It was the biggest stage I'd ever seen- and the lights- the set! My parents looked like magical beings up there- they were better than human! I'd been in little recitals and dance shows ever since I could walk, but this was different. I felt like the stars were in my eyes. Nothing had ever made me feel this way before. So excited, so- well, home.

It wasn't that Theater and I didn't have our bumps and bruises along the way. There was all the rejection. In high school, Theater turned me down flat. That hurt, I'll admit. Sometimes so much I laid in bed crying for days. Mostly because I still loved Theater, and I couldn't understand why something I loved with such intensity couldn't love me back- wouldn't love me back.

Then something amazing happened- we clicked. I don't know what happened, it was magic, I guess. That's what they say true love is, don't they? Suddenly everything changed. Theater loved me back- alot! everywhere I went, Theater was declaring it's love for me and I just knew we'd be deliriously happy for the rest of our lives.

But- was it safe? I mean is love really enough? Can you eat love? Will love pay for your lattes when you're living in a three hundred square foot studio apartment in Alphabet City with no cable? Would it always be there, or would it go away again, leaving me alone, jealous and desperate as it had before? Could I really have a husband, a family and the house and the white picket fence with the 2.5 kids and the love of my life? Of course not. That's ridiculous- as everyone pointed out to me, time and time again. So- I thought with my head instead of my heart- and I left my true love.

Theater doesn't take rejection well. I learned this the hard way- like any bad relationship, I simply couldn't leave. I tried, God knows. I went back to school and changed my major to communications, and Theater followed. "Would I choreograph Grease?" Theater asked innocently. "It's harmless! Plus it pays! It will help you get through school." So I numbly followed. Then "Hey- why don't you just audition for this musical you didn't get to choreograph? You've always wanted to be in it. Your friends are in it, it's on campus. It's harmless- besides, you were bored at night anyway." And then it was- "Hey- you know- you're a really good choreographer. You should send your resume out to theaters around the valley. It's harmless, we won't get back together! It's just a job." And then the job came, and with it, the horrible, heart-wrenching, soul crushing "infatuation" with my leading man.

After that heart break, Theater swooped in to pick up the pieces. "Here, just go to these auditions. It will take your mind off of him." and before I knew it, Theater and I were back on again. And we were happy- sort of. I mean, I didn't always like where Theater took me or the people Theater introduced me to, but Theater always, always loved me back, no matter what.

So maybe I can't live on love alone- but I know I can't live without it and I've never loved anything more. So, as it turns out, Theater and I may actually try to make a go of it. Now, someday, I may even get married. You know, actually married to an actual man... Sure, the threesome may be awkward at first. There may be jealousy, my new husband might think I love Theater more (or vice versa), but we'll make it work. Que sera sera. If I've learned anything, it's this: if something puts stars in your eyes, even when you're just a little girl, you should follow it. Always reach for the stars; never stop dreaming.

And there ya go.