The Lex Files

How I Learned to Stop Hating Valentine’s Day and Love Fearing The Bomb

Unfortunately, I’m afraid that I’ve written a title to which no article could ever live up.

A title like this one needs to be broken down into bite-sized (though still intangible) chunks before we can really “parse” — as computer geeks say — or “interpret” — as people who beat up computer geeks say — it.

(Quick sidebar: Am I the only one who feels bad about leaving a lone and lonely it to the right side of the dash, with no supporting words and a small dot of a supporting character?)

So, parsing/interpreting our title:

How I

That’s too small a piece. Let’s try again.

How I Learned

School and environmental factors. Mostly environmental, I would guess. But if we’re going to parse this title, assuming we even remember it any longer, we’re going to have to follow early-90s Tom Arnold rules for living, and go for the bigger chunks. So:


How I Learned to Stop Hating Valentine’s Day

Okay. Everybody hates Valentine’s Day. I mean, not everybody, but nobody really seems to love V-Day. Folks in happy, loving relationships tend to enjoy the day, but that doesn’t mean they love it. And single people hate Valentine’s Day because it reminds them how lonely / ugly / stupid / smelly / pungent / odoriferous / stinky / sweaty / salty / sappy / sneezy / dopey / doc / marty / mcfly / mcdonald’s / burger / king / kong / kung / fu/ fooey/ kablooey / hooey / suey / chopped / broccoli their single lives are.

But that’s not why I hated Valentine’s day.

Not at all.

Even as a (kindergartner or) first-grader (see, I can’t remember which it was, so I’ll pretend it was first grade, but note that it may have been kindergarten), I disliked V-Day because I thought that we should love people every day, not just mid-February. Plus, I just thought the whole tradition and Cupid aspect was kinda stupid.

So went my thinking in February of that year when I was in first-grade… And I told my mom that I had to (as everyone does) get Valentines for all the kids in my class (whom I’m certain I loved so very very much) — but that I didn’t want to get them for my family, because I thought the holiday was dumb.

My mom, bless her heart, said that was fine.

So… Valentine’s day came, and all of us in my first-grade class exchanged the thoughtful, cartoon-character-decorated Valentines our moms had purchased for the occasion.

(”Snoopy Says:
Roses are red
Red is a rose
My mom bought this Valentine
While I picked my nose.“)

Then I came home, dumped my 20+ school-en-tines in my bedroom, and did whatever first graders to to amuse themselves. Some time later, my family gathered in the Family Room, where the big red comfy chairs were, the ones that were so perfect for fort-building.

Everybody started passing out Valentines to each other. All four other family members (two parents and two sisters) had cards for the other four members of the family. Meaning, I got, but didn’t give. And apparently, some first-grader guilt kicked in, and I decided to rectify the situation.

So I ran upstairs to my room, and found the Valentines I had been given that day. But I put more thought into it than that — I found the one I remembered had a train on it, and gave that one to my dad, a train enthusiast. I found a mushy pink one, and gave it to my mom.

My family eagerly read their special, thoughtful cards:

“Dear Lex,
Happy Valentine’s Day.
From,
Tracy”

“Dear Lex,
Choo-choo-choose me for your Valentine!
Your Friend,
Blake”

Man oh man, did my family think this was funny. My father had tears in his eyes.

But I was sad, because they were laughing at what I thought was an especially thoughtful gesture, giving away cards that had just been given to me, and customizing the recipients based on card content. (Note that this was a form of parsing. I like bringing long-winded essays full circle. Or something.)

So they laughed, and I was sad, and they consoled me, and I said okay, but I was still sad.

So I think of that stupid day, which could be seen as cute or silly, but I look back in sadness because I remember how sad I was when everybody laughed at my great idea of reusing those cards. And it ruins my Valentine’s Day, every time.

Fortunately, my fiancee thinks V-Day is stupid, so it doesn’t much matter.

But there’s still the other half of my top-notch title to explain:

…and Love Fearing The Bomb

Terrorism sucks.

But I suppose there are rare and slight advantages. Last night, at 10:30 PM, a car parked in the garage of the building that’s adjacent to mine had its car alarm go off. A steady, obnoxious honk that continued for 60 seconds.

Twenty minutes later, it happened again.

I went to sleep at 11.

At 11:10, I heard the alarm go off again.

The alarm continued to go off every 20 or so minutes all night long.

At roughly 2:30 — which is to say, after twenty-seven seconds of total sleep — I conferred with Lauren, and we decided I would call the non-emergency number for the police to report this crime against humanity. The police took down the info and said they would look into it.

The alarm continued to go off every twenty minutes.

At 6:15am, I had likely been sleeping for at least 30 minutes, and the alarm hadn’t interrupted me. The phone rang. It was the LAPD.

Them: “Is the horn still honking?”

Me: “No, I just got to sleep for a whole half hour. Did your officers take care of it?”

Them: “No. But now they don’t have to. Sorry to have woken you.”

Me: “Zzzzzzzzzzzz.”

Car: “Honk! Honk! Honk! Honk!”

Me: “Wahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh”

I called back the Non-Emergency Police Number and was on hold for about 15 minutes. I explained that the honking, as it turns out, WAS still a problem.

At 6:31am, I got out of bed.

At 7:15am, the police called and asked if the car was still honking. I told them to kiss my honking ass.

Well, I didn’t. But I thought it.

And it was around that time that I decided, though I do detest terrorism, I really wouldn’t mind too much if a well-targeted bomb managed to blow that freaking car into smithereens without any casualties.

Happy Valentines Day. I hope to be in bed by 8.