Well? Is it there? Is it... ?
No, it fucking is not.
This goes to show how so far out on the bleeding edge I am. It's lonely work out here, classifying cultural flora and fauna that social scientists haven't even imagined yet... Oh, my dear readers, if I may wax Homeric, I am like some long-line fisherman out in the cold reaches of the Atlantic, hauling in the night's prized catch by moonlight--swordfish, say!--and throwing back such bug-eyed and whiskered freaks that ichthyologists haven't even dreamt about!
Oh, Unit, quit dazzling me with your linguistic pyrotechnics! Just tell me what a "micro-affair of the heart" is?
My answer... Ask your wife. I'm sorry to say that she, like all women, is master of this act of infidelity. What, she won't admit it? Surprise surprise...
So, in the end, it's up to me, the Unit Parental, oracle and truthsayer, to enlighten your clueless, Original Pengiun-wearing ass:
The micro-affair of the heart is, to put it bluntly, the only affair you will allow yourself to have, if you value your wife and Life Force Sucker. It goes like this...
You are in your respective Brooklyn neighborhood, Prospect Heights, say, pushing the Maclaren along Vanderbilt, passing Bicycle Station and then Zaytoons.
Heading towards you on the cigarette butt-littered sidewalk, you see a mom you know from the tot lot. She approaches you, in her sleeveless black cotton dress, a gold rope-style belt at her waist, the cherry red John Madden flats on her little white feet. Her name is Bethany or Hope or something like that.
Now, you and this blond Bethany or Hope have always been friendly. You two chat while your Life Force Suckers run around the tot lot. You exchange Life Force Sucker snacks and, on occasion, a cool moist wipey travels from her sweaty hand to yours. Or visa versa.
So now, as you approach her, you tip your head back in friendly greeting--you can't wave, because both manly hands are occupied with the dudely task of steering the Maclaren. (And let's just make this clear; you'd never be caught dead with a Bugaboo, because those are so Manhattanite and gauche!)
And then, when you are close to her, face to face, your Life Force Suckers looking disinterestedly at each other from their chariots, THE SHIT GOES DOWN...
She gives you a look that unmans you. It lasts less than a second--a stare that's bashful and naughty, fey and aggressive at once... Yes, you weren't mistaken. There was something there... It was fleeting, and it is most definitely GONE...
BUT in that dust spec of time, in that flutter of her butterfly-wing's lashes, entire worlds have collided. In that thin sliver of time, you two have done no less than boarded some time-warping future cousin of the Concord and... ...absconded to Paris, sans respective spouses, sans respective Life Force Suckers, and in some small walk-up studio apartment in the 9th arrondissement, you two committed all sorts of coital piggishness, right there, under the shadow of that windmill thing on Pigalle.
To be specific, in that aberration in the space-time continuum, you two did the following:
- Dined by moonlight on a riverboat on the Seine, the river breeze pulling at Bethany or Hope's blond tresses
- And, later, back in that little 9th arrondissement apartment, Bethany or Hope grabbed massive dollops of mold-ridden unpastuerized white cheese and spread that creamy stuff all over your under-exercized urbanite chest
- In the morning, you two split an eclair over espresso
Shut up, Unit. How can all that happen, right on Vanderbilt, by the Zaytoons restaurant-front?
Yes, fellow unit parentals, it happens countless times a day. In front of Zaytoons. Or in the Unit's own neighborhood, Ditmas Park, in front of the Anarchist Cafe, in front of the Dollar Store cum veggie stand... It's like Secret Wars 1-12 (think back, Brooklyn hipster, to your nerd-cool comic book swilling days)... And what seemed like a 12-month battle between good and evil happened in the blink of the Beyonder's eye...
And here's the exact physics of it: It happens because women have something called imagination and using this power to see things that aren't there, they can get all the passionate succor that is missing in their Life Force Sucker-enslaved lives, just by dreaming it up. Add to this the fact that women have wisdom, that they can see things and people as they really are, and well, there you have it. She knows that imagining an affair with you is going to be approximately 1 mega-trillion times better than the alternative (I.E., getting embroiled in your manchild shit).
This being the case, this Bethany or Hope or whatever her name is is sated by your micro-one-night-stand of a Parisian micro-affair. And out there on the sidewalk, within breathing distance of her kid, she's already lit up an imaginary Pall Mall or American Spirit or Lucky Strike or B&H or whatever cool alterna-smoke she used to indulge in. Scandalous!
As for my own Mrs. Unit Parental, I know she has her own micro-affairs with a certain someone I'll call Studmuffins. And I'm okay with that! Really! I'm even a little flattered. Because Studmuffins is very much a spitting image of myself, save that he has all his hair, is slightly taller, and has a full-time job.
But what can I do about Mrs. Unit Parental's virtual strayings? I believe the First Amendment extends to a woman's filthy imaginings, does it not? I mean, if the First Amendment can't protect that, then throw the whole Constitution out the window, a la Bush W.
And that's all I'll say about micro-affairs of the heart. I've said it all.
But just let me point out again, Wikipedia ain't got nothing on me. They ain't even registering in my rearview at this point.!
I KNOW WHO YOU ARE STUDMUFFINS. I GOT MY EYE ON YOU, MOTHERFUCKER. KEEP IT IN YOUR HEAD. OR ELSE, AS WE USED TO SAY AROUND HERE IN DITMAS PARK (before we gentrified the shit out of the place), I'M A HOUSE YA SORRY ASS!