The Dharma Bum

By Jaysen Buterin

"Love is the beauty of the soul"

- St. Augustine

Well dear readers, in all probity, I knew this day would come.

No, not Cinco de Mayo.

No, not Daylight Savings Time.

No, not the day when George W. actually makes it through a speech or screed pronouncing all his words correctly with hooked on phonics precision.

No superfriends, the day I refer to is none of the above (although it did vie for a close second with Bastille Day). Instead what I'm alluding to in my charmingly circumlocutional manner is that day which some lads dread with more fear than, "Do I look fat in this outfit," day or "Honey, let's go see a musical together," day, but not I true believers. Because the day will soon be upon me when my beloved Kindal and I finally move in together.

Best friends, confidantes, partners, lovers, and soon to be added to the list, roommates. Now sure you may be asking yourselves, "Self, why didn't they just move in together to begin with so I could finish this page and move on to that dashing young Chad Armbruster's column?" Well, it's quite simple really. By the time it dawned on me that I was head over heels in love with her (which was all of a few days after we really met) she had already set events in motion to come to this lovely little burg of Greensboro. A mere fortnight or two later, when I had set my own events in motion to join her rather than be separated by a mountain range, a time zone, and an unholy amount of driving, she had already found a roommate who was of the same terpsichorean inclinations as herself.

My window of opportunity had closed -- for the time being. Although it wasn't really as absolute of a cessation as a window -- more like one of those screens you close your window on, or perhaps a nice sliding door of opportunity, either way, she moved into one apartment and I found one only two streets over from her. Perhaps the gods intended for us to have this time together but yet apart.

I've lived by myself for so long (except for Dorothy and Coffee-boy - big ups and mad love to the gents who actually put up with my co-habitative petulance!) that perhaps this makes a nice transition from my so-called bachelor life to residing with my true love. After all, when I'm up until four or five almost every morning because for some abnegational reason, my body apparently doesn't want to sleep much anymore - I don't have to worry about disturbing her from her slumber. Then again, it's also just necessary some times to have your own space - that inherently solipsistic asylum that serves as catharsis for the human spirit.

Yet to play my own devil's advocate - I really can't wait for her and I to go apartment hunting together. To matriculate from apartment to apartment perpetuating the prevarication that we're betrothed so we have a better chance of emerging victorious in that torpor-like world of apartment Darwinism. Of course, being the good boyfriend, I've inevitably accepted the slimmest modicum of insight I can offer as to the final residence selection. I believe I've rallied for hardwood floors, lots of room for bookshelves (Yes Zach, I know, "Stop reading!"), and of course, the unwritten law of the universe dictates that I have to get the "man room." The "man room" you might say? Yes dear readers, the "man room." While some may regard this as quotidian residential/relationship folklore propagated to instill the necessary amount of fear in some, I assure you gents, it is quite real. In the simplest of terms, in the most convenient of definitions, the man room is the one room in the house or apartment where we have almost total autonomy over the decorum. Why just this one room? Because that is where every simulacrum of decoration that we consider "good taste" goes - all into that one little room. Want to be a part of decorating the living space you're going to be sharing with the woman of your dreams? Not bloody likely. Oh sure, you may get to hang an occasional poster up, maybe - if it's framed. You might get to put up a nice picture, if it's framed, and no guys before the thought makes the cannonball jump across the synapses, no - your autographed poster of the Hooters girls does not and will not be considered artistic. Better you hear it from me than find it in pieces in the trash, or used as the consistent riposte if you adamantly proceed to hang it up of, "Why don't you have the Hooters girls go get you a drink," or "Why don't you have the Hooters girls make you your dinner?" I'm just looking out for you lads.

Personally, I'm looking forward to the "man room" because I have about as much decorating sense as George W. has hopes of correctly pronouncing "antidisestablishmentarianism," or "strategy," either one is probably a struggle at this point. Upon seeing my apartment my good friend Megg asked me how Kindal was going to decorate our apartment. "Like a grown-up," was the only answer I could offer? Look folks, I'm 25 years old - aside from the Star Wars posters, Star Wars figures and toys (still in the box of course), comic books, movie posters, rock star posters, Beat Generation posters, and cherished pictures of my kith and kin - I have very little of decorative worth. As beatific a decorative piece as the double-bladed light saber, the countless Crow movie posters, or the "God Bless Our Trailer" wooden plaque that I found at a yard sale, would make, I know it's all going to end up in the "man room" and I'm okay with that.

I like the way I decorate, or lack thereof, but I also know better than to argue and that its best if I just smile and nod and be where I'm supposed to be when I'm supposed to be there. Of course, all anastrophic and jocular sentiments aside, all the poetic prolificity in the world cannot do justice to the feeling you get of falling asleep in that person's arms; of kissing them goodnight and anxiously awaiting the time when you can kiss them good morning; of that intrinsically warming feeling to know that that person is going to be home waiting for you - or that you can be there waiting for them, to be the first thing they see when the walk in and the only thing you think about when they're there; or of simply knowing that they are with you.

When is the big day for all this going to transpire you may wonder? Soon, more than likely early to mid-summer, after school's out. When the hell am I going to stop babbling so you can read something worthwhile? Soon, just a few more lines, I promise. So that was the little ride in my train of thought for this issue - please return all seatbacks, trays, and flight attendants to their original and upright positions, and if you have a really stupid idea, don't belittle yourself, instead sell it to Fox as a reality-based TV show, they'll buy anything. So dear readers, as the sun sets slowly in the West, I bid you a fond farewell through the screen window of my poster-laden, comic book saturated, toy and action figure filled den of slack, ubiquitously cherished, as the man room.