F*cking Argentina and 10 More Tales of Exasperation by Gregg Greenberg

Author:Gregg Greenberg [Greenberg, Gregg]
Language: eng
Format: epub

Chapter 6

It’s Not You, It’s BFJ

Dear Jennifer,

The last few months with you have been the best time I’ve ever spent with another human being. I’m talking emotionally, spiritually, physically, literally. The whole nine yards.

To wax poetic, if Shakespeare compared you to a summer’s day, you would blow that day away. How do I love you? I could not count the ways, they are innumerable. You are the love of my life.

With all the plans we’ve been making lately—a summer rental in Montauk with your brother and his wife and finally starting Ozark on Netflix—it feels like the right time to think about where this relationship is going. You may have wondered why I haven’t popped the question yet. Why would I hesitate to plight my troth, if you will?

As wonderful as you are—and like I said, I have never encountered a woman, man or living creature so wonderful—there is one thing holding me back. It’s not quite a flaw, because you are too perfect for that, but an Achilles heel of sorts. And just like that tiny human tendon that prevented Achilles himself from becoming altogether immortal like the other Greek gods, yours is the smallest imperfection. It just happens to be auditory, as opposed to ambulatory like Achilles’.

You see, love may be blind, but unfortunately, it’s not deaf. And as the great Dutch philosopher Spinoza once posited… Oh, screw it, I’ll skip the Spinoza and cut to the chase: It’s Billy Joel. Billy fucking Joel. BFJ.

If you were merely a casual listener of BFJ’s music, bopping along if “Only the Good Die Young” happens to pop-up on a playlist, well, I could probably reconcile that with some time and counseling.

But you are a full-on “Piano Man” ringtone kind of fan, a crooning “New York State of Mind” in the shower kind of fan, an in-your-face kamikaze karaoke version of “My Life” kind of fan.

With your great beauty—spun gold hair; bright, beaming blue eyes; plump, supple lips; elevated cheek bones; and a posterior that is tauter than a highly pitched snare drum—a man would be crazy to let you slip away because of a discord over discography.

Still, who gives a rat’s ass about cheekbones, ass cheeks or otherwise when you’re cranking out “Uptown Girl” in your Audi Q3?

The song is so saccharine it raises my blood sugar to diabetic levels simply by hearing it. It’s more than an overly sentimental earworm of a show tune, it’s an auricular tapeworm, hollowing out my neuromuscular synapses through sound.

Exceedingly dramatic, am I? What if you expose that sacrilege of a song to our hypothetical offspring? How is that not the moral equivalent of theoretical child abuse? I’m sorry, but I don’t think that’s an unfair concern for a man seeking to settle down. No siree, Bob Dylan.

Would you be willing to sign a prenup that stipulates you can’t play “Uptown Girl” for our kids? Maybe that could work.

Anyway, that’s just one song. What about “Just the Way You Are” or “She’s Got a

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