Standing at the sink, washing baby bottles, I had an epiphany. Expressing my opinion re: gay marriage (for) would probably not hurt my prospects vis-a-vis running for President. Not that people are not or should not be interested in a Presidential candidate’s stance on the issue, but it became clear that I was unlikely to be a Presidential candidate. Such a revelation may not seem like news for most people. From what I understand, there are people who would never even want to be President. My arrogance is enough to entertain such fantasies, even if I have never taken any action toward such ends or considered the wisdom of such action.
Not too long before that, I had to admit that I would probably never front the E Street Band. That job is rather locked up. Riding with Lance Armstrong to the top of Beech Mountain has been done. March on Washington: done. Writing Declaration of Independence: done. 95 Theses, founding Constantinople, defeating Xerxes. Done, done, and done. My fantasies have, one by one, been revealed as unrealistic pipe dreams.
But I still want the guns. I’m not talking Charleston Heston pry ’em out of my cold dead hands kind of guns. I’m talking Jason Bourne, Denzel Washington, Mohamed Ali kind of guns. A deltoid and a bicep. The kind of guns that make you want to take Charles Atlas by the hand. These are things that I persist in thinking I can have. So I go to the gym and I use the machines and I do crunches (not sit-ups) and leg lifts (not sit-ups) and try to tell myself I will be a better runner for it. What I really want is to look good with my shirt off.
I, like you, still have a dream.