King of Hearts

“Encouraging someone to be entirely themself is the loudest way to love them,” writer Kalen Dion once noted.

Never heard of him? Now you have. I’m only happy when I’m helping you navigate this big, bountiful world.

So, getting back to loud ways to love someone…

Candy works. Wine too. Potions…lotions…polka-dot PJs, soft and loose.

The other day, my sidekick Suzanne spotted these amazing bird-shaped corkscrews at the Descanso Gardens gift shop, featuring custom wood inlays.

Obviously, that’s a loud way to love someone. Through artfulness. Through kindness and exquisite taste.

You could write him or her a song, of course, if that’s your jam. I was going to say “if that’s your forte,” but I was trying to act all cool and stuff. 

Note that not acting  “all cool and stuff” is a sign of authenticity, of character, and something to cherish, even pursue.

You could also give someone a poem. Or, a hug. Or a book by Somerset Maugham.

There are better writers, but not better names. Somerset Maugham. Sounds like a vineyard, right? Or a gated community near Laguna.

“So what’d he get you for Valentine’s?”

“A Somerset Maugham novel.”

“Huh? That’s it?”

If you truly give yourself to someone, flaws and all, confiding your fears, hopes, desperations, lusts, failures, strengths, weaknesses, thereby revealing your secret stash — your brave and generous heart — is that loving loud?

YES, I THINK IT IS!

In fact, it might be the very essence of love itself.

The buzz of love, especially early on, feels like some sort of fission. It could come in a warhead, or a syringe. It is our most powerful abstraction. 

Warning: The onset of a loud love makes you irrational and kind of coo-coo. We could use a bit more of that, actually. 

Coo-coo-ca-chew…

As we know, love makes the world go ’round. Birds do it. Bees do it. Even educated fleas do it. 

We humans seem to make the most mess of love. Men make a mess of love the way Spain made a mess of Cuba. Women make a mess of love the way the Rams botch punts.

My first crush, my learner love? The ever-elegant Kathy Kelley, my original hometown honey, the Lauren Bacall of Barrington, Illinois. We’re still in touch. Know why? We never kissed. I was 4. I didn’t know where to kiss. 

Yet, I loved her as fully as any 4-year-old man could. I walked her home from kindergarten, discussed the crafts we’d made, the Elmer’s glue curling wildly on our fingers. In 1961, the height of the Kennedy Administration, Kathy Kelley and I had our own Camelot. We were a couple, a couplet, a rhyme. 

Lasted about a month, as the purest love often does. 

I’ve had a few raging loves since then, not many. There’s Bittner, obviously, and all my other buddies: Jeff, Mark, Eugene, Charlie, Pete, Chris, Billable Bob (my attorney). 

There’s my beloved beast, White Fang, who loves me just because I rub her belly when she’s a little sad. 

The “love of my life” is actually my children and grandkids, though their mothership, Posh, deserves a co-producing credit.

I also love — quite loudly — the Chicago Bears, William Blake and John Coltrane, especially on the soprano sax.

I love old vinyl when its dusty, and the silence between words in a Tennessee Williams play.

I love the crack of the bat and the roar of the crowd when the  rookie phenom comes roaring around third, nostrils flaring, heading for home.

As a concept, I really love heading for home.

Till then, I love that one bar in South Pasadena, Griffins of Kinsale — the pews along the wall, the tattered old menus, the sliders, the Harp on tap, the toot-toot train stop just down the block.

I love fresh apricots and good cigars. I love Steely Dan. I even love busy airports. Except, of course, LAX. 

I also love the music they play in bookstores and the sound the ocean makes beneath piers.

I love the way the local coyotes howl whenever a firetruck screams down the boulevard.  Obviously, coyotes are accomplished singers, as evil predators go anyway. 

As the Bible says: Love thy predators.

Seems we sometimes weaponize love, as you can weaponize wealth or power or even faith.

Maybe that’s why Cupid carries all those arrows, zinging, pinging, prodding us to take a chance on this chaos of the heart.

Way to go, you pudgy little punk.

Cupid for mayor! Cupid for president!

As they say, love conquers all.

Once a year, I reach out on behalf of the Erskine Family Compassion Fund, which honors my late wife and son. The donations go toward struggling families across Los Angeles, providing everything from blankets, to books, to financial support. Any amount helps. Click here to donate.  If you prefer to send a check, please make it out to LCPC Parent Ed, and send to LCPC Parent Ed, 626 Foothill Boulevard, La Canada, CA 91011. Thank you in advance. There are many good causes; this is just one of them. If you have any problems with the donation site, please email me at Letters@ChrisErskineLA.com

Next week: The snowy mountains are calling us.