The Fiction of Owen Thomas

Dear Miss Tinkles

Dear Miss Tinkles

Smitten as a Kitten

Dear Miss Tinkles:

I have a serious crush on an older guy. Thirteen years older! Yikes! And he’s so out of my league it’s not even funny. He’s way popular and very, very cool. He’s got a wrong-side-of-the-tracks appeal that really gets me going. Every time we’re in the same room I get all tongue-tied and don’t know what to say.  For the longest time he was kind of, like, aloof. He’s knows I like him, but he was all, ‘who are you?’ and pretending not to notice me and just hanging with his friends like I wasn’t there. So, that kind of hurt a little bit but I know it’s because he’s shy, or he’s just afraid that I’m too young for him. So I just took matters into my own hands and stopped letting him pretend that he doesn’t care and finally – FINALLY! – he gave me a hug and told me he would be my friend. I was so, sooooooo, SO happy!

But here’s the problem. I want to be so much more than friends with him. I want to be with him always and forever. I know he loves me, but I don’t want to scare him off. I know what you will tell me, Tinkles. I read your column faithfully. You will tell me to take it slow and to wait until he’s ready. But I honestly don’t think I have the patience! How do you think I can keep this heavenly momentum rolling my way?

Sincerely, Smitten as a Kitten.


Dear Governor Christie:

Please leave Bruce Springsteen alone. The hug he gave you was kind, but ill-advised. He should have taken the time to write to this column and ask my advice. I would have urged restraint.

That hug – which, from the looks of things, you clearly prolonged to hide the true length and breadth of your admiration—has only encouraged you and given you hope where there really should be no hope. Yes, he called you his “friend.” And yes, I realize that you hear that word as a bromance bitch-whistle.  But you must not mistake common civility for an invitation to go steady.

Look. The Boss is busy writing songs and performing and not dancing very well. The Boss is happily married with children (as are you, by the way). The Boss is busy being The Boss. That takes focus. He doesn’t have time to also date the Governor of New Jersey. While I can certainly appreciate your admiration for Mr. Springsteen as an artist, gay rights advocate, Obama supporter and liberal activist, Mr. Governor, you must forsake your man-crush on Bruce Springsteen.

Here’s why. It’s because—and I really cannot emphasize this enough—your man crush will kill Bruce Springsteen. He is a reasonably fit man, but your man crush will crumple The Boss like an empty beer can. Trust me. You do not want to be the man who squished The Boss into a goateed paste on the sidewalk. Politically, there is really no coming back from that. Seriously. Anthony Weiner, Elliot Spitzer and Arnold Schwarzenegger all have better re-election prospects than The Boss flattener.

I know this will not be easy. You will need to stop looking for Bruce around every corner. He is not going to one day just walk into Carl’s Jr. and surprise you. Ever. And when you listen to The Boss belting out Born to Run – let me in I want to be your friend / I want to guard your dreams and visions / Just wrap your legs ‘round these velvet rims / and strap your hands ‘cross my engines – you will just have to keep telling yourself that he is not singing to you.

Your fetish for the bad boys on the wrong side of the tracks—with their boots and bandanas, their sexy health care dreams and their devil-may-care budgets—has been abundantly clear since Hurricane Sandy got you a dream date on Marine One. This opposites-attract thing is fairly common. I’m not discouraging you from looking around. But man-crushing The Boss is much too ambitious and will only lead to someone getting hurt, by which I mean squished. You need to look for people like you, actively experimenting with love on the other side of tracks.

Fortunately, I happen to know of just such a person. It would be terribly inappropriate for me to reveal actual identities in a public column so I will just say that his name rhymes with Charlie Crist. Almost exactly.

Okay, exactly.

If it works out and you get married (obviously in some state other than New Jersey or Florida), you could be Mr. and Mr. Charlie-Chris-Christie-Crist. If that’s not kismet then I don’t know what is!

So, man up, Gov. Let The Boss go, by which I mean release him so he can get oxygen. He’s just not that into you. Don’t make him get a restraining order. And if you and Charlie Crist do hook up, remember to watch your blind spots; the man weighs about twenty-seven pounds.

Yours, Tink.


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