Who are the athletes of romance? What do they want? They are a different breed of cat, dressed in eveningwear over elbow pads, the children of Sisyphus who live to struggle and struggle to live. Highly celebrated in their cells and press conferences and converted basements, they own everything you can see, but still drink. Seemingly fleet of foot and hard of heart, the viciousness of these glass-jawed warriors belies their love for the opponent, the referee, the ring itself, and most of all, the bell. For their punctured lungs are flooding with love, and it is because they are drowning that they are often hard-pressed to give a good Goddamn. They know they will never be as good or brave as their heroes, who are also athletes of romance. Informed by their golden enemies that they are silver--no, in fact, bronze--they foolishly rise nonetheless from the sticky bathroom floor (stay down! stay down!) and go the last round. Certainly glad to be used, lest they feel useless. Surely tickled by their own consciousness, yet often found unconscious. Watch for their signs in your moment of grace and hour of panic. Listen for their manifestos in your love-making. For what is it that these hot-blooded reptiles, these freaks of passion, lost and lost again, want? You, of course.

LISTEN: What Has Our Harry Done?
(Or, Why I Feel One-Six Billionth More Alone: A Comic Operetta in Three Acts)

LISTEN: People Like To Fuck