A Sense of Entropy
"A Match and a Stick of Gum"

by Jenn Kane

It felt good last night when I admitted that I used to have a crush on Joe Pesci. Maybe it was The Super, but more likely it was My Cousin Vinny. I could never pin down the reason. All I know is, my expectations can't possibly be that high. A short, chubby, balding guy with a New York accent and a heart of gold? That was my dream date.

In reality that translated to a cab driver.

Admittedly, my taste has progressed. But not by much.

I still maintain crushes on the following: Sam Waterson (in his Great Gatsby days and a smidgen of his "Law and Order" days), Eddie Izzard (a transvestite comedian}, Anthony Perkins (Psycho star later rumored to be homosexual), and Chuck Palahniuk (author extraordinaire).

I never really questioned my taste, because, by comparison, my roster of weirdoes seemed inexplicably tame. When I was in fifth grade, there was a girl in my class named Valerie MacGuyver. That wasn't actually her surname, but she insisted that she and the famous television character had eloped over the summer break, confirming their nuptials in Hawaii. She spoke about his detective exploits as if she were present while he fashioned dynamite from a match and a stick of gum. On her essay headings she would write Mrs. Valerie MacGuyver until my teacher refused to accept her homework. She ended up dating a kid named Cosmo who had cold sores on his lips.

But the thing about expectations is they don't apply to crushes. You have feelings for someone who is completely unattainable, feelings that are completely superficial, loyalty to their work instead of any tangible personality. So I know that just because I thought Joe Pesci was dreamy, doesn't mean that I am going to settle down with a real life substitute. I fall for characters and words. In high school, I wanted to marry Dennis Miller. I religously watched his HBO show, and fell in love with his smart-ass remarks.

I will never understand these girls who think that Ashton Kutcher is hot. He's a bumbling fool with an aesthetically pleasing face. Or these boys that drool over Pamela Anderson. She's a human bag filled with plastic. There are plenty of bodies everyday in classes, at work, at the mall that attain some facsimile of perfection. Crushes are produced from a dream, a spark, and a set of traits that exist in such a fashion as to make them instantly appealing.

Not just from a face, a chest, or a pair of legs.