Dear Reader,

As I was pondering the etiological function and mythological origins of our views of love I, dear reader, realized something. Although our cultural conception(s) of love are simply social metanarratives for the purpose of gene replication, there is a certain existential weight which hits me when I ponder it. I want to be loved.

Yet, I do not just wish to be loved by one person. Like Plato (and, yea, like Mormon males) I wish to be loved by many persons - for my love moves from the love of a particular beautiful body to that of every agathon soma. The love of one person is trivial - what I crave is the love of all people.

But how to achieve this goal? A lofty one, for sure, for who could love such a bedlamite as I (this self-depricaiton is not to be taken literally, of course)? Then it hit me - like Apollo striking Zeus' head with an axe to free Athena (and such sprang wisdom from my mind) - I would do a variety show! People always love variety shows - especially with that newfangled ``jazz'' that the urchins are listening to. If I could choose a compelling aural montage, with a coordinated dance set, I could woo hundreds, nay hold the hearts of thousands in my hands!

This in mind, I began to sing. Being the holder of authority that I am, it would be trivial for me to impinge my way into such a show, and with my raw andros, my animal energy and my other pervasive lust-inducing qualities, I would certainly win the show (or at least ``People's choice.'') Yet to begin, I would need a plan - a schematic of my carefully choreographed (think Aristophanes' ``The Birds'') steps.

First, thought I, we shall begin with the classics. A Russian Cossack (a form of Russian `kick-dancing') would be my first movement. Certainly I'd need much practice and would probably need to surgically lengthen my hamstrings, but this dance has a universal familiarity and a wonderful beat. In my traditional garments, I would be the object of love and envy.

Secondly, in the great German tradition of tanzen während betrunken, I would preform a 17th century Pokka. With authentic Höse and accordion, my vibrant sounds would echo throughout the hall. Finally, I figured that I'd bedazzle the youths with a modern hit: ``If I could tell you,'' by Yanni. The combination of cutting edge piano playing and archaic phonology of goat bleating blends into a series of hypnotic rhythms that will have my audience breaking into ``the robot'' in no time.

Don't you want somebody to love (i.e., me)?