So, I'd assumed you would all be writing in about your stalking experiences, perhaps humming "What am I Doing?," the great stalkers' anthem from the musical "Closer than Ever."  

I mean, don't be shy! There's an auto repair shop in Harwich called "O'Brien and Stalker,"and I was hoping those guys would write in.  It's one thing to take your son into the business, but your stalker? That is almost certainly a fascinating partnership.

Where does a crush come from?  The people I've had crushes on in my life--a young woman, who dressed like an Amish boy down to the lace-up boots and black hat; a mathematician, who had discovered amazing things but talked like a robot and didn't know how to make a sandwich. ...  Neither of them had one cell of conventional attractiveness, but somehow they were broadcasting on some perverse unconscious frequency of mine.  I had to see more of them. (In the case of the math teacher I invited myself over to make him dinner.  At this he began to walk in circles on his heels, repeating some secret phrase over and over.)

This makes me want to write "Stalkers: the Musical."  It would take place in Provincetown, on Commercial Street, which is really just a three-mile long conga line of stalkers, drawn through their lives by longing for ... well, you'd be surprised, and surprised, and surprised again.

I was reminded recently that Provincetown's glimpses are not just of landscape and architecture, but most strikingly of people. 

A man came toward me down an alleyway, his face perfectly made up, with long beaded lashes, high cheekbones, a warm lipsticked smile.  Jeans and a T-shirt too-- he was only beginning his evening's transformation. Later there would be sequins I'm sure but this intermediate stage drove a hatpin into my heart, who knows why? I was glad to feel it though, to be reminded of the mysteries that give life so much of its glamor and glory. The most wonderful art has been inspired by crushes-- Henry James and his beautiful young sculptor, Yeats tormented by his longing for Maud Gonne.  Our lunatic yearnings move us to great achievements.

'Everything's sparkle dust, bugle beads, ostritch plumes...'* around here in preparation for July 4th.  Happy Birthday USA!  What better gift than Obamacare?

(*from the song 'Put a Little More Mascara On', La Cage aux Folles, Harvey Fierstein and Jerry Herman)