From the first time I saw “Lady & the Tramp” I was twitter-patted. I would lay in bed at night thinking of new adventures for me and the adorable Lady. The story seemed to sum up life as it should be. The lowly hard scrabble Tramp falls for the gentle well bred Lady. Sure I was a little boy and these were cartoon dogs, but never let details get in the way of aspirations. Every night for months I would tell myself stories as I fell asleep in my middle class bed in a well cared for home. Again, details. I had found my goal. Become a Tramp and someday I would find my Lady. After a day of saving the lady we would have the most romantic dinner. What happened after the diner never crossed my mind at that tender age. But once I found out I became even more googly eyed.
I have worked hard to be a Tramp since then. Every new relationship I entered into would seem like the beginning of another romantic adventure for those two anthropomorphized characters ala nineteen fifties Walt Disney scenes-cape. In some cases I was not the only Tramp in the story. But being a hopeless romantic my partners were always ladies even with a little tramp thrown in for spice.
Of course my mother never forgave the movie’s deleterious effects on the way I would consume spaghetti.