Dear Christy,

I have big plans to watch the eclipse in Wyoming on Aug. 21, but my boyfriend just told me he doesn't want to go. I planned to surprise him with a marriage proposal, a plan that's been in the works for a year. He doesn't want to deal with all the people, traffic, or "going blind." He wants to chill with beers in the back yard.

Way to spoil my plans. I'm super upset and at a loss for ideas and persuasion.

— Solar Eclipse of the Heart

Sunny Side Down:

Take it down a notch, Bobby Knight. He didn't spoil your plans; he doesn't know you have them. But this is workable. Your goal is to eliminate his concerns (driving, eyeballs and mobs) and sell him a trip he can't refuse.

Allow my scientific background (see below) help make a case:

Driving ease: Rent a Cruise America RV (in a fanny pack, tourist) and take the wheel in your socks-in-Crocs. Tell him he can relax in the back with his pornpad, a bag of Cheetos and cannabis lube. Stuff him with edibles (before you leave the Colorado border) and captivate his trance for hours with fun-with-pot time-wasters like Etch A Sketch, Magic 8 Ball and Barbie's Dream House. Pack coolers of champagne, moonshine and Wild Turkey for sustenance. Don't forget bondage paraphernalia, lingerie and anal beads — or whatever pitches your tents.


Eyeball care: Get those special eyewear thingies that Mrs. and Mr. Scientist recommend. (I suggest high-powered binoculars, but my honorary science degree is from Rocky Flats Mutant School, so tread lightly with my counsel).

Find privacy: Research routes and select a remote spot. Find a place where the plains roll like last night's Molly trip. A place where prairie dogs jump rope with rattlesnakes and mountain goats pole dance at dude ranches.

Cheers. I dig this proposal plan. The once-in-a-lifetime astronomical wonder will be unforgettable. Last time there was an eclipse like this, we were all but mere twinkles in our great ancestors' merkin wrinkles. (Pubic hair straighteners didn't gain popularity until the turn of the century.)

But promise me you'll keep an eye on your ... ojos. Wrap them in condoms — us scientist-types like to promote protection, lest you wind up with a condition I like to call, "What the Fuck?" (When I was a wee lassie on a pilgrimage visiting the Artist Formerly Known as Yugoslavia, I was directed by religious folk to literally stare directly into the sun until I saw it dance. Coincidence or not, I've been in spectacles ever since.)

Now when you finally arrive in the land of vast plains and Rocky Mountains, you can fall on bended knee, dust off his orange genitals and pop the question.

Oh, and keep in mind that eclipse-trippers have been staking out viewing spots years before you popped your cherry, so you could be in a bind without research. But I'll try to cut the traffic in half by keeping some people in Denver that day. I'll get Banksy on the horn and have him live-graffiti Kim and Kanye banging on DIA's murdering mustang, Blucifer. Maybe Pope Franny can live tweet it, and Chuck Norris' genitals can give the keynote speech.

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