6/11/05

HOW I SUCK AT BREAK-UPS

(WHICH, IN ORDER FOR BREAK-UPS TO EVEN BE AN ISSUE,PRESUPPOSES THAT I SUCK AT ROMANTIC RELATIONSHIPS)

This morning, at five twenty, I stepped out to the edge of my balcony. My first impression of morning is always the stillness of the light; everything seems to be a steely blue. But then I notice the glimmering orange lights that stand, along various buildings and walkways, in a brilliant contrast to the muted blue, as the last dying indications of the night. All was quiet, but the sound of the breeze, which was considerable, and which I regarded as a force to be reckoned with. And I was still.

Some days I just can't keep my balance, and I seem to be in the way of everything. Quite literally. I keep on bumping into everything. Not this morning, but yesterday.

Yesterday I was talking to this girl on the phone. She's a twenty-five year-old law student from Texas. I don't even know how I got involved with her. Anyway, I hate talking on the phone, and so I was talking to her on the phone. Which made me realize why I hate talking on the phone, and so I started talking to her about how I hate talking on the phone. Sometimes when there is an awkward silence on the phone you can start talking about awkward silences on the phone, and if you're neurotic enough about it -- being neurotic about it, and not cute, is key --she'll think you're funny. It's the oldest trick in the book.

Anyway, I was on a roll (which is how I get on the phone when I'm not being completely stunted and fumbling), and so I just had to continue on and on. I was talking about how I usually pace around my room like crazy when I'm talking on the phone, and I asked her if she ever started that old standing on shit thing when she was on the phone.

She said, "Standing on shit thing?"

"You know, the old one-legged standing on shit thing. Like, you'll be pacing around, and you'll suddenly find yourself by your bed, or the chair or something, and so you'll stand up on it with one leg and sort of balance while you talk because you're getting tired of all this pacing. Sometimes you go up and down, catching yourself with your other foot and hoisting yourself up again, because that's how hard balancing is. You know, don't you ever do that?"

And then there was an awkward silence.

And then she said, "No."

If I faltered, it was only for a brief moment before I regained my wits. I knew what to do. I grinned wryly and I knowingly suggested she try it.

I'm terribly awkward at talking to girls on the phone, and so, rather then appear at a loss, I often start talking elaborately about shit that doesn't even make any sense. For example, one time, when I was in high school, I had just started dating this girl that I was only moderately interested in, and we were having one of our first phone conversations. I wasn't really too sure what to talk about since I was only moderately interested in her, and so I started talking about how after we got married and grew old together, we could have matching lawn chairs and I could yell at kids. Although it worked well enough in the moment, the two of us indulging happily and jokingly along in this "he he" prediction of the future, it didn't seem as smart when I broke up with her two weeks later. It didn't seem so smart in retrospect to joke about, or even mention, things like marriage on the first phone call with a girl that I only moderately liked because it turned out that she really liked me a lot.

Which, to be fair, had never really crossed my mind as a possibility.

When I broke up with her (which was a relatively new and horrible experience for me), she started to cry (which was probably a relatively new and horrible experience for her). It was snowing outside (and we were outside, because I had decided I would definately need a cigarette during the proceedings), and she started crying and then told me that the Last two weeks had been the Best two weeks of her life. It was snowing, and we were outside, and she was crying, and I was smoking a cigarette with the force of somebody resolving to never break up with a girl again, and it wasn't until later that a funny thought occured to me: if two weeks spent dating me had been the best two weeks of her life, her life must have been pretty shitty.

I thought this was funny, but you can't really laugh about that sort of thing. It's not funny when somebody says something that's not necessarily very true (but nevertheless happens to be pretty funny) as a sort of emotional outburst because you are breaking up with them and they are hurt and confused and young and in love. There's certainly nothing funny about being hurt and confused and young and in love.

A few days later I soberly and respectfully told my friend Scott the story of how I broke up with her, and how it was snowing, and how she started crying, and what she said about the last two weeks of her life being the best two weeks of her life.

Scott considered this for a moment, and then he said: "She must've had a pretty shitty life."

Everybody breaks up with everybody in high school, by the way. I could just as easily go on and on about the times girls have broken up with me. But I already have, and so that would be boring.

During the end of my senior year I started dating a girl who was both the Valedictorian and Student Body President of my class. Everybody was very proud of me. I think I should have gotten to make a speech at graduation too. "And now, please welcome the Valedictorian and Student Body President of Ralston Valley's Graduating Class of '03's boyfriend."

If you are dating the Valedictorian and Student Body President of your class, it is pretty much a bona-fide guarantee that you are All-Around-Pretty-Fucking-Terrific.

Unless you break up with her about two weeks later, which is pretty much a bona-fide guarantee that you are All-Things-Considered, Pretty-Much-A-Fucking-Moron.

Which is what I did. I had my reasons, which I'll not go into here, but which I explained carefully and kindly to her, and we ended up, when all was said and done, saying goodbye to each other on fairly good terms. I could say a great many affectionate and admiring things about her, and would, only this story is about how ridiculous I am at breaking-up with girls. And this is how ridiculous I am at breaking-up with girls:

I had been thinking I should end things between us, at least romantically, for a few days before I did (which, I feel compelled to note, was largely due to my older brother, Nathan, who has always had an infuriating way of getting me to admit to things that I already knew but was ignoring, especially when concerning the ultimately unhealthy relationships that I often got myself into, and usually felt obligated to stay in since I had already gotten myself into them; Nathan, by some gift of higher thinking, never saw the fact that you had stepped into shit as a viable reason for why you should not step out of it, and if I learned anything from this cherished beacon of wisdom, intelligence, and love in my life who was my dear, oldest brother, it was to make sure to stay the hell away from him when I was in a bad relationship.)

Anyway, the main point is that I knew I was going to break up with her. I had thought it through, with a little help from my brother (which mainly consisted -- infuriatingly, I say again -- of asking me questions, and not telling me what he thought I should do, but very cleverly leaving me with nothing to argue against but my own answers to his knowing questions -- the damnably clever man!) -- and I had decided that, if I was going to be fair and loving to her, the best thing I could do would be to break up with her. And so I explained to her very considerately and sensitively that, if I was going to be fair and loving to her, the best thing I could do would be to break up with her.

And she was confused.

But we shall not go into that whole conversation, but only tell the circumstances of the break-up. Another friend of mine, who, incidentally, happened to be dating her twin sister, was hanging out with me, and we had all decided earlier to meet at my place and watch a movie. My parents were out of town, and if not for my terrible timing it would have been a positively ideal evening to get in some lengthy smooching and cuddling on the couch. And...........(it took me a moment to piece it together)............"OH, DAMN!" I suddenly realized! This was a problem: I had been thinking that we would all watch the movie and then, after saying goodbye to Tyler, she and I could be able to talk. But I had forgotten that what you do with your girlfriend while you watch a movie is smooch and cuddle extensively on the couch! And now, it seemed to me, I was faced with a moral dilemna: somebody should have some notion, some indication, that they are going to be broken up with beforehand; it should not come as a complete surprise, and it should certainly not happen directly after one-and-a-half hours of smooching!

I thought about this, and although one option was to watch the damn movie, do the damn smooching, and hold off for a couple of days to break up with her, this seemed still (perhaps even more) dishonest. And so she came over and I decided to tell her before we watched the movie. It was arranged that Tyler would sit by himself in the living room for about an hour, feeling distinctly uncomfortable and also, while my girlfriend (I'll not mention her name) and I went out onto the patio. She must have known something was up. And so we sat down and had, actually, a really very good conversation about the whole thing. She was sad, and it seemed at first somewhat out of the blue to her, but she understood. And so it was, calm and reasonably, and as Tyler twiddled his thumbs in the living room, that I broke up with the Valedictorian and Student Body President of my graduating class. And then we hugged, went back inside and proceeded to, dear God, sit down and all watch the movie we had rented, each of us -- Tyler, her, and me -- sitting on seperate couches and staring with an absolute singular attention to the screen.

It occured to me then that I had not considered this juncture of the evening when earlier I had been weighing the pro's and con's of when and how I should break up with her.
It was an awkward one-and-a-half hours.

The most awkward moment of my life, however (and we shall end this by turning the tables somewhat on me), most-likely had to do with a different girl, and one who a year ago I quite honestly thought I was in love with. She knew of my feelings, and although we were close friends, she did not share the depth of my feelings. I knew she did not share the depth of my feelings, and although we were close friends, I felt the depth of my feelings. This is sometimes how a funny situation between two people begins.

One night we were sitting around in my room. She used to kid me every once in awhile about the fact that I was still a virgin, and she was kidding me a little about it then, which led into her asking (sort of sincerely, and sort of jokingly) Why I was still a virgin, whether it was by choice, or accident, or what? I considered this for a few moments, and then promptly (and very sincerely, and not very jokingly) replied that until recently my virginity had been a result partly of my own choice and very probably partly by accident, but that since meeting her (I had met her more than a year earlier, and had dated other girls since), the reason why I was still a virgin was that I wanted my first time to be with her.

Which, in retrospect, was a funny sort of a thing to say.

That, I think, was very probably the most awkward moment of my life. I have in any case since decided that dramatic romantic confessionals are highly overrated.

As a credit to her kindness, she didn't seem to be unhinged a bit by such a statement, but only a little confused. I don't know exactly what sort of response I was expecting from her (and neither, probably, did she), but all she said, after calmly thinking is over, was, "Why? I'm not a virgin."

And then I hesitated.

And then she looked inquiringly at me.

And then I said, "I know. But I still thought it would be special."

And then she smiled caringly at me.

And then I probably started to fucking cry or something. Sheesh.

5./21/05

THE WORST ARTICLE I’VE WRITTEN YET!

Last night I had a crazy dream. I don’t even want to go into it, though.

Yesterday was a beautiful, blustery day, and I wound up on the upper west side because I had an audition for a play reading. I had to play a homosexual in a concentration camp. If I get the gig, I’ll probably have to shave my head. And I’ll probably have to pretend to be a homosexual in a concentration camp.

I don’t know if I’ll get the gig, though, and classes just ended, and so basically what I’m doing now is sitting around on my ass, trying to figure out what I should do for the rest of the evening.

I just received the following text-message from a girl I know here in New York, but haven’t seen in months:

“Soulpusher dirty dance party tonite! Rock n’ roll, dirty soul and jello shots! At b3-ave b and 3rd st 10 pm downstairs! Come hang w me and a can of whip cream! xo- june”

It’s good to have options.

I just walked up the block to the grocery store to buy cigarettes, and while I was waiting at the register I saw a timid, slightly-balding middle-aged man waiting in line with two cans of whipped cream. I found it amusing and smiled to myself, thinking, “I guess he got the text-message too.”

Let me take this chance, having just reviewed what I’ve written so far, to apologize half-heartedly to the reader. You see, I’ve been wanting to write something of meaning lately, but I’ve been having some degree of trouble finding any meaning in myself. Earlier today I was thinking of writing an essay on the addicting, alienating, and soul-crushing affects of pornography, but that didn’t sound like very much fun, so I looked at pornography instead.

I got drunk last night and had a long conversation with God and the Devil. I anticipated the hidden elements in my motives, disclaimed and refuted my pleas, begged for mercy and yet delivered my own verdict with harsh impudence – so harsh, in fact, that I then let myself off the hook, exhausted at the thought of carrying out my sentence, and tired of God nodding his head in consent to my insistence that I be allowed, in addition to playing criminal, prosecutor, and defendant, to also spread myself among the jury seats. And so gently did he nod his head to my requests, only to then permit my refusals of my requests (I often thought my requests to be unfair) -- and so pained a look in his eyes, and so silent a tremble in his lips, that I felt bad at wearying him with my frenzied performances, but I continued — so unable I was to restrain the gathering and uncontrollable speed of maliciously-spurred horses — I continued with even greater vengeance to indulge my mind its fury.
And all the while the Devil was spared of having anything to do.

All of this is madness, of course. I realized it even at the time, which of course never stops me. It is only later, with the quiet consideration a rainy day allows you, that I can grin without malice at myself, but with good humor at this realization: On some nights I attempt to go crazy. I don’t know why, except, perhaps, that the main ambition of a talented youth is to ruin himself. Oh, how talented and prideful youths seek to sabotage their lives, so as to escape the pressure of their critics and admirers (who often are one and the same), and to escape (for they foresee it all too clearly) the eventual responsibility that their still passionate and even resentful talent will demand of them. How they are encouraged greatly by affirmation, and yet how disgusted they are when caught in a moment of elation; they attempt to modestly shrug off praise (or if they are more clever, accept it), yet avenge themselves horribly on their criticizers, knowing all the while that such outbursts only reveal their immaturity, and yet still unable to restrain themselves! Such great lengths they go to prove themselves, and how they disdain the very burden of proof which they have taken up. “I don’t care what anybody thinks!” they snarl, so much do they care what everybody thinks. And although they’d rather remain silent, and though they hate themselves for it, with what fury and ample consideration they prepare their defenses, anticipating always the ways they imagine they will be brought under attack.

But of course it will all lead to madness! It is a ridiculous and self-involved endeavor, and only the approval of others, or the pitying mourning of such a promising youth’s gradual decent into madness and failure, is such a journey’s spiteful aim.

Oh shit, it’s so obvious that I’ve been reading The Brothers Karamazov and trying to have something of my own to say. But it’s become apparent to me that there isn’t much left of your own to say after you read The Brothers Karamazov, since damn old Dostoyevsky decided to go and write everything about life and existence into a book before he died.

Well, in closing, at least I’m in a better mood, even if getting there has been at the expense of the reader. I really do apologize, but I’m afraid that after much debate, I’ve decided to submit this anyway because I couldn’t bear the thought of deleting hours of writing, even if the outcome did happen to be mostly crap. I should obviously realize my limits and get back to writing smart-ass movie reviews.

CRASH, assembling an absolutely first-rate interracial cast, is a powerfully dramatic, deeply touching, and absolutely hilarious movie about the much ignored racial tensions still existing today in spite of (and, in part, because of) everybody’s very tolerant and politically-correct self-awareness concerning the issue. It takes place in L.A., following an ensemble of intelligent, emotionally-complex characters as they crash together in a series of often too-coincidental coincidences which the movie thankfully accepts as a plot device, but makes no boring apologies for. Despite its heavy elements, I found it to be surprisingly uplifting, and its frank humor was grinningly refreshing. But this movie is not for everyone: Although the movie is obviously not promoting racism, but instead making an important and poignant observation about all of humanity, some idiots will be confused. I remember one particularly funny scene in the movie, in which Don Cheadle gets really frustrated with his Puerto-Rican girlfriend in an argument about race and, having nothing intelligent to say, erupts with a hilariously offensive remark about her race. The whole audience erupted in laugher (and for the next ten minutes I would occasionally burst out giggling again at even remembering the perfect comedic-timing that Cheadle delivered the line with). As everybody’s very innocent and childlike delight was subsiding (it was if we had all been simultaneously been caught trying to steal a cookie) I heard the disapproving voice of some cranky lady several rows behind me say, “That’s not funny.”

5/1/05

Christians

It’s almost two in the morning, and I don’t know why I’m still awake, except that maybe I don’t feel fulfilled yet. It’s hard for me to go to sleep without feeling that the day was fulfilling.

I wind up not getting very much sleep.

Ba-dum Ching.

But it was a nice day. I ate brunch with two old friends of mine. We drank mimosas and coffee. I don’t know what the name of the café is, but my good pal, Scott, works as a waiter there. He was a good waiter. He put Avril Lavigne on the sterio, never let our coffee run out, and didn’t charge us for our meal. So we gave him a big tip. A few hours later I was like, “Damn, I don’t have twenty dollars anymore.”

Then I went down to SoHo with my two old friends, and we walked around and talked. I had to go to the bathroom a lot because of all that coffee and those damn mimosas, and I got worried because whenever I have to go to the bathroom a lot I start to think that I have diabetes. My older brother has diabetes. How did he know? Because he was pissing all the time. He thought that that was because he was drinking lots of water, but a friend of his knew better.

“Dude, you probably have diabetes.”

And he did.

He wears a holster with his diabetes gear. He makes diabetes fun.

Being sick isn’t really fun. But I guess sometimes you can have a good attitude about it. I dunno, though. I never do.

One time I got so sick that I spent the whole night throwing up and shitting my bed at the same time. Until I worked up the strength to move to the bathroom. Where I continued to throw up and shit.

The next morning, my mom and dad asked me how I was feeling, because they felt really bad for me. I felt bad for them because they had to clean up the sheets that I shit and threw up in the night before. I was too busy.
I said, “You guys will be happy, because last night I was so sick that I became a Christian eight times.”

They laughed a lot, and I joined in too, because it was pretty funny. I said it in a very disgruntled way.

But it was true. I asked Jesus into my heart eight times that night. And however valid or lasting my conversion, I learned an important lesson. All the philosophical and theoretical questions in the world don’t amount to much when you are sick enough to shit the bed.

I even did some nice drawings in my moleskin today. And I’m still awake. There is a catch-22 involved in all of this not going to bed until I feel fulfilled nonsense: The less sleep I get, the more I will not leave myself a chance for feeling very good or fulfilled the next day. It is a ridiculous habit of mine. Everybody says so.

I have another ridiculous habit, too. It is smoking cigarettes. I smoked my first cigarette when I was fourteen, in the summer before my sophomore year of highschool. I got kicked out of my highschool when I was a sophomore, too, and started at a new school where nobody liked me. I got the best grade in my math class that year, and I am terrible at math. But nobody talked to me in class, and so I listened and took copious notes to keep myself occupied. I received an A+. And it was also in my sophomore year of highschool that I had my first kiss. It was an eventful year.

Anyway, I started smoking regularly when I was sixteen. I was working construction, and I liked to drink a cup of coffee and smoke cigarettes when I was sweeping out the houses. I remember one afternoon in particular, and it was raining outside, and it was that day, I believe, when I really developed a taste for coffee and cigarettes. My construction boss often called my “Dildo.” Which doesn’t have much to do with anything, but it came to mind. He meant it in a good way.

Perhaps it was also when I was working construction that I learned to swear with authority. Like this, “Fuck!” You learn a lot working construction.

I also started dating a girl named Kristen that summer. Summer Loves are the best sort when you’re sixteen, working construction, and smoking cigarettes. I dunno why. They might not be.

She broke up with me a few months later, and I was so sad that I bought a cup of coffee, went to the park by my house, and smoked a few cigarettes while looking at the lake, which was still, if I remember correctly. I was so sad that I didn’t even cover up the smell of smoke on me before I went home. When I went to say goodnight to my parents, it went like this:

“Goodnight, mom and dad. I love you.”

“We love you too. You smell like smoke.”

“I know. I went to Starbucks.”

“You smell like that just from being at Starbucks?”

“Yes.”

“Who was smoking at Starbucks?”

I thought for a moment, and what I did next was really smooth.

I said, “Me.”

I just made myself a pot of coffee, even though it is now 2:30 in the morning. Why? There are two reasons. Because I am stupid, and because I am thirsty.

And because sometimes I get so exhausted by trying to feel fulfilled that eventually I can fall asleep whether I was just drinking coffee or not. How do I do it? I read a really good book until I feel nice and sleepy. And then I shut my eyes. And if the question comes to my mind, “Why am I here?” I say, “Because that’s how it goes, old boy.” And if the question comes to my mind, “Why do I feel useless and guilty?” I say, “Because you are crazy and think too much about silly shit.” And if the question comes to my mind, “Why am I sad?” I say, “I dunno.” And then I fall asleep.

When I wake up, my teeth probably hurt because I grind them.

If my teeth don’t hurt, it means that I slept peacefully like a baby. And it also means that I drooled all over my pillow. Damn!

It should be said that sometimes I feel guilty when I am going to bed for very good reason. For example, tomorrow I have to do a bunch of stuff that I don’t want to do, and the temptation is going to be to sleep late and not get all of it done. Because once I finally get to sleep, I’m very good at staying asleep all day long. Or until I think of something exciting that makes me want to get out of bed, like, “Goddamnit, I gotta get outta bed.”

My grandparents are incredibly generous and loving people, and they fly our whole Johnson family out to Hawaii every other year. I bring it up not to flaunt our blessings, but to note that I always feel like getting out of bed when I am in Hawaii. Because I always feel like getting out of bed when my family is around, and when we are in Hawaii, my family is right there, waking up and eating sweet cerial too. And because you can go down to the Ritz Carlton, and watch pretty girls in bathing suits at the pool.

Speaking of bathing suits, a couple of summers ago I was down at the pool with some friends, and there was a girl named Ana there too. I was wearing a pair of ridiculous Brazilian Soccer Shorts; they were red, with stripes down the side, and short enough to look goofy. We were all having chicken-wars and shit, and she was laughing and happy. She was on my shoulders, and we beat the other team, which was made up of a friend of mine named Tom and some other girl. We were good at chicken-wars, me and Ana. Anyway, I was freezing my ass off in the pool, even though it was really hot out, and so Ana put her arms around me. It didn’t really warm me up, but it was nice just the same.

Sometimes I try to remember what her arms felt like around me. We dated for awhile, and we’re still friends, but I’m not sure that we’ll ever be teammates at the pool again, or that she’ll ever try to warm me up again, holding me close to her so that I can feel her hot breath on my face.
Damn! I just remembered: I think she kept trying to tickle me under the guise of warming me up. Damn, forget trying to remember what her arms felt like around me! That was a dirty trick. She was pretty sneaky, now that I think about it.

Anyway, I’ve started talking about old relationships again, even though “Don’t think about past failed relationships” is on my To-Do list that I have posted up, along with “write Seth a letter” and “Do twenty-five push-ups.” I also have “Find God” on the list, but I’m willing to dismiss that one if it means getting really sick again. Or if it means that I have to go to church.

I often make a lot of mean generalizations about Christians that have nothing to do with real Christians, and so I am going to allow myself two more paragraphs to point out a different conception I have of Christians, and then I am going to disband this and go to bed.

I was standing outside of my ex-band’s hotel this morning (having stayed over to visit with them, and eat room-service on Sony Music’s bill), and I noticed a girl and her mom heading over. The girl was very pretty in the unaware sort of way that I never see in New York, and she was wearing a grey, college sweatshirt that said TRINITY. Anyway, I was standing sort of in front of the door, smoking a cigarette and eyeing the rainy sky that lay just beyond the hotel awning, when I noticed that she was heading for the door with her luggage. I feel I must insert, very nearly parenthetically, that her mother and she were going to enter the side-door instead of the main, revolving door, which was manned by an elderly doorman. Whether this initiative of theirs, meaning that they naturally moved to open their own door – whether it is of any consequence or not is left to the reader to decide, but it stood out to me. And now, moving at a very gingerly pace, I know, to my main point, the girl and I were then engaged in a happy little dance of getting out of each others way, where she moved to her left, and I moved to her left, and then she moved with a laugh to her right, and I, with a laugh, had to same idea. I trust that the readers have had these little dances with strangers of their own, and in general, it’s certainly nothing to spend a paragraph on. But she smiled at me with such bright eyes, and red cheeks, and piped, “Sorry!” and I was so caught up in the moment and dancing, that I embarrassedly mumbled, “Sorry!” right back, and then – so short was this happy exchange – it was over, and I was out of her way; and she smiled again, and her mother and she went in the door.

And what is so terribly important, and I think telling, is that my immediate response to this small exchange with this charmingly apologetic girl, who brimmed, I tell you, with life and innocence and gentleness, was none other than this: “I bet she’s a Christian.”

4/21/05

In Which The Editor Is So Happy To Recieve A Column He Posts It Without Reading It, And Thus Cannot Give It A Title

My mom once told me, “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”

That is why I haven’t written anything for a year.
 
This is supposed to be a semi-weekly column.  Which makes me a liberal. 
 
When I was in tenth grade, I used to sit down in the shower and cry on a nightly basis.  This is because nobody liked me at school, which unfortunately was where, for some reason unbeknownst to me, I spent a good deal of my time.  Lots of people like me here in New York, though.  So I stopped taking showers.  I’ve been mistaken about the purpose of showers since the tenth grade.  Somebody had to remind me that I was beginning to become smelly in order for me to get my information straight. 

Am I saying that whenever I take a shower it reminds me of feeling alienated and sad, that it brings me back to that isolated place of feeling like a freak?

No.
 
But I said that to the person who told me I was beginning to become smelly. 

And they said, “Really?” 

And I said, “Yeah.”

And then I waited for three pregnant seconds, turned away, and muttered, “Asshole.”

But, anyway, lots of people like me now, and this is why I haven’t written anything in a year.  I have too many friends. 

This makes you stupider.  And then you don’t know what to write for your semi-weekly column.  Because chances are you’re having some big boring-ass conversation that you’ve already had about seven times with somebody, instead.  You have to do this, too, when you have lots of friends.  Otherwise, this sort of thing happens:

Some friend says, “What are you doing tonight?”

And you say, “I’m going to write a little.”

And they say, “No, don’t write.  Come on.  Hang out.  Lets grab a few beers, talk…it will be fun.”

And you say, “No, I want to be by myself tonight.”

And they say, “Oh man, you’re always so depressed, and you always want to hang out by yourself.  You can hang out by yourself WHENEVER you want.” 

And you think, “That’s true.”
 
That’s not true.  The next time you want to hang out with yourself, they say, “Oh, man!  Come on.”

And so you hang out with them again. 
 
And you never get anything done.  Although, to be fair, after a few drinks, everybody talks about what they’ve really been meaning to get done, and swears they’re going to do it “soon.”  Most people consider doing something, and saying out loud, “I’m really gonna do that,” to be practically the same thing. 

It sometimes can even make you feel inadequate about something you did.  Whatever you did is crap when compared to whatever they didn’t do quite yet.

I think there is a parable in the Bible which goes something along the lines of this:  A father had two sons, and he asked the first son to do something for him.  The first son said, “No, I won’t do that for you.”  And so, disappointed, the father asked the second son, who said, “Yes, I’ll do it for you.”

The second son ended up getting busy, and didn’t do it.  The first son, who had said “no”, ended up getting bored, and so he went out and did what his father asked because he didn’t have anything better to do.

I like the first son better. 

It occurs to me, though, that some of my friends would think that this is because I’m selfish and lazy.

That’s true.  I am selfish and lazy.  And this is where the parable, when left at that, is almost too sentimental, somewhat romanticized and lacking in scope.  Although I very much like the parable as it is, I sometimes think I should have liked it better if Jesus had included a second part to it.  Which would continue as follows:  “Another time, the father asked the first son to do something for him, and the son said, ‘No.’  And so, disappointed, he asked the second son to do it for him, and the second son said, ‘Yes, I’ll do it for you.’ 

The second son got busy and didn’t do what he told his father he would do.  The first son felt as lazy as he guessed he would feel, and proceeded to not do precisely what he had told his father he wasn’t going to do.  And he felt fine.

And so it came to pass that the father’s wish was not completed by either son. 

The message to this possible second part of the parable is this: The son who said ‘no’ and didn’t do anything was selfish and lazy, whereas the second son, who obediently said “yes” and still didn’t do anything, was only a stupid asshole.”

Perhaps some people would protest, complaining that a third, and vital example of obedience and character has been left out:  They stand up and proclaim, “What about the son who says ‘Yes’ to his father’s wishes, and then proceeds to carry out his promise?  This third type of son” (they most-likely continue) “is both honest AND responsible, and is, therefore, surely the ideal example of how one ought to act, putting to shame both the first and second son!” 

Whoever points out this exemplary third son is the sort of person who usually gives me a fucking headache about whatever we’re discussing, because they’re the type of people who think that they’re being very clever by identifying something true (in a very boring sense) and wholly unrelated to the point of whatever is being talked about. 

I’m usually that sort of person.

Sometimes I disagree with people just to disagree with them.  Not to argue the other side of the issue in order to work anything out in my head, but just to disagree with them. 

I also thought I should admit to being that sort of person.

On the other hand, if I am in a discussion with a cute girl, sometimes I will change my tactics, and I will just agree with her to agree with her.  This actually gets me in more trouble in the long run than the other:  “What do you mean you think it’s ‘weird’?  I thought you said you WERE a Mormon?!  You said three months ago that you were a ‘devout’ Mormon!”

That actually never happened.  Sometimes my life doesn’t seem very interesting, so I make shit up.

Another reason I haven’t written anything for my semi-weekly column in nine months is that I seem to have trouble getting what I’m writing to go anywhere.  It starts HERE, and then it gets to the middle, which is OVER THERE, and then I’m like, “ehh, I’m going to bed.”  But this is necessary, considering that the only time I ever feel like going to bed is when I’m trying to do something productive.

I’ve made things very hard for myself.

Street credit.

It’s funny:

I knew this girl that I really liked a lot, and she sort of drank a lot.  Anyway, she didn’t like me in the same sort of way necessarily, and I started sort of drinking a lot too, partly because I was confused and sad, and partly, I think, because I thought drinking a lot would give me some fucking street credit!  (She had loads of street credit, you see.)  Anyway, as it turns out, I was talking to her mom some months later, and apparently she had told her mom that she was worried about me, and confused by me, because I had changed, and had started drinking a lot.  She felt disconcerted and dissapointed.  Sometimes a girl likes me because I’m a certain sort of way, and as soon as I realize that she likes me, I make sure to become a different sort of way so that she’ll keep on liking me. Which actually usually makes a lot of sense to me, until she dumps me.

I began that last paragraph by saying, “It’s funny:”  What I meant by that is, “It’s shitty:”

If you thought it was funny, like I said it was going to be, you’re shitty. 

Because I was incorrect in saying, “It’s funny.”  I meant, “Shitty.”

Sometimes I say “shitty” when I mean “funny.”  People can get confused.

“What did you think of the movie, Zach?”

“I thought it was shitty.”

“Really?  I thought it was funny.”

Then there is a pause.  Before I say, “…Yeah.”

I have been accused of being deep and mysterious.  Some of my Acting teachers have said that they can never quite figure out what I am thinking…

Sometimes I like to say, “All I was thinking about…is donuts.”

This actually works to make you seem more deep and mysterious.

Because they think you are joking.

And they think, “Deep-Mysterious kid over there has a sense of humor.”

They are wrong.  I am thinking about donuts.

I am writing this in Microsoft Word, and sometimes when I write an incomplete sentence, like one beginning with the word “Which,” it underlines the sentence in green to tell me that I am writing a fragment sentence.  I understand this, but sometimes I want to argue with the program.  “Yes, it is an incomplete sentence,” I want to say, “but it is ok because it works within the rhythm I am writing in.  So you can un-underline it.  I am doing it on purpose.” 

I know this is sort of ridiculous, wanting to argue with the Word program, but I’m not completely ridiculous.  If it underlines something in red, there is nothing to argue about.  I have conclusively spelled something incorrectly.
 
That doesn’t have anything to do with what I was writing about.     
 

9/5/04

SUMMER MOVIE REVIEWS

Even though I’ve been working on a real tour-de-force of a novel in my free time, I never really write any of it, so I’m going to start writing some movie reviews on here, as to inspire me.

The trouble is that I don’t really have enough money to see any movies anymore, and so I’ll be trying to recall movies that I saw a while ago. And my memory is almost as shitty as my imagination.

The Bourne Supremacy is the sequel to The Bourne Identity, and it is still about Jason Bourne, but in the first twenty minutes of the movie, his wife who is Franka Potente dies, and then in the rest of the movie people are pursuing him, and then there is a car chase. NOTE: IF YOU HAVEN’T ALREADY SEEN THIS MOVIE, AS MY OLDER BROTHER HADN’T WHEN HE READ MY WICKED REVIEW, DO NOT READ THE PREVIOUS REVIEW BECAUSE IT TELLS YOU THAT FRANKA POTENTE DIES. HENCEFORTH I SHALL WARN THE READER IN ADVANCE.

Dogville (SPOILER ALERT) is about a lady who represents a divinity, and I’m told the movie is a scathing critique on American life, and there is also a blind man in the movie who likes to feel the sun on his face, but who also is eventually mean to the woman like everybody else in the town who uses sheltering her as leverage to abuse and misuse her. Then she kills everybody.

Kill Bill Vol 1 and 2 are about Uma Thurman totally kicking ass after recovering from totally getting her ass kicked.

The Passion of the Christ (SPOILER ALERT) is about when Jesus died for our sins. And it is about nothing else. Billy Grahm really liked it, though, and so you should too. Warning for pussies: It’s really violent.

Catwoman is about Halle Berry being sexy but sort of dumb, too. I didn’t see it, but Sharon Stone is in it, although not in the same sort of way she was in Basic Instinct. I don’t really know, though, because I didn’t see that either.

Troy is about Brad Pitt being Achilles and Orlando Bloom being a big pussy in the Illiad, but don’t see it with a bunch of fellow acting students who think acting is a mystical and sacred art, because seeing it with a bunch of fellow acting students who think acting is a mystical and sacred art is shitty.

The Pianist is a moving story about a Polish pianist who survives the Holocaust, but the funniest part about it is giggling when somebody asks you if you want to go see The Pianist.

Holes is a crappy Disney adaptation of a mediocre children’s book about a boy who digs holes and has a great, great, pig-stealing grandfather or something.

Cheaper by the Dozen is based on the book Cheaper by the Dozen, except with Steve Martin and Ashton Kutcher and Hillary Duff. I haven’t seen it, but Hillary Duff is the cutest thing since Madonna.

The Terminal is a really funny movie about Tom Hanks being stuck in an airport with an accent, and it made me feel very happy about life. Until I left the theater, anyway. Also, (SPOILER ALERT) Catherine Zeta Jones is in it as well, and she is very cute, but she was cuter in The Mask of Zorro when Zorro who is really Antonio Banderas cuts her dress straps away while they are swordfighting and flirting at the same time, which only happens in movies, but is still cool.

Secret Window is a movie where Jonny Depp again defies audience expectations, except this time by being in the crappiest movie ever.

Lost in Translation is a movie about how Scarlett Johannsen is really cute.

Dodgeball is a movie about dodgeball, and from what I gathered, that was the joke.

I didn’t see Anchorman because the previews looked crappy, but a couple of people told me that it was pretty good for, “you know, that sort of movie.” Which is good enough for me.

I don’t know what Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind was about, but it is the best movie I’ve ever seen about love, and it made me miss M------- (whose name is a secret because she’d kill me if she knew I was still writing about her) even though I’m not Jim Carrey and didn’t try to have my memories of her erased, and even though Jon Brion didn’t do the soundtrack to my life.

Coffee and Cigarettes is a movie that is about a lot of different people drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, but should have just been about Jack White and Meg White (and Jack Black?) drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes, because I liked that segment the best, even though I also liked some of the other segments as well.

Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban is the best Harry Potter movie yet, although the first one holds a magical quality for me because I saw it before I really knew anything about who Harry Potter is and Ron and Hermione and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, who is Lord Voldemort, and Dumbledor too. I saw the first one on a snowy night with a bunch of people and also with my ex-girlfriend, whose name was Kristen, and she sat on the other side of the aisle than me, and so I wrote her a note that went like this:

“Do you want to sit next to me and hold hands? Yes. No. (Circle one)”
But instead of circling one, she wrote “Hell no.”

The Dreamers is a movie that I think is called The Dreamers, but I’m not sure. Anyway, it’s about an American boy who goes to Paris and lives with a brother and sister and has sex if it is indeed called The Dreamers. I only saw it because it was rated NC-17 and I could. And if you are 17 or older, you should too.

Farenheit 9-11 is a movie that I don’t even want to talk about. Mainly because I haven’t seen it, though.

The Village is a movie about how you’re really fucking stupid if you didn’t learn your lesson with Signs.

Of course, I didn’t see The Village, and I only saw half of Signs because I spent the first half waiting outside for M to show up until she called to say she couldn’t show up, so I could be wrong.
But probably not.

(It should be noted that I thought Signs was really good until somebody told me that it wasn’t supposed to be a comedy.)

Anyway, I can’t think of any more movies to write about, so I’m going to read some more of G.K. Chesterton’s Orthodoxy, or maybe continue in Wuthering Heights before I go to bed. And as I’m going to bed, I’m going to try to be happy instead of very anxious and dead-feeling, and I am going to do this by thinking about how a cup of tea will taste nice in the morning, because I have learned that it is good to take life one step at a time, and drinking a cup of tea in the morning is something which is simple to do and happy, but not in a terrible way. I’m also going to try thinking about Hillary Duff right before I fall asleep, because then maybe I will dream that I am thinking about Hillary Duff.

8/5/04

WHAT I ATE IN NEW YORK

I am supposed to give a personal portrait of a starving actor’s way of life in New York by way of groceries purchased on a weekly basis. And I will, I will, but only, I think, after I sneak in a few notes about the latest book I’ve read.

It is Steppenwolf and it is by a man named Hermann Hesse, except he is German, and so the copy I read, though unabridged, was translated because I didn’t take German in High School, and I spent two years of Spanish not listening because I was trying to land a date with Dave Welsh’s younger sister.

Steppenwolf is a book of depravity, and in a constant and exacting analysis of the individual in an existential world, it is a book that makes a dangerous amount of sense. My regard to the book is that of love, fear, deep respect, and a tremendous amount of self-realization. But joined adulterously with my love for the book is a certain amount of distaste. The book is diseased, and as my general disposition nearly demands that I hold dear such a book, I am therefore diseased too, and should steer clear of anything in the book that made sense, which was the parts from the first page to the last page. In any event, and I am quite set on this, it is a book to be reckoned with, and I am still in this rather harrowing (and undoubtedly disproportionate) process myself.

And I love this book, I do. I want recklessly to sing my praises of it. Indeed, one page had me nearly in tears because in it I recognized myself, and with a stunning clarity that I embraced with a sense of relief. What scared me is that, even as levels and levels (including the one which left me at the brink of happy tears) of a man were discarded as meaningless and of the most deplorable pretension, I continued to recognize myself, and the examination was clinical, indulgent, and full of the deepest self-loathing, in that even I, the reader and removed, loathed the Steppenwolf who loathed himself, and loathed myself with him. But there were a certain few people I know intimately that I could not loathe or reduce, and in a surprising display of nearly recognizable transition, that brings me nicely to my next point, which we will proceed to after I finish grinning like a moron.

It seems to me that a book, even on depravity and disease, ought to be written with a certain amount of generosity—indeed, even at bare an almost unrecognizable amount—to encompass the state of humanity Steppenwolf so deathly and regressively attempted to realize. And while the book is of a terribly important and immediate nature, I cannot help but think of Salinger, who wrote of real life with a beauty and an even flamboyant generosity that almost accidentally expressed the inexpressible. Hesse has instead endeavored to identify, express, and then further to reduce everything, and even as this is the point (and an impressive one), and yet even as it accomplishes in horrific detail and unflinching analysis the wasteland of the human soul and mind that was its purpose to display, it is not as true as it thinks, and perhaps for all of those very reasons that it should be. The brilliant book — and it most assuredly is brilliant — is not unlike one of astounding intellect explaining why a joke is funny: scrutinizing in his investigation, valid in his conclusions, and even ghastly in his implications, but sincerely unfunny.

But just now the words of a well-respected and loved English teacher come back to me, and I can picture his scrawling penmanship at the end of one of my B-work papers, which said, essentially: Z---, you are the king of generalizations. Give specific examples.

And it occurs to me that if one has not read Steppenwolf, they will have absolutely no idea what the hell I’m talking about, to which I say, “Read Steppenwolf,” because, in respectful disregard of that beloved English teacher’s urgings, I don’t like giving specific examples.

Unless they are about food.

The contents of my fridge in New York usually included, and were usually limited to: 2 liters Vanilla Pepsi, 1 jar maraschino cherries, milk, a rapidly disappearing six pack of bottled beer intended for a week’s longevity, 3 boxes sweet cereal (eventually replicate brands from the dollar store), Easy Mac, at one time a pineapple upside-down cake, and the occasional rotisarary chicken with cheese and crackers.

The life of a starving actor, as it were, should not be reduced, however, to this, but I haven’t the time or, God help me, the reader’s forgiveness at the moment to attempt expounding on such a subject. This article so far as been highly unfunny and only entertaining to me, which means that it is what my brother, Mark, and I termed an impractical joke, because you walk away amused and with everybody else highly bemused. It is the funniest kind of joke, but one that by nature ensures that only you will think so.

7/25/04

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN BEING IN NEW YORK AND BEING IN COLORADO

My editor in chief has on my request demanded that instead of writing about whatever I feel like, I instead follow his weekly assignments. In efforts to continue establishing an antagonist, I am now imagining my cousin as the humorless and somewhat, if not rather, rotund lady I had as Newspaper editor in High School. I can’t remember her name, but I can remember the look on her face when I turned in a book review of The Catcher in the Rye that took its time spending most of its time talking about a girl I had a crush on. The review was entitled, “Catch Her in the Rye.”

“What is this?” she said to me the next time we had class. I took the article, and on recognizing it as my book review, read it again because I liked it so much. Then I waited for a few awkward minutes, realized her question wasn’t rhetoric, and helpfully offered, “My book review.”

“It’s doesn’t review the book.”

I didn’t see what that had to do with anything, but since she was threatening not to print it, I gave in and indulged her in the explanation she was pining so unsubtly for.

“It’s more of a tribute to the book,” I explained, explaining then further that anyone who had read the book would see how the article was written in the same literary style as Catcher’s Holden Caulfield.

“But the assignment was a book review,” she exclaimed, and (to my dismay) continued: “How is anyone who hasn’t read The Catcher in the Rye going to know that it’s written in the same style?”
I told her that I didn’t want anybody who hadn’t read Catcher in the Rye reading my articles anyway, and then she said something else that I don’t remember because I had stopped listening to her and was making eyes at the cute sports reporter across the room.

I eventually got her to print it, but I don’t remember how. I do remember that her and I sampled the article to a few other teachers and students in attempts to as objectively as possible ascertain its newsworthiness, and I remember that I had my best friend pose as an objective and random student. I also had my art teacher read it because I secretly knew that she was very esoteric and pretentious.

“It’s too esoteric and pretentious,” she said, and I gave her a look pregnant with disappointment and disillusionment that more or less called her a Judas Priest back-stabbing son of a bitch, which she didn’t see because she was shooting the shit with my Newspaper editor. The next painting I did for my art teacher I didn’t do, because I was busy painting a portrait of the girl I had a crush on instead. My painting teacher grew exasperated with me that semester because although I was good at being consistent, I was consistently turning in paintings that weren’t any good. She was always on this kick that I could be a great artist if I wasn’t so lazy, and I eventually got bored with her sententious speeches and turned in a prize-winning piece. She was initially tentative about giving me seven feet of canvas, but I assured her that, “If you can’t paint good, paint big.” The reason I really wanted to paint such a big piece of merit was so I could secretly entitle it, “If You Think This Is Big, You Should See Ben’s Woo-Hoo.”

That’s true. You should see Ben’s woo-hoo.

That’s not what it was officially titled, though. My teacher thought the title should be more formal and related if she was going to enter it into the art competition, so I wrote a poem about the girl I had a crush on and wrote it down in the entry slip next to the Title space. Next to the Artist space I wrote my name. Then they gave me 100 dollars and a ribbon. My teacher was very happy that she had inspired me to begin living up to my potential, and gave me a big sloppy hug that I returned because I was very inspired at having 100 dollars.

THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN BEING IN NEW YORK AND BEING IN COLORADO
VOLUME II

I have imagined that my editor has left me four scathing diatribes on my message machine about my last article that have, in effect, urged me most violently to stick to subject, buddy, or else. Apparently my editor does not in my imagination appreciate digression, and expects me to write about the topic I am given when I am given a topic to write about. I cannot follow the imaginary logic that I have provided my editor with, but on imaginary threat of termination, I will placate his imaginary demands. Son of a bitch.

I’m on break from New York, where I moved last year to study acting and go crazy, and I will be in Colorado, my hometown, until mid-August, at which time I will visit my brother in England for the two and a half weeks before I return to New York to continue studying acting and going crazy. I cannot even list my brother in England’s name, because if I did, the rest of this would be about him, and my editor would be livid in my imagination. And God knows I don’t need anymore goddam messages from him on my phone, as it’s been hard enough imagining what the last four he didn’t leave said.

The difference between being in New York and being in Colorado is that it is two hours later in New York, which means that if I was in New York I’d have already finished this goddam article.
The other difference is that even though I really love New York City, the goddam town keeps trying to kill me. There was, for instance, the stranger on the street who punched-in my face at nine in the morning and sent me to the hospital, where I listened to the kid in the curtain next to me keep telling the nurse the same joke while I waited for the doctor to look at my bloody mess of a mouth, wearing nothing but a breezy hospital gown.

“Why couldn’t the pirate see the movie,” the kid would say.
“Why,” would reply the nurse.

“Because it was rated Arrrr,” the kid would say and laugh until he just about fell over. Except for the times when he couldn’t get through the punchline because he had started laughing until he about fell over prematurely.

After this routine had happened about three times, the nurse, in response to “Why couldn’t the pirate see the movie,” said flatly, “Because it was rated arrrr?” and left the kid dejected and with nothing to say. Adults don’t have a sense of humor worth shit.

Sometime after that and before my bloody mess of a mouth was looked at, they brought in a young boy to the curtain on my left, where he proceeded to throw up in a very small voice repeatedly for about five minutes, and I sat still feeling about as sad and useless as I ever had.

There was also the Pig that I would draw in my moleskin journal that kept on shooting me in one of the pictures I drew. That son of a bitch Pig was relentless, and even followed me into the emergency room, guns ablaze. In another picture I drew, I was in the background throwing up, while the Pig stood in the foreground, holding an unloaded gun to his head with the (empty) promise of dramatically shooting himself. I was the one in real trouble, but the Pig got all of the press, which is the way it works with me and the Pig. Whenever I draw us at a bar, he is the one surrounded with platinum blondes with silicone breasts and devious breath. He’s a pretty charismatic son of bitch, the Pig.

One time at acting school, we had to put on the physical attributes of an animal in movement class. Don’t ask me why, because I didn’t ask my teacher, so I don’t know. Anyway, I decided to put on the physical attributes of the Pig that I sometimes drew in my moleskin, who was a pistol-shooting, tequila-drinking lady’s man. If you think I wasn’t going crazy in New York, you’re crazy. I’m not even crazy enough to think that I wasn’t going crazy. I had it on good information that I was going crazy because I had a long argument about it with myself and lost.

I quit acting at least once a week in acting school. I would show up in class and turn around to look at Mike.

“Mike,” I would say.

“What?”

“I quit.”

“Quit what? Life?”

“No, acting.”

“Why?”

“I’m no good.”

“Don’t quit.”

“Too late,” I would say, and then go up on stage and perform my scene. If the teacher said I did badly, I would sit down with a knowing smile at Mike. If the teacher said I did well, I would wait around till the next week to quit.

The difference between being in New York and being here is that I won’t have anything to habitually quite until I return to New York, although I’ve been doing a decent job of not meeting my editor’s imaginary deadlines.

5/10/04

I have acquired a somewhat flamboyant habit of walking the streets of the city with a worn copy of a Salinger novel in my hip pocket, which gets me nowhere with my critics, and nowhere yet with cute intellectual girls. Maybe there aren’t any in New York. But happily ignoring (after laboriously noting) any appearance of pretense, I have a deep affection for his writing, and I generally like to keep one of his books close to my heart, or, as it were, close to my butt. And although I must contend that this is the primary reason for my habit, it does have an aesthetic quality that I’m (less apologetically than one might think, for which I profusely apologize) exceedingly partial towards, and it should, in theory, be a terrific conversation starter as well.

“Catcher in the Rye?”

“Franny and Zooey, actually.”

“Oh, I love that one. Let’s make-out.”

As opposed to:

“Nice weather, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“Um…”

Carrying around a worn novel in one’s hip pocket is multifaceted in its uses, because if a cute intellectual girl who will notice and want to make-out with you isn’t around—or if she actually wants to talk about it—at least you have something to read. And Salinger is just one author, with only three printed novels and one collection of short stories. There are many other books and authors. But don’t carry around a Tom Clancy novel unless you want to make-out with forty year old men with frequent flier cards.

Ha ha ha. I made a goddam joke.

One time I was out in L.A with my dad, visiting my cousin.

Anyway, it was Valentine’s Day and my cousin, Rian—who had brought along a rose in case one of our unmarried party, that is to say, him or I, stumbled into the particular sort of girl who was sitting prettily sans rose—was taking us to see Jon Brion at Largo, an event, as I remember my older brother more or less relaying to me, usually reserved for defining the century. Needless to say, it was with a very pleasant and quiet grin that, sipping a diffident under-aged coke—complete with a somewhat ostentatiously under-aged maraschino cherry—that I sat with my dad and Rian at the mahogany (I’m almost sure) bar, our boys-night-out forearms resting in splendid fashion across the counter, absently keeping time to the beautiful music with our own rhythmic trigger fingers. And an hour or so before that (which, if everything goes according to plan, should aim me back towards the distant, but ever looming, point of this rather loquacious paragraph) it was with a great anticipation and heightened awareness that we waited in line. And it was there where, smoking a cigarette in the warm L.A. evening, I observed the mystifying, albeit suspiciously familiar, mating dance of geeks. A noticeably cute girl approached this really dorky looking guy who was reading The Great Gatsby, and it was then that they entered, to the almost complete—and, it seemed to me, rather inconsiderate—neglect of their surroundings, into an oversexed discourse on authors and books, with him making witty remarks and with her batting her dewy eyes all over the goddam place. I took this fairly in stride and lit a begrudging cigarette, stewing and puffing, yet still tipping my hat of recognition in a silent, “Congratulations, old boy.”

As far as I can discern, or rather, as I would bitterly like to assume, the two lovebirds talked all throughout the show (or worse, silently and respectively appreciated the hell out of it), then retired to her place for a night of highballs and uninhibited love-making, academic only in that the depravity assuredly took place on a pile of strewn classics, with irritatingly referential cries of orgasmic pleasure, and afterwards nestling up to each other in the post-coitus position limited to literature majors—I’m convinced that there is such a position, and I fear the only thing excluding me from knowing it intimately—and these are surely only pedantic technicalities—is my lack of both any major and love-making. It is precariously only by my refusal to take showers on a daily basis that I resist joining the ranks.

The really horrible thing about the whole event is how (I’m fairly convinced) the morning-after conversation went.

“Was it good for you?”

“It was arguably the best sex I ever had.”

“Is that your copy of Portrait of an Artist as a Young Man or mine?”

It has become apparent to me, and with no small amount of confusion, that I seem to have inadvertently changed my stance on this whole thing. I started this out to advocate carrying around a good book, but I’ve yet again derailed into a bitter diatribe about happy couples with rewarding sex lives. Which might be more unnerving if it didn’t happen all of the time.

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