Ooh! Ooh! I almost forgot to tell you all! Tomorrow is MUSEUM DAY! Yes, you can download the card from the following website and gain admittance for FREE to a museum in your city!
http://www.smithsonianmagazine.com/museumday/articles/what-is.php
Sadly, this only applies to American museums and not museums in American Territories such as Canada, North Dakota or iRaq.
If you don't love museums, then I hate you.
man, my new haircut is soooo short.
inner peanut gallery: HOW SHORT IS IT?
shut up.
I mean, if i don't have big hair, what do i have?
inner peanut gallery: YOUR HEALTH?
HAHHAHAHAHAA
inner peanut gallery: DO YOU KNOW THERE'S A MAN IN TEXAS NAMED CRAIG LISZT?
just leave me alone.
c:/deep.end.exe
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Like when I used to relate tales of firefighting derring-do, back when the most exciting time of my day rhymed with swoon. Hours before a dream where I returned to my high school with new found coolness, only to realize that the smiles were scowls, and the re--------,* in fact resentment. I stopped talking of anything that might make me seem better than I am (except when it comes to the profound jealousy I feel in competing for affection).
* * *
Like when I sat very, very close, and she reached for the cream, in a tiny china ewer, and I noticed the lines in her arms marked a decade of gardening, and I knew that I was going to continue to make eye contact until it was returned, irrespective of our age difference, and then turn away when she realized what I meant.
* * *
Like when I realized that my most favoritest (mostest) misspelled word is becasue, because it evokes a backwards country girl with multicolored ribbons in her long, brown hair.
* * *
Anyway. It’s like when I drove past an accident today, and I noticed the big red engine pull in right behind the police cruiser, and the driver of the engine was smiling, and then I smiled, because I KNEW why he was smiling and no one else did, and nothing is funnier than an inside joke, even when you have nobody to share it with, though a few of you know what it’s like to carry someone in your heart to the extent that you are never truly alone, and every joke is shared. He was smiling because the police and firefighters carry on a sort of unwritten competition, and while the cops have guns, they can’t use them on firefighters, and the firefighters have bigger vehicles and they use them with impunity. A blue canary, I believe, is what we used to call it, trapping the police inside an accident scene with our tenders and ambulances so that they had to ask us to move, and we always did, but sometimes we were slow about it. And I never really got the hang of this maneuver, because fuck if I know why I want to humiliate a cop.
Like, once, a cop came to our station when it was broken into, and walking on the broken shards, he pulled out a forensics kit and started powdering dust on what glass remained, one like those camel-hair brushes that were popular in 1988 when retro shaving was the big to-do, and you could actually see the fingerprints. And I asked him, “Do you really think this will help you catch the guy?,” and he answered, “I dunno. I’ve never done this before,” and I could practically hear the wolves chasing the elk through the Garry Oak savannah, how far away from civilization we lived, and then I wondered how many times I must have stumbled drunk into this fire station, my handprints all over the goddamned building and phone, and imagined myself deported to Syria, giving up all my knowledge to help with the war on terror, but confused as to just how many Al-Qaeda we might capture using lyrics from Journey and REO Speedwagon.
* * *
It’s just like that.
*obscure word of the day.
Amidst a brilliant IM session with the girls, the phone rang.
/cue the ducks
“Is this the owner of the web site One Child Left Behind?”
“Why, yes. Yes it is.”
“My name is Simon, and I was looking at your web site. Did you create this?”
“Yes. Yes, I did.”
“It is very interesting. Anyway, we are a leading SEO conglomerate that can help you increase the traffic to your web site.”
“Awesome. But I don’t want people to come to my web site. I have too many people already.”
“…”
“Seriously.”
“Your web site is very interesting. Do you not want to increase revenue?”
“Mostly I talk about malt liquor.”
“…”
“Uh, but if I have friends who have businesses, I’ll let them know about your site.” WTF
“Exactly.” WTdoubleF!
Still, my word is my bond, so I want to let you know about a great SEO business that somehow came across my phone number and called me IN MY HOME. The name of the company is: www.asisbiz.com.
/WHAT’S THAT NUMBER AGAIN?
The name of the company is ASISBIZ.COM.
/THANKS
And right now they have a sale on some great domain names, including:
www.4youreyesonly.net
www.ilostmyfuckingphone2.com
www.fuckyoutony.info
www.ivolvu.com
www.toastyfeet.biz
www.wearewatching.us
www.swordofmelody.net
www.wecancyou.us
www.wheremyfuckingphone.com
Hopefully, you think I’m making this up.
/mantra
I have such grand designs in the morning, and chip away at these aims throughout the day until by bedtime my remaining aspiration is limited to words that rhyme with weeping.
Any of the following executive desk toys would serve as suitable replacements for my ambition:
Newton’s Cradle – It doesn’t matter how high you lift the first ball bearing, eventually that crashing pendulum starts conserving more energy than it’s willing to spend.
Dippy Bird – There’s one sitting on my windowsill in front of a cup so long empty of water that a faint ring of oxidized minerals permanently lines the demarcation between half-empty and half-full.
Pin Art – My original happy face imprint has for the most part sunk almost entirely back into emotional equilibrium. What remains gives the slightest impression of ennui, which for me manifests almost solely by a nearly inconspicuous lift and curl of my left upper lip.
I cannot help but think that if I were to rearrange my daily routine, that is, to start each morning with no lofty expectations and end each night on the cusp of magnificent dreams, I might save a great sum of money once spent on tchotchke and kitsch.
On a day when ‘that special someone’ was stricken from my lexicon, I wouldn’t have thought I’d be betrayed by my $1,000 consort. But she failed me, and now my children have another in a growing list of expensive former gadgets-cum-toys.
My digital SLR, after three years of faithful service, has gone blind.
In a series of events reminiscent of Mary losing her sight in Little House on the Prairie, I sat by helplessly as my Canon, known fondly in my household as ‘Trust Fund,’ rapidly deteriorated. At first, the symptoms were mild, but annoying. The Automatic Focus function stopped FUNCTIONING with my 300 mm. Shortly thereafter, the AF failed to move even the factory 18-55 mm.
By the time we returned home from Victoria, even Manual Focus ceased to exist as a meaningful concept.
In an ironic twist of fate, my iPod Nano, incapable of holding a charge for more than 18 seconds at a time since the first week I got it, decided now would be the right time to go to work. Perhaps it was jealousy? I have made it clear that if my senses were children, I would gladly sacrifice hearing for sight, and as much as Apple has endeavored to endear its product to the nation’s family of consumers, compared to a digital canon, an iPod is little more than a 17-year-old foster kid who spends his first week in your home selling your grandmother’s jewelry for malt liquor and cloves.
Still, it’s not like I’m completely ungrateful.
Remember when the two dogs, worth approximately two grand in 1999 dollars, in Where the Red Fern Grows die horrible deaths only to be replaced by a five buck (in 1929 dollars) plant? And this is somehow enough to ease everyone’s suffering? Well that’s a close enough analogy, I suppose, to my $1,000 camera dying, replaced by a $150 mp3 player that I got for free.
And as the following images reveal, a blind $1,000 camera still sees better than a $4 disposable 35mm.
BARELY.
A sunflower. Clearly. Or an ovary. SAME DIFFERENCE.
A view of my backyard. At noon.
We live in the PAC NW, so obviously the occasional black bear will wander into our yard.
My son. Relaxing as he is wont to do on the divan.
My mother-in-law, a pensive moment, dreaming of the homeland, no doubt.
Alex. Wearing a veil for some reason. Clearly, she's taking the death of the Canon as hard as anyone.
Me. In one of the few self-portraits I actually like.
Today was MOTIVATIONAL SPEAKER DAY and employees partout slouched in their seats, perfect props for a 1970s commercial where an oversized vegetable pops in through a magical cloud of smoke convincing them of the restorative powers of breakfast cereal.
Having hired these easily excitable Stephen Douglasi in the past, I maintain a 7-year immunity to their wile and charm, but easily fall victim to their analogies and puns, high fives and dreadfully inappropriate belly bumps. ‘Raise not the roof,’ he says, to a smattering of applause, ‘without first elevating yourself,’ to a bit of perplexity. And then hesitant applause. I look at those clapping hands and see the extinguishing fires of their erstwhile passion, and think, ‘Go on now. Stamp it out.’ In the final throes, these will be the people whose entire Wednesday flashes in front of them. ‘It was spiritual. Noon to 4:30 flashed before my eyes,’ says those revived by lackadaisical CPR. Pre-cordial thumps, for the most part.
It was suddenly then that I realized I have a sort of 6th sense, an ability to see the ridiculousness of any situation, and while everyone around me stood and applauded, I applauded, too, but I was applauding MYSELF, and for a brief moment it seemed that I could see cartoon dialogue bubbles form above each person’s head, and in each caption I read, ‘THIS ONE’S FOR YOU, DUCKLET.’ And then I shed a tear for all the children who would never grow up to be ME. Because, surely it must be disappointing. I cannot be motivated.
My talent lies in shutting down, just when things look promising, stemming the rose of achievement well ahead of the emerging blossom, and sometimes flat out leaving the roots to dry too long in the burlap sack, but then planting the skeletal remains. “It looks like a sculpture,” I said once. “We should have it lacquered, so that it will last.”
And never bloom, I might have added.
A year later, I have a full can of Minwax sitting in the garage. Several, if you want to be nitpicky.
“When life hands you lemons,” he begins, but by then my eyes are glazed over, my head filled with a vivid memory of what I had for lunch.
FILE UNDER: BAD GUY NAMING CONVENTIONS or WHY THE PRESIDENT OF IRAN WILL NEVER REALLY BE CONSIDERED A THREAT SO LONG AS WE AMERICANS CANNOT PRONOUNCE HIS NAME
Brandon: Y’all, we really gotta do something about the President of Iran. He’s a serious bad-ass.
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #1: Really, what’s his name?
Brandon: Uh, Mahmoud Ahma-- Ahmadi-- uh, Ah--
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #2: You know who’s really bad-ass? Lenin!
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #1: Oh yeah, Lenin is bad-ASS! And you know who else? Hitler!
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #2: DAMN STRAIGHT! But you know who is REALLY bad-ass? CASTRO!
Brandon: ahma-- ahmaba-- jamma--jabba--
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #1: Word. And Stalin? BAD-ass.
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #2: HO CHI MINH.
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #1 and ANONYMOUS FRIEND #2 in unison: SADDAM, MOTHERFUCKER!
Brandon: jimma--jibba--
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #2:What about Kim Jong Il?
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #1: Meh. But Pol Pot? BAD-ASS.
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #2:Idi Amin.
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #1: Do you even know who he is?
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #2: I know he’s Bad-Ass.
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #1: Yeah, well EVERYONE knows THAT.
Brandon: Jibba Jabba.
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #2: Jibba Jabba?
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #1: Who’s Jibba Jabba?
Brandon: President of Iran. Duh.
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #2: Oh, Jibba Jabba’s a BAD-ASS!
ANONYMOUS FRIEND #1: DOWN WITH JIBBA JABBA!
Brandon: That’s what I’m sayin.
You are all very clever people, and I am sorry for being such a bad blog friend. I never comment on your sites anymore. Between vacation and work and side projects and something else I can’t remember,* I have taken you all for granted. But taking you for granted is just further evidence that I love you. Cause that’s how love works. If you think otherwise, you are wrong.
But to show that there’s no hard feelings, I would like to offer you sexual relations. Cause that’s how I roll. Yes, I would like us to relate. It’s not too late. To procreate. To generate. To otherwise gesticulate. And if you’re so inclined, perhaps even to fellate. DON’T BE TOOTHY, MATE.
Only, we can’t do it HERE. No, that would be bad, because as my URL points out, this is a children’s site.
Let’s do it here, instead. Come now. You know you want to. You don’t have to take your clothes off to have a good time, oh no.** We can dance and party all night. And drink some cherry wine.***
*Oh, children. Yes, I forgot that I have children. Two boys****, I think.
** You totally have to take your clothes off.
*** Tequila.
****A boy and a girl.
I can’t help but sometimes feel like the substitute, the bottle of saccharin when what she wants is sugar, and I catch a reflection of myself in her eyes when she holds something she can’t have. It’s a look not to be missed, and afterwards I can tell myself that the compliments are a worthy substitute for validation. She asked me once if I was still sleeping, me walking on the way back from the bathroom at 5 in the morning, and I joked, “Yes. Look at me. Sleeping and walking at the same time. Ambisomnolent. Even now, the consummate multitasker,” but by then she was fast a-dreaming, likely in the arms of someone she can’t have, missing out on my subtle humor, difficult to grasp in that final hour of pitch-black morning. Such ripe grounds for those tip-of-your-tongue word combinations that have fueled entire nightstand notebook industries.
She’s sleeping, and I can move close to her and try to remember if this is how she smelled years ago, but really, so many senses are wasted on first meetings and introductions. Occasionally, we’ll make contact and it’s like falling from terrific heights along the walls of a seaside canyon, knowing you have wings, but not prepared to open them until the last moment, and if that moment doesn’t come until you’re hopelessly close to crashing into the surf, then so what. Fuck it.
I had a teacher once try to tell the class how to write this. She said, "Never mention the thing. Allude to it. See it in front of you. Hear its whisper in your thoughts. Feel its warmth along the hidden curves of your neck. But ignore it on the page." The next week, all the students wrote stories about their first experiences smoking pot. The teacher rolled her eyes. But she never said, "YOU KNUCKLEHEADS AREN’T LISTENING." Because, well, that would have been mentioning the thing.
Every now and then I dream that I’m writing in that notebook next to my pillow, and it’s good enough and well-enough alone, most likely. And she’ll ask, "Who’s that?", and I’ll answer, "I didn’t say anything," and she’ll move ever so slightly away, towards the canyon’s edge, ready to leave her wings quivered, but reply, "Oh," knowing full well, but not mentioning the thing. And I can’t tell if this thing is forgiveness, enabling or some combination thereof as of yet undiscovered by social scientists. And in the morning I forget to write down those thoughts I imagined so enlightening, and only vaguely recall an image of me diving over the edge after her, knowing that I’ll watch her disappear beneath the waves before I’m even close. Fuck it.
Every great journey seems to end up somehow back at STARTING POINT A, and not, as you might expect, 10,000 miles away from your parents’ home with an alias and a minor criminal record. And so it was that we decided to adhere to Canadian law and board the boat that took us to happier times, times so pleasant in fact that I’m still unconvinced that we were not somehow transported to the 1940s, when America was building its Trojan Horse, the one argument and excuse that has since ended every subsequent debate for rationality.
I swear to fucking god, if I hear one more person use WWII as Contentions 1 through 3 in an Affirmative Constructive, I will employ a Sharp Object in my Cross-X. WWII is no more an excuse for current U.S. foreign policy than it is for my decision to purchase Danzka Vodka over Skyy.
Or is it?
Surprisingly, employing reductio ad absurdum applies equally to the typical family vacation.
Alex: Oh my god, are you buying vodka?
Brandon: When we were attacked 5 years ago, the terrorists assaulted what? The center of US commerce, right? If I don’t continue to spend money, then Hitler wins!
Alex: Hitler?!? Fine, but you don’t have to buy booze! The children wouldn’t mind some potato chips!
Brandon: Hitler was a vegetarian!
Remarkably, I used the Nazi argument to win several points whilst in Canada. Of course, when Naya developed diaper rash on the penultimate day of our trip, I tossed aside all my previous credibility.
/cue the ducks
Alex: Wal Mart? I thought you were against supporting the corporate greed and cheap foreign goods that ‘we’ fought so hard against at Pearl Harbor?
Brandon: YOU FORGET THE JAPANESE INTERNMENT CAMPS, COMMIE!
Alex: Nazi war crimes?
Brandon: UNFAIR PROSECUTION OF INNOCENT GERMAN IMMIGRANTS!
Alex: Liberation of persecuted minorities?
Brandon: SEGREGATION OF BLACK SOLDIERS!
Alex: We’ve been walking all day! We’ll settle for free salsa and chips at Café Mexico!
Brandon: DROPPING ATOMIC BOMBS ON CIVILIANS!
Needless to say, I wasn’t always the most popular person in Canada, even amongst my ‘loved ones.’ And at this point, I would have gladly purchased mustard seed from Saddam frickin Hussein if I thought it might ease my daughter’s suffering. Sorry. Much.
* * *
It was a good trip, though, and I don’t care what you say, no story is worth telling unless it’s interrupted by a great, big emotional meltdown, precipitated by familial turmoil and resolved in heartwarming affection and reconciliation (I’M STILL WAITING, BUT STILL).
I guess what I’m trying to say is that the older I get, the more I realize the following:
1. Canadians aren’t as nice as I remembered from my childhood (apparently they’re just as likely to blare their horns at you for turning down the barrel end of a one-way street as any ugly American).
2. Booze overseas isn’t any tastier or more potent that booze at home.
3. Your loved ones are just as likely to betray your trust when you’re away as when you’re in earshot.
4. This applies to you, as well.
5. I’m a bit selfish.
6. I’m sorry for the things I say.
7. I have yet to figure things out.
8. Getting upset over the purchase of a $100 pair of sweats carries less weight when the cost of an individual Churchill Martini exceeds $10 and you drunkenly reply, ‘BUT YOU CAN’T HAVE JUST ONE.’
9. Unless you physically abuse your children, they will be remarkably candid about how “STUPID THIS WHOLE THING IS.”
10. That maturation and occasional periods of hating yourself/wanting to die are not mutually exclusive.
WHO DOESN’T LIKE A LIST?
* * *
Since this is already getting long, I’ll stop short now, upload some photos to Flickr, and post PART II tomorrow.
But first, I’ve been tagged by Romy with a MEME (YES, MEMES STILL COME HERE TO DIE).
1. One book that changed your life: No book has changed my life. But I’m holding out hope.
2. One book that you’ve read more than once: The English Patient. And I peruse it weekly.
3.One book you’d want on a desert island: Any standard college-ruled composition book. Sadly, and self-centeredly, I’ve reached a stage of my life where I would rather write than read. No offense to the multitudes of fine authors out there. But no one has ever written EXACTLY what I’m thinking. And that’s what I need at this point.
4. One book that made you laugh: Ain’t no book funnier than the first Calvin and Hobbes collection. If you think otherwise, you are wrong.
5. One book that made you cry: I cried the first time I read Catcher in the Rye because it was so bad, and I was angry I was forced to read it and it was stupid and overrated.
6. One book that you wish you had written: Catcher in the Rye
7. One book that you wish had never been written: Burning books ain’t my style.
8. One book you’re currently reading: Fun Home, A Family Tragicomic, by Alison Bechdel
9. One book you’ve been meaning to read: The Great Gatsby. I’ve read it. But I need a refresher. It’s all about the company you keep.
10. Now tag five people: Ha! I don’t normally tag people, but here goes: Arianna Huffington, Zach Braff, Dave Berry, Mahmoud Ahmadinejad and Neil Gaiman. Am I bold, or what?
So, i'm not posting this week (THIS TOTALLY DOESN'T COUNT), and I only have a few moments before the wife and kids realize that I'm not actually suffering from ACUTE ONSET HERPES ITCH and the reason I'm jabbing myself in the genitals with a stylus is to get in a quick post.
BUT, I would not be able to enjoy my vacation were I not able to express how thrilled I was to be interviewed by Leah, recently. It should be up on her site tomorrow morning. It's up! Thanks, Leah!
It's hard to imagine another blogger/author with more respect among the blogosphere than Leah, which is why I almost regret my following answer to one of her questions:
My wife would say I’m a great solution when the only answer is cock.
Like I said, almost regret.
Check out Leah for the rest of the one-on-one. And check out her other interviews, including some with a few favorites here.
Adventures in Away. We are off to create black and white memories of our idyllic lives, doing it for the children, in fact THINKING of the children and ONLY the children for more hours than there are in a day, seeing how long we can spend with them trapped in a hotel room before slipping with a string of pent up FUCKY POO BITCHES followed by a tearful ‘I’M SO SORRY, WEE ONES’ and a glance over at the spouse with a scornful ‘HOW COULD YOU,’ all the while thinking, ‘SAY IT AGAIN! ONE FOR ME!’
Everyone knows there are two sublime moments that mark any vacation: that instance two weeks ahead of the actual journey when everyone is imagining how possibly wonderful an 8-hour drive, 2-hour ferry ride and 4-days worth of asking annoyed Canadians if anyone speaky english, and then, years later, looking at a photo of yourself in front of a sign that reads WELCOME TO CANADA: YOU CAN GO HOME NOW, holding two children’s heads in the parental equivalent of a half-nelson and you laugh and laugh and are suddenly silent, wondering if injecting the johnnie walker with a syringe is any faster, unaware that the closest thing you have is a turkey baster. That’s because you realize you are looking at the pictures alone, naked, in a furniture-less studio. The year is 2027. You don’t remember where it all went wrong.
But there’s hope for this vacation, because Canada isn’t Disneyland or Disneyworld or even the Fun Acre Mini-Golf Sinclair Dinosaur, it’s CANADA, MOTHERFUCKER, and having been to all the provinces (BUT NOT THE TERRITORIES! DON’T ASK ME ABOUT THE GODDAMNED TERRITORIES!) I can tell you that the hope is justified, because the only one who can screw up this vacation is me.
And I would never do that.
Me: Can I bring my computer?
MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY: NO!
Me: But what about Mapquest? We’ll need Mapquest!
MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY: THE HOTEL HAS A MAP!
Me: But what about the Canadian-English Dictionary? How will we communicate? What if I have to ask for a water closet?
MEMBERS OF THE FAMILY: STOP IT JUST STOP IT!
This is my away message, therefore, and while my PDA will fit into my undergarments, there’s no guarantee that I will find a free wi-fi zone in Canada with enough privacy so that I can type entire blog posts while poking at my groin area with a stylus. Not good posts, anyway. Nothing of this quality, that’s for certain.
The Canadians have a saying, “The devil places a pillow for a drunken man to fall upon.” Loosely translated, it means this: LAY OFF THE BOOZE. And I can understand this way of country-speak, because lately I’ve been haunted with dreams of another woman, wherein we have relations, and not the good kind of relations, not like international relations, but BAD relations, like contextual relations, and at one point, her roommate enters into the dream and is just watching us, and not in a good way. But in a way that is anything but good.
And the young lady with whom I’m relating says, ‘GAH. THIS IS SO HUMILIATING.’ But then I explain that I, too am embarrassed, only I’m not embarrassed for US, I’m embarrassed for her roommate, because, I mean, WHO JUST STANDS THERE AND WATCHES? And it totally works, because the next morning we start relating again. And yes, her roommate comes in and watches.
Finding a hotel room with a couch and a separate entrance was surprisingly difficult.
Please look at her pretty pictures.
Please read her pretty, pretty words.
Please promise him you’ll show him the girls if he comes to Portland for TequilaConPACNW07.
Please go here if you are interested in the my morning web routine. (a dialogue box will appear on the right side. click the arrows to browse.)
Please feel free to ask me anything you ever wanted to ask.
Although I regularly BEG for abuse, occasionally someone actually hits the mark, and YESTERDAY WAS NO EXCUSE, and it helped me realize that, indeed, as much as I write, I rarely cover the fascinating everyday musings that would serve to form a connection with (air quotes) COMMON PEOPLE. So this morning, I pledged to do better, and here are a few pedestrian activities in which I engaged:
1. Listened to (air quotes) popular music, such as Robbie Williams
2. Abstained from drinking rum with breakfast
3. SAID FUCK YOU, VOICES
The following description of this EVERYDAY MUSING, in fact, will be littered with (air quotes) colloquial phrases that I looked up on URBAN DICTIONARY and attempted to use. The colloquialisms are marked by asterisks, so you will know when I was attempting to stop living inside my head and be AN ORDINARY JOE.*
(For the record, YES, I’m being facetious when I mention Robbie Williams, but goddamn if Angels isn’t a good tune. It is. Don’t be a hater.*)
As soon as I got in the car, I was determined to keep it real,* which meant I needed to keep my eyesacks* peeled. Don’t want to get served,* I muttered. So imagine my OMG* ya mean* as every ride skank* sat pie holed*…
Okay, this is dumb.
Right.
Anyway, on the ride to work, I noticed that no fewer than two cars passed me whose drivers wore huge grins, and yes, I do live inside my head, and it wasn’t until I got to the parking lot, my throat ACHING, that I realized they must have noticed my Bon Jovi-esque rendition of Wham’s Careless Whisper.
The thing is, I was totally screaming the lyrics ON LOOP for at least 20 minutes. For the record, I bonjovied* the fuck out of that song. It was perhaps my greatest moment as a human being. And that’s saying a lot, because I count reproduction among my many accomplishments.
As I was saying,* I had big plans, and one of those was channeling all this creativity into something productive. So I recalled a lunch with a friend in which I declared, “I’M PLANNING ON WRITING A SITCOM.”
My reasons:1
1. i know nothing about television writing
2. i have a poor eye for everyday details that seem to make people laugh
3. i don't have enough work to do, bills to pay or mouths to feed (5)
4. i don't watch television
5. i attempt to make people dislike me and the things i say
THIS SHOULDN’T BE TOO HARD
Unfortunately, my idea didn’t seem to make sense with my date, and that idea included a setting at a small zoo, whose antagonist, a clever, HOTSEXY, intellectual type with a troubled past tried to make sense of the insanity around him. THE ANIMALS ARE MERELY SYMBOLISM, YOU SEE. He’s the only one who’s sane.
(Seriously! Is that not a sweet sell? How many of you have gone to work in the morning and thought, “AM I THE ONLY SANE PERSON IN THE VICINITY!?!)
Each episode opens with the protagonist at a urinal. All you can see is the back of his head. And with the opening credits, a second gentleman assumes the position at the nearest urinal, and says something exotic, like maybe a few verses from an obscure poem or an EVERYDAY IRONIC TRUTH. And the protagonist merely stands there in silence, like OH MY FUCKING GOD WHY DO STRANGE MEN TALK TO ME IN MY MOMENT OF URINARY ZEN? But as the show gets bigger, the strange urinator is played by a growing cast of B-list celebrities, like Anthony Michael Hall or Emilio Estevez (YES I FINALLY WATCHED BREAKFAST CLUB, GODDAMNIT).
Okay, for example’s sake, here’s a scene:
Protagonist, urinating.
Special guest star, Judd Nelson, sidles up to him and begins to urinate: So you’re the head zoologist, I hear?
Protagonist (IT’S ME, PEOPLE): /says nothing
JUDD: I hear one of your Anoas has a tumor?
Protagonist: /shakes, uncomfortably
JUDD: I have this theory that cancer is nothing more than a math problem. What if we could just convince the cells to divide, instead of multiply?
Protagonist: That makes no sense. Cancer cells actually multiply by division.
JUDD, sarcastically: Most of your friends are animals, I take it?
AUDIENCE LAUGHTRACK
Protagonist: The ducks don’t care for me. Apparently, I’m too dry.
AND SCENE
And so ended my brief sitcom/EVERYDAY MUSINGS writing career.
On what may be a related note, not one single automatic door opened for me today. BAD SIGN I THINK.
Besides, while I don’t have a muse, I most certainly have an INTERNAL LIFE COACH, and he was never supportive of my efforts:
Me: Well, he’s a zoologist.
INTERNAL LIFE COACH: Yes, but is he quirky? The networks want quirky!
Me: He’s a fruitarian?
INTERNAL LIFE COACH: QUIRKIER!
Me: He’s a synesthete?
INTERNAL LIFE COACH: IT NEEDS TO BE QUIRKIER!
Me: He carves tagua nuts into the shapes of animals he loves and leaves them underneath the coffee table of the co-tagonist, a woman with whom he is madly in love but who is unavailable because…
INTERNAL LIFE COACH: YES? UNAVAILABLE BECAUSE…?
Me: Because she’s married to the mayor?
INTERNAL LIFE COACH: DROP AND GIVE ME 20!
On the way home, after a full day of trying to absorb the ordinary things that most people notice, I found myself at a stop light in Tacoma. Not too terribly far away, a young man was trying to push a 442 up a fairly steep incline. He was then joined by another man. And then another. Before I pulled through the stoplight, no fewer than 5 men were exhibiting their manhood by pushing against, I don’t know, 3,500 pounds of steel and inefficient 70s carburetor technology, and it reminded me of when you’d roll into the station, the bell would ring, an attendant would show up, start your pump on leaded gas, wipe the windshield and lift the hood, and you’d wonder, “Why is she crying? And will this be the town we can finally call home?” and other such nonsense. You had to hold tight to the seat, because the vinyl would burn right through you if allowed too much sunlight to reach the surface.
As a child, one of the most difficult doses of reality ever rammed down my throat was that the people we love are not only temporal, but easily replaced by approximate look alikes. Step back with me a moment in time (I CAN DO THAT HERE). It’s a tiny house in Central Texas. My pre-pubescent erection is in the READY TO LAUNCH position. That old familiar ad for Ivory Soap airs (OH I CAN FEEL IT), and then the camera wipes to a star-filter shot of a candle in a darkened room, a bath tub faintly visible in the background (IS THAT A WOMAN’S CALF BEING LATHERED UP? HOLDITHOLDITHOLDIT…)
When, suddenly, an announcer’s voice interrupts the daily dream, “The role of Jill Foster Abbott will be played today by Jess Walton.”
OMFG WTF
FAST FORWARD TWO DECADES
Dan turned in his wings today. He lost his edge.
Pfft. I can fill in for Dan. At least a day, anyway….
NEW YORK CITY
NONDESCRIPT OFFICE BUILDING
Anyways, I’m waiting for the elevator, in between my lunch break and mid-afternoon jaunt to a casting party for Law and Order: THE MOVIE, when I decide to call the girlfriend and move to Canada, because I once hit on a French waitress who held a side-gig as a Sears Portrait Photographer, when some homeless man sidles up beside me and asks me my opinion on the state of public breastfeeding.
Because I’m usually bored at work from the time I arrive (10:30) until my lunch break (11:20), I know enough about breastfeeding to recite an uproar first reported on My Yahoo!.
“At least we’re not penguins,” I say.
To which the homeless man replies, “Come again?”
“Because, you know, penguin males actually produce milk for their offspring.”
The man, who suddenly sounds like Morgan Freeman, says, “I agree. The love between the male emperor penguins, abandoned by the women, is a model for the new society.”
To which I reply, “No, I mean can you imagine the uproar if kids had to get their nourishment from your cock? Demi Moore naked on the cover of Vanity Fair would be pretty mild in comparison.”
It was the first time I ever made a homeless man vomit without the benefit of a Jagerbomb.
I think I’ve finally gotten the hang of this town.
I'm not much of a sycophant, which is a shame, because people deserve compliments, no matter how insincere. Which is why I always had such a hard time with praise from my first official soul mate, because her good intentions hardly trumped my distorted reality. That, and the fact that our ill-timed meeting could only best be described as a blessing in disguise, but disguised, nevertheless, as a hateful, bloody vendetta.
Fortunately, this was years ago, and in the time since I’ve learned that all she needed to hear from me was that I believed she was lovely and wild and backed into a corner far, far too soon. And how nice we would have been together, an affirmation of that counterintuitive truth that dreams actually get bigger as you get older and wiser. The young and naïve just don’t have the vocabulary to imagine horizonless vistas.
Unfortunately, I never actually told her.
Instead, I tried to describe, scrawled onto a cocktail napkin, the experience of her on my body, stuck in the same room with her, eight conference hours at a stretch, hands above the table, eyes on the prize. The closest I came was remembering a night on the lake, mosquitoes so engorged on our limbs that they were forced to walk back to whencever they might have come.
Back in my room, I scratched the bite, and for an impossibly brief moment, immediately following the lifting of my fingernail, and immediately before the return of the itch, I recognized that sensation. That. That perfectly wonderful feeling of satisfaction and relief, invisibly masked in dread. Bottle that moment, add to it a faint scent of jasmine, then bind it to a fixative of ambergris, spread it over your collarbone, dab your wrists and lie down beneath a slowly rotating ceiling fan with an hour’s light remaining, and right before you fall asleep, that will always be her name to me.
