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September 03, 2008
set up
Allie was telling me about her new co-worker. I did what I always do during her work stories: I politely, if not convincingly, feigned interest. "Here, I'll send you a picture of her," said Allie strangely.
Ooooookay. She did. The co-worker is really cute.
"She's really cute," I observed.
"Yeah, and she's like twenty-three," Allie replied, satisfied that I'd once again been caught trolling elementary schools.
posted by john at 08:58 AM • solamente
September 02, 2008
vi supreme moment in whiteness award: kate mcalpine
posted by john at 12:16 AM • solamente
September 01, 2008
happy breakup day
It started as a coincidence. When I broke up with Steph, it was my second Labor Day breakup in a row. Then it became three. And then last year, I set a secret Labor Day deadline when it came to my waiting for Sarah.
Labor Day has become my dumping day. But why? The traditional end of summer? School being back in session? A salute to trade unions? Allowing her a third day for listing my faults?
It could be any of those things, I suppose. But as I watched Ohio State's football opener Saturday, I wondered if my heart simply doesn't belong to another.
posted by john at 09:09 AM • solamente
August 29, 2008
really, cnn?
Today's headline: "McCain taps Palin"
posted by john at 09:44 PM • solamente
August 28, 2008
chris rock
Last night, during Chris Rock's savagely funny "No Apologies" concert, I watched him talk at length about black women. To a 99% pasty white Seattle audience. He laughed, they laughed, but it just felt...off.
The tone for the evening was set when we entered the theatre and the man behind me was told that he couldn't bring his Chai tea inside. Yeah, I bet that's uttered at every Chris Rock show.
posted by john at 09:16 AM • solamente
August 27, 2008
i cried because i had no shoes until...
I have a lump on my neck that feels like a bloody golf ball. This would be an ingrown hair, right where I edge my beard. I swear, there's an entire ball of twine in there. I can't seem to do a thing with it, so to the web I went. And suddenly, I feel like a complete whiner.
posted by john at 02:21 AM • solamente
August 26, 2008
exhausted!
And with that, gentle reader, I have exhausted all the Sarah stories in my post-idea queue. Even though I started sketching that one out before the breakup, I put off writing it because...well, look at it. It's long. But today's the six-month anniversary of "it is what it is," so I figured it was now or never.
And thus does Poor Sarah join the others in the annals of Stank history. To commemorate her unique status, I gave Poor Sarah her own category.
And because I'll get this question 100 more times today, here's why I dated her.
posted by john at 10:45 AM • solamente
the sarah users' guide
The first time I ever noticed Poor Sarah lying to me, my dog had just died. Sarah was planning a weekend roadtrip with an acquaintance, and for the first and last time in our relationship, I asked for something for myself: please stay here. I didn't want to be alone all weekend in my Edless house. Sarah argued with me about the dubious merits of the acquaintance and the trip, and I became concerned that I rated so lowly the one time I needed her. After a good 45 minutes of this, she bitterly blurted out "Well, just so you know, I already canceled the trip for you."
Even though I'd gotten my way, this revelation wasn't particularly welcome. It was an obvious falsehood, a way of winning the argument by any means necessary. It was seminal for me. It was the first time I'd ever known Sarah was lying to me. It sadly wouldn't be the last. In the months that followed, I developed an elaborate taxonomy of Sarah's lies. So here they are, in chronological order:
Faux a machina
The above. Introducing fabricated evidence just to win the argument.
Strategic omission
Telling the truth with certain elements conspicuously omitted. Like gender pronouns.
Example: "So I went to this physical therapist friend of Dawn's. The physical therapist made my back feel a bit better."
Red herring
Responding to suspicion by offering a sizzling distraction.
Example: When I later hear about her going out with Dawn and Dawn's friend Rich, I say "Jesus Christ, your friends are already introducing you to guys?"
"No, no. In fact...I think Dawn and Rich might be fucking! And she's married!"
Containment
Telling everyone a different, tightly controlled version of events.
Example: Everyone in her life thought my role was different. Dawn, for example.
Definition
Discrediting detractors
Example: after a previous affair dared to send her a Happy Birthday email, he was denounced as "crazy," "psycho," and "scary."
Overexplanation
Offering details not asked about and not natural to the conversation, as a means of dispensing disinformation
Example: "So the other day, Rich, who I consider a new friend, said..."
Censorship
An abrupt loss of access to information
Example: Sarah made her myspace private and ignored my repeated requests that she add me as a "friend." Suspicious, I waited until she was at my house, put my laptop on her lap, and said "Please add me."
Offense
Acting outraged when you're cornered.
Example: Sarah flew into a rage, shoving the laptop away. I pointed out that we had a trust issue abrewing. She was offended by that, too.
Ad hominem
Deflection via personal attack
Example: "Frankly, it's a little creepy that someone your age wants to see people's myspaces."
Self-beatification
Claiming unwarranted character
Example: "Right, because I lie all the time!"
Sanitization
Trying to win the argument by altering the evidence
Example: She went home and later called me, saying that she'd added me. A few days later on her myspace, Rich posted that he loves her.
Victimization
Making my suspicion and not her lying the offense.
Example: "It really hurts me that you think I'm lying."
Glittering generality
Not having an argument, resorting to meaningless cliche
Example: she's dumping me. We both know why, but she's of course unable to say it. "It is what it is," she repeatedly says.
Stonewalling
Rather than give this post more entries, the liar refuses to say anything
Example: three hours of silence during my breakup call
Unoffense
The liar isn't offended by what an innocent would be offended by
Example: "Is this about Rich?" I asked.
"No," she replied, with a curious lack of offense at the charge.
Ennoblement
Spinning a lie into something noble
Example: "What's next for you?" I asked.
"I'm going to be alone for four years!" Sarah eagerly injected.
Elimination
Banishing witnesses
Example: The moment I asked about Rich, she went from "Can we please please please still be friends?" to "I never thought I'd say this, but I can't have you in my life."
Delegation
Having friends reinforce your lies
Example: When I told her friend about my Rich suspicions, well into Sarah's overt relationship with Rich, the friend replied "Oh, I don't agree. In fact, I think he and Dawn are doing it!"
Revision
Well after the fact, flipping the blame script
Example: Two months into her relationship with Rich, Sarah showed up and informed me that she'd dumped me because she was ashamed of me.
A lot of that going around.
posted by john at 08:55 AM • solamente
August 25, 2008
the dumbest generation
Did anyone else notice that during the post-event interviews of Olympic medalists, the American athletes sounded unfathomably inarticulate compared to their peers from around the world?
As soon as a microphone was shoved into a Yank's face, my thoughts returned to what I thought when my mom tried to be "cool" around my friends: please don't say anything please don't say anything please don't say anything shut up shut up shut up shut up.
posted by john at 11:26 AM • solamente
nothing could be finer than to give yourself a shiner
A two-bedroom, three-bath house is an odd duck. I have no space for stuff, yet no matter where I am, I can urinate without having to walk more than five feet. My master bathroom is never used, so it's where I keep my printer and the extra freezer. No amount of my explaining that the toilet next to the freezer is never used will wipe the look off guests' faces. Yes, that's the look, right there.
My master bedroom got off easy. I merely put the treadmill in there. And when I'm done working out, I place two dumbbells on the bed. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew this was probably a bad idea that would catch up with me. It did Friday night, when I hopped into bed, eye socket first. Pow. Ow.
The eye will heal. The stupidity? It's chronic.
posted by john at 08:05 AM • solamente
August 21, 2008
trying men
Not counting work, I spend some 95% of my time with women. This is no accident, as I've historically found that women make 95% more sense than men.
But this identification wanes. After all, it's not guys who are thrashing around in my Burmese liar traps. After all, I've never watched with disgust as a man shamelessly comparison-shops women. I'm sure that men indulge in these things, but in my experience, they're uniquely female undertakings.
And thus do I hang out more with Dirt Glazowski.
"Look at how clean that city is," he says of Beijing on TV.
Yeah. I know. But it got better.
"We could learn a lot from the Chinese. Someone there causes problems, and WHAM! the gummint beats them down. No more problem."
Later on he switches to his favorite show, called MANswers. The first segment shows you how to dig a bullet out of your own body. This is a useful skill, if you're a felon. Or maybe if you're trapped on a desert island and happen to shoot yourself in the arm. Being neither, I would personally rather a doctor or even a plumber perform this procedure. Meanwhile, the show's next segment tells you how to get a "Happy Ending" in a reputable massage parlor.
"John, party of one," called a restaurant's maître d' later that evening.
posted by john at 07:38 AM • solamente
August 19, 2008
i stand corrected
Dorkass points out that there's easily a worse fomite than the doorknob on a strip club entrance: the doorknob on the strip club exit.
posted by john at 05:21 PM • solamente
fomites
"Does anyone know what a fomite is?" my boss asked his room full of new teachers. No one did. "It's an inanimate object that transmits disease from one person to another. Like students' homework. Moral: don't eat Cheetos while grading your students papers."
History would prove him absolutely right. The causality soon became clear. Cheetos = death by fomite.
I thought about fomites when I was in Vegas. God only knows where these people's hands had been. I wondered if there's a more toxic fomite in the world than a Vegas slot machine. Perhaps the doorknob on a strip club entrance.
posted by john at 07:15 AM • solamente
August 18, 2008
olympic spoilers
I've pretty much given up watching the Olympics; have you? Between the time difference with Beijing, the time difference with New York, and the time difference between when an event occurs and when it actually airs, my margin of error for turning on the TV at the correct time is is +/- 2 days. And a half-day before my event airs, I accidentally read the results online.
Click.
posted by john at 08:43 AM • solamente
August 16, 2008
death valley
The temp hit a very dry 90 (gasp!) in Seattle yesterday, and today's paper is abuzz with cautions. Check on your elderly neighbors! Drink lots of fluids! And above all else, "Strenuous exercise is to be avoided during the heat of the day!"
For all my complaints, I don't know if Southern, Midwestern, Southwestern and Eastern readers fully appreciate what a bunch of mewing pussies these Seatards really are. Maybe this will help.
And now if you'll excuse me, I'm going for a hike. I hear it's a good day for it.
posted by john at 10:00 AM • solamente
August 15, 2008
racing
I got exactly the general election I wished for a year ago. Obama and McCain were the politicians I trusted most in their respective parties, and even though both looked like sure nomination losers at the time, I rooted for them. That I've made it to mid-August 2008 without losing complete faith in their integrity is unprecedented.
Much is written about race in this election, but seldom is it thoughtful. It's more of a reactive media frenzy whenever so-and-so accuses so-and-so of playing the "race card." Media blood sport ensues. I don't find it particularly constructive.
I'm disappointed in both candidates along these lines. For Obama to say that McCain points out how "Obama doesn't look like all the presidents on the dollar bills" is a curiously destructive lie from someone who ostensibly promotes unity and occupies higher moral ground. He learned his lesson well in the primaries. How very Bubba of him.
My bigger disappointment, however, is with McCain. In whoring for his base, he's passed up a historic opportunity to repudiate racists from that base. The GOP's tradition of pandering to those cretins is why even conservative minorities reflexively distrust the party.
It's nice that McCain says he hopes "people will look past skin color when voting," but that's like McDonald's saying "We hope you'll consider all the health ramifications before you down that super-sized fries." In my view, McCain has a unique opportunity to evict bigots and their policies from America's only conservative tent, or at least to give them notice.
"If you're just voting against a black man, I don't want your vote," he could say. "I would rather lose, frankly, than be your candidate. You are no longer welcome in my party. The days of our giving your kind sanctuary are over." And then prove it in the platform. He doesn't have to pander, but a less categorical opposition to, say, affirmative action would go a long way toward healing old wounds.
Would it cost him the election? Yeah, probably. But he'd be a historic loser, a Gore instead of a Kerry. And that's a win.
posted by john at 08:55 AM • solamente
August 14, 2008
fancy girl
Dorkass is, of course, an Amazon and a jock. She thinks nothing of knocking her boss on his ass or of ridiculing his manhood. My testicular fortitude will be mocked just for my having said that.
"You baby. Wah."
Last week she suggested that we eat apple pie on her back patio. A garden snake appeared, and suddenly, quite unexpectedly, Dorkass found her inner sorority girl. Her voice went up an octave as she levitated through the back door. "CAN YOU KILL IT?"
I looked at the snake. He looked at me. We looked at Dorkass. I wondered how someone so often accused of having no use for a penis ended up with this gig.
"How about I just toss him over the fenc—"
"HOW 'BOUT YOU JUST KILL IT!!!" she said, now levitating a foot off the kitchen floor.
I did my duty, and Dorkass bravely came outside to tell me not to leave the corpse just lying there.
posted by john at 06:09 AM • solamente
August 13, 2008
i stand corrected
Last week I said "If there's anything more satisfying than finding a deer eating your roses and shooting him in the ass with a pellet gun, I don't know what it is."
Longtime Stank troll Sean replied "That would probably be #2 on my Most Satisfying list. No. 1... finding a cat in mid-squat, taking a shit in your Lantana and Mexican Sage, and shooting him in the ass with a pellet gun, your heart swelling with joy and laughter at the sight of him sprinting away, howling, with a half-inch of turd protruding from his butthole."
Yep. These are my readers.
posted by john at 06:26 AM • solamente
August 12, 2008
no honor among hookers
In Vegas, I was fruitlessly searching for a stud poker game when my internal clock went off. The Steelers were about to kick off their first preseason game. I ducked into the casino's sports book, where I found a half dozen Steelers fans assembled in front of a large screen TV. One of us brought a Terrible Towel. God, we're pathetic.
Nearby was a man around 80, and he sat in a wheelchair with an oxygen tank mounted on it. He didn't move or interact with us. I couldn't even tell what he was watching. He seemed five minutes from death, tops. And then a really ugly woman pulled a chair up next to him and started giggling, holding his hand and stroking his hair. In short, she was behaving like a really ugly hooker might.
When she suggested that he really wanted to buy her a drink and then, without acknowledgment, got up to get herself that drink, I walked over to the guy. He looked terrified. "Do you want me to make her go away?" I said. And then he wheezed the only word he would all night.
"Please."
When the hooker returned, I told her he wasn't interested. She put her arm around him and said that was nonsense. I got more assertive. So did she. I accused her of scamming a guy who couldn't defend himself. Soon, she was spewing insults my direction, the gist of which were that my fat ass should mind its business and not her own.
"Speaking of fat, do you know what the difference is between you and me?" I said. "My prodigious gut isn't hanging out for everyone to see."
And then she slapped me. While I walked toward the pit boss, she grabbed her stuff and fled. And then I sat down and promptly saw Charlie Batch break his collarbone. Thanks for the solid, god.
Still, it's hard to complain. I got slapped by a Vegas hooker for free.
posted by john at 07:08 AM • solamente
August 11, 2008
two vegaii
Whenever I travel to Vegas with a girlfriend, we stay at one of the nicer casinos. We dine at lovely four- and five-star restaurants. We see Cirque. En route, our cabbie will suggest a show we've never heard of, and invariably he will be proven right.
Hitting Vegas by myself (or partially by myself, as was the case this weekend) is an entirely different experience. I stayed at a motel where the bedspread actually crunched. Where when I checked in, I was surrounded by guys with skull tattoos that were seemingly self-applied, and when I checked out at 5am Sunday, I was surrounded by their really, really ugly hookers. We waited for cabs together. In my motel, the maid makes smoking rooms into non-smoking rooms by simply flipping over the ashtry to expose a "no smoking" decal.
There's something to be said about pricing certain elements out. And I said it plenty this weekend.
Meanwhile, the same cabbie who would charm my girlfriend (into, say, seeing a show or going to the Graceland Chapel to get married) is now a bona fide pimp. Seeing a man by himself, he fishes for a business card atop his visor. "I know a girl..."
posted by john at 06:49 AM • solamente
August 08, 2008
negative reinforcement
If there's anything more satisfying than finding a deer eating your roses and shooting him in the ass with a pellet gun, I don't know what it is.
posted by john at 07:41 AM • solamente
August 07, 2008
smokestacks
Reader response to my post about lying has run the predictable gamut, from where do you find these people? to the dubious I don't associate with liars, so I wouldn't know. I humbly suggest, sir, that you're just not very good at spotting 'em.
Stank troll Marta, among others, points out the ethical implications of checking out stories one does not believe. This is indisputable. It's crossing a line. Also indisputable is that I have never crossed the line in error. The few times that ludicrous explanations have reached such critical mass that I decided to look deeper, I found exactly what I was looking for. It doesn't feel good to prove someone you love a liar. It's devastating. It's utterly heartbreaking. But the years afterward do tend to be remarkably free of self-doubt.
posted by john at 06:49 AM • solamente
August 06, 2008
dating lesbian models
That heading ought to get me some hits.
I only date models. Just ask them.
Drill deeper, and you'll find that at 20, the manager of the local Bon Marche hired them to wear Bon Marche clothes in the Bon Marche while keeping an eye out for shoplifters. In the fourth grade, they were in a photo in a store's Sunday flyer. At 19, some photographer took their money and created a modeling portfolio. In high school, they were pictured in a charity calendar.
These are all real stories from my dating life. And what they have in common is being introduced with the clause "Back when I was a model..."
That this is needy is obvious, but needy of what? Of me thinking that they were once worthy of being objectified? It's not like men value the job title "model." Only the most superficial women do. It's like tiny feet. Men simply don't care. That's what certain other women value, not what we value. Stop it, already.
The latter day version of this is "back when I was a lesbian." Or back when they experimented. Attention, women born after 1974: having once been caught up in this particular fashion makes you no more unique or exotic than women your age who have a tattoo above their cracks.
Which is to say, all of you.
posted by john at 07:56 AM • solamente
August 05, 2008
spy earlier
"Never violate a trust you want to keep."
- John's third law
This has been a pretty lousy year. Certainly the lousiest in modern times. It started with my dog, Ed, dying a year ago next week, and then things got unpleasant. The reasons are several, but if I had to narrow it down to one theme, it would be that this thought prevails: "Gosh, that sounded an awful lot like a lie."
People lie all the time. I do too.
"I'm fine," I tell the cashier.
"What a lovely vase. That really makes the room," I tell the new acquaintance in lieu of projectile vomiting in said vase.
"So-and-so is really producing," I tell management.
These aren't the sort of lies I'm talking about. These are part of the background noise of living in polite society. I don't look for 'em, and I don't notice 'em. But when a loved one starts monkeying with pronouns and timelines, I notice. When their overexplanations puree credibility, I notice that too. Mostly, I notice that my intelligence is being insulted.
What do you do in those situations? My philosophy has always been self-elimination. Take Poor Sarah. I noticed her evasions about Rich well into last year. Smoke and fire, as the saying goes, tend to have a 1:1 correlation. And there was smoke aplenty, most of it being channeled directly through my sphincter. But I didn't try to catch her in the lies. I was still trying to make it work, and I don't see any kind of relationship surviving the breach of trust it would take to catch her. So even though I thought she was lying to me, and even though history proved that hypothesis correct, I let events take their course. I gave her my trust, daring her to be worthy of it. I let her self-eliminate. Sensible, no?
Then how come I still feel like a sucker?
When the end came with Sarah, it came abruptly and after several intensely wonderful weeks. She offered no explanation beyond "It is what it is," and I was desperate to get my head around the swift turn of events. Only one explanation fit the facts, and several awful hours into the conversation, I finally asked about it. "Is this about Rich?"
"No." Silence. Painful, suspicious silence. I tried to encourage her to come clean for once in her life.
"Because it would make it a lot easier on me if it were," I said.
"Really?"
"Yes. Because it would make a modicum of sense."
Silence.
And thus did Sarah opt to throw me into a torturous, sleepless, two-month spiral of doubt and second-guessing. A simple sentence would have spared me, but she'd rather protect her rep, I guess, than another human being's psyche. And when I finally broke down, violated her trust and confirmed what I already knew, it was like a switch was thrown inside me. Pain, gone. Click.
Thanks heaps, Sarah. Thanks for working so hard to deny me this peace of mind.
That's what I really hold against her. I'd always kinda expected her to cheat. Appearances notwithstanding, that's clearly who she is. But I didn't expect her to sacrifice my mental well-being just to protect her image. Criminal selfishness, that.
Now healed, I cynically wonder about the implications for my future. Is the lesson here "spy earlier?" Does verifying stories equate to relationship death, as I've always assumed, or can it actually be a constructive means of affirming character? And most of all, where's the line between honoring a trust you want to keep and being a trusting fool?
posted by john at 01:47 AM • solamente
August 04, 2008
seattle times
Last week I was working from home when a woman identifying herself as my neighbor brought by a pie. Had I known her, I would have gushed with gratitude and devoured it. But since I'd never before laid eyes on her, I gushed with gratitude and chucked the pie into the trash as soon as she left. I enrage way too many geriatric motorists to be eating their unsolicited mystery pies.
But it was nice. Except for Percy, I seldom interact with anyone in my neighborhood. "Maybe people aren't such complete shits after all," I thought.
Later that day, I went to a low-rent grocery store. A stranger, a 35ish guy tattooed from his fingertips to his armpits, smiled at me. I smiled back. You have to understand, for a midwesterner in the Seattle area, this is a moment of nearly religious significance. And then the guy grabbed my forearm.
"Hey, brother, how are you today? Brother, it's really humiliating, but I blew my valve gasket in the parking lot and would really appreciate it if you can lend a hand and this isn't a scam because you can see my family waiting for me out there (I craned my head, but I saw no family) and I need to buy oil but oil is six bucks and I can't walk home from here and brother, this is really humiliating, but I was wondering..."
It went on for about five minutes and 18 "brothers," but you get the drift. Something about white guys calling me "brother" really bugs me.
"All you need is six bucks?" I said. At that point, I would have paid $1200 to make him go away.
Two days later, another neighbor knocked on my door. He introduced himself, said we'd met once. (Not unlikely. I never remember people. It stems from my not caring about them.) He clarified that it was his wife who had brought by the pie, and oh, by the way, would I mind if they used my beach stairs in perpetuity?
posted by john at 01:41 PM • solamente
August 01, 2008
parent of the year
Everything you need to know about my buddy Dirt, in 105 words and a picture. The other night, he called to say that Kiki had left him with the kid for the evening. In the time it took him to open a bottle of '77, I was on his deck smoking a cigar and gnawing on a spare rib. We talked about football, of course (he's a Vikings fan who can taste Favre right now), and after a couple hours went by, I wondered about the kid. I ducked inside to check on her. This is what I found. Note the rib in her hand.
posted by john at 12:08 AM • solamente
July 31, 2008
where credit is due
You know that money I owe you? That book I borrowed and never gave back?
No. You don't. Unless your name is Frank, who I owe a pizza, I don't owe you one goddamned thing.
The barbecue debacle 10 days ago got me thinking about how much money I accidentally spend on friends. It usually goes like this. We'll make plans. To facilitate things, I'll offer to pay for the groceries or tickets or whatever. They'll promise to pay me back. And then it never comes up again.
In most cases, it's honestly forgotten. Indeed, the more I thought about it, the more I realized it's my own fault for offering. So I'm going to knock that off. Shortly after the BBQ, I sent out reminder e-mails. So far I've collected five books, three DVDs, a chainsaw, and $1150 from seven different people. Today I received the record-holder returnee: my "Best of War" CD, lent in 1997.
Another guy owed me $480 for two years. He sees me all the time, yet I had to be a dick about it. Did he apologize for my having to ask him, two years later, to repay? Was he sheepish? Nope. Actually, he's pouting. Apparently it was a gift.
posted by john at 03:46 AM • solamente
July 30, 2008
sarahndipity
I just had one of the most delicious, evil laughs of my life.
I was rummaging through my cookbooks when a plastic sleeve fell out. It didn't take me long to recognize the writing on the cards within. All of the instances of "your" instead of "you're" were a dead giveaway. These were Poor Sarah's. I lunged into the sleeve, hoping that the one recipe I want above all others is in there. Alas.
But if you want her cherry chocolate torte recipe, it's all yours.
Also included was a printed-out email. It was from her grandparents and dated a couple years ago.
All points bulletin....This just in...No, that wasn't where I laughed.Sometimes events in our lives turn out to be a bit more special than could realistically be hoped for. Saturday, August 9th turned out to be one of those days that make the downside of life all worth the struggle.
Sarah Nicole, our first granddaughter and glowing survivor of a recent bout with teenage-ism...
...became Mrs. Name Withheld. The bride is now 23, is an art student...There's the laugh. Maybe she took a class at the nearby community college, but by that measure, I'm a Ph.D. in Physics.
...and is one happy lady.The email goes on about the wedding day and concludes with
It's safe to suppose, [sic] that no one present will forget that day and the good feelings associated with it. Especially Mr. and Mrs. Name Withheld and the (at least) 3 guys in 3.5 years with which she will cheat on him.I might have added that last part.
The big laugh came where, you ask? At the To line, where I found the names and email addresses of all of Sarah's relatives. Big laugh. Poor Sarah. What a thoughtful present! Really, it's a fair exchange for the gifts she said she'd return and found reason not to.
"John! Use your powers only for good!" said Carol of my news.
"Fuck that noise. Test your powers!" said Dirt.
"Seriously, how does stuff like this always fall in your lap?" said Allie.
posted by john at 05:45 PM • solamente
July 29, 2008
the seinfeld chronicles
During that glorious period of my life when I was mooching off my girlfriend, Maddie, there were inglorious bouts with something I've come to derisively call "employment."
One such lapse was my working as a chauffeur. The job was mostly nerve-wracking, as the general motoring public tends to go "Oh look! A limo!" and lurch toward the object of their focus. One might think I met a lot of celebrities, but for the most part I met frat boys who puked in the car and young newlyweds who forgot to tip.
There were two exceptions. I spent the longest day of my life with Miss Ohio, who, it turns out, is endlessly victimized by her own beauty. And then there was the gig for which I volunteered.
Maddie and I were huge stand-up comedy fans. We recorded Carson and Letterman every night, then watched them the next night over dinner. Among our favorite comics was one Jerry Seinfeld, who, low and behold, was playing Columbus that weekend. I asked for the job. No one contested. No one knew who he was.
And thus did I spend my weekend with Jerry Seinfeld, trying in vain to lug his luggage (he refused) and open his door (ditto). Instead, we talked. I broke the ice while hurtling down the interstate. I told him my girlfriend and I had caught his act for years. "She thinks you're really cute," I growled and hit the door locks. "Kinda ironic, don't you think?"
We talked about traveling, about relationships, about celebrity. Mostly, we talked about stand-up. I caught his act twice, and afterward he grilled me about what worked and what didn't. I was amazed by how seriously he analyzed the comedic craft, with a stranger no less. You'd expect there to have been more joy in it, that maybe he would tell me about the sister or girlfriend who inspired his "cotton balls" routine. But no. He was a pleasant, serious professional.
He told me about the pilot he was making for NBC, but he clearly didn't expect much to come from it. It would be called "The Seinfeld Chronicles," and it would answer the question he's asked most often: "where do you get the ideas for your jokes?" The show would, of course, go on to lose both this premise and two words from its title.
Afterward I bragged endlessly to Maddie, who wanted to throttle me, and to friends, who had no idea who this guy was. In 1996, when I reconnected with one such friend, I reminded her of the time she was unimpressed with my celebrity weekend. She remembered, rolling her eyes a bit.
"That was Jerry Seinfeld," I said.
She plotzed.
18 months later, my ex-boss, the owner of the limo company, called me.
"DID YOU SEE WHAT SEINFELD IS ABOUT THIS WEEK?" he said. No, I hadn't. "The entire episode takes place in a limo! I wonder if you'll be in it?"
I wasn't. But I'll tell you this much: that was among the the longest six days of my life. Miss Ohio had nothing on Seinfeld.
posted by john at 07:52 AM • solamente
July 28, 2008
the return of marge
I took the Jeep in for repairs, which meant the return of creepy-ass shuttle driver Marge into my life. When I called and arranged a shuttle, it had never occurred to me that Marge would still be alive and walking the streets. And then her van pulled down my driveway.
"Oh. Right. Shit."
We weren't out of Metamuville before Marge was railing about her cheatin' ex-husband. I didn't ask which one. You never ask a psychopath an open-ended question like that. She then rambled about her therapy sessions. I'd never before been so thankful to hear someone discuss the details of their therapy. Lest I be too relieved, her program includes hypnosis.
With about five miles to go and no end to the hypnosis thing in sight, I started to tune out. But Marge reeled me back in with perhaps the smartest idea I've heard in years. She's going to have her hypnotist convince her subconscious that she likes exercise.
I am so doing this.
"You will enjoy the treadmill. The treadmill is no longer the worst part of your day, but the best," he'll tell me.
"You will enjoy the treadmill. Every step you take on the treadmill is you wacking one of your ex-husbands," he'll tell Marge.
Best idea ever. Finally, a use for psychopaths.
posted by john at 06:38 AM • solamente
July 27, 2008
batmen and robbin'
Mere days after I posted about keeping a baseball bat next to my bed, people I've met used their own. Go bat go!
Yep. Now I'm gonna be buried next to my bat.
posted by john at 09:35 AM • solamente
July 25, 2008
reader mail
My mail this week fell into four categories:
- Whole Foods does suck ass. This king wears no clothes.
- Are you available for catering my party?
- Why on earth did you date Poor Sarah, again?
- Here's what you do with your arm while spooning.
Exactly three women suggested that my "other" arm be stowed under the woman's neck. I'm not sure if my female readers have Bluto necks or if their men simply have Olive Oyl arms, but in either case, this solution ain't working for me.
posted by john at 07:05 AM • solamente
July 24, 2008
sarah's six guys
This story has been in my queue for a long time, and I'm giddy that I finally get to tell it. Yes, even when I'm crazy in love with a girl, I still jot down the awful stuff so that I might post it here after she's gone. Ever the optimist.
For our first romantic getaway, Poor Sarah and I went to San Francisco. I went all out. I planned the trip meticulously. When we got off the plane, a limo would be waiting for us. From the limo we would enjoy a driving tour of the city, then it would drop us off at a top French restaurant, where her favorite flowers would be waiting on our table. When we got to our hotel, it would be nestled next to her favorite store in the world. I couldn't wait for the plan to unfold.
During the two hour flight toward romance, we exchanged many stories. Mine covered the gamut, but hers, at first seemingly random, had a common theme.
- There was the time a drunken guy was hitting on her so much that a stewardess felt sorry for her and moved her to another seat.
- Oh, that reminds her: she's noticed a lot more guys checking her out lately. Isn't that odd?
- One time she pretended to be a Steven Seagal groupie and he propositioned her.
- There was a discussion among the Port Gamble folks the other night in which it was determined that Sarah's body was ideal.
Onward the plane flew. By the time she got around to her ex with the enormous "porn star dick" that hurt her so, so much, I was mentally tabulating how much this romantic getaway was costing me. Sarah isn't normally one to go on about her own attractiveness. She at least feigns modesty. But on this flight, in perhaps the worst moment possible, she suddenly did. And man, did it ever put me in a romantic mood.
The next day, we went to the Bone Room, a specialty store where you can buy, among other things, animal and human bones. I was aware of the proprietor leering at Sarah while we were in there, but this happened a lot, so I paid it little mind. Then he asked me to leave because of the Velamint in my mouth. Rolling my eyes, I went outside. I was bored anyway. A few minutes later, Sarah emerged.
"He offered me a job!" she beamed.
"I'll bet he did," I snarled.
A huge fight ensued. I don't remember much, but I remember I was her persecutor. "You don't think I could get the job offer based on my qualifications, and that hurts me," wailed the high school graduate cum housecleaner waitress.
I wish I always had the capacity for mental math that I do in such moments.
posted by john at 05:54 PM • solamente
July 23, 2008
legacies
Perhaps it's a flaw in my psyche, perhaps in the y chromosome, perhaps in the human genome. When a woman I like portrays herself as the faultless victim of other men's expectations and behavior, I buy her bullshit narrative completely. Tell me more, sweetie. He did what? Long after the cracks in her stories have become canyons, when things sour between us, only then does it occur to me that I will join that very same pantheon of infamous men. Of course I will. Why wouldn't I?
Knowing my bogus legacy so well drives me mad.
Girl A ridiculed her ex for crying when she dumped him, and I too mocked his manhood. Then I cried when she dumped me, and my place in history, I suspect, is quite secure. And deservedly so.
Girl B? The guys she cheated on were porn addicts or rage-a-holics who were this close (you can't see, but it's really close) to being physically abusive toward her. And then she cheated on me, I left, and I too was reviled as "scary."
Girl C was always used for sex by guys, then thrown away. She liked me because I was different. I would change her life. So what did she say after I dumped her for being a chronic imbecile? I have a guess.
Girl D cheats on guys because of their deep emotional problems. And now I wonder which of my pathologies caused her to cheat on me.
And on and on. I'm by no means a model human, but I do tend toward treating women with respect. It would be swell to get some return on that particular investment, but I'm not holding my breath.
They say the cardinal sin in a job interview is to bad-mouth your former employer. Your interviewers will rightly see themselves as future objects of your scorn. This makes sense. I never do it, and when I'm interviewing candidates, red-flags pop up when they do.
Would that this foresight extended to all parts of my life.
posted by john at 12:59 AM • solamente
July 22, 2008
you'll really like them
Two great mysteries vex me.
1) What is a guy supposed to do with his extra arm while spooning? His choices are to lie on it, which lasts about 4 minutes until the embolism occurs, or to contort it awkwardly over his head, thereby wrenching it out of its socket. Both are painful. Guys, any solutions? Amputation is on the table.
2) How did Whole Foods ever earn its halo? I've never had a meal originally purchased there that wasn't conspicuous in its utter flavorlessness. The Louisiana Hot Sausage tasted exactly like the bangers I bought for the kids, which is to say, like Indianapolis tap water. The meat sucks. The produce sucks. The choices of staples suck. And the people who shop there are plastic, pretentious, tasteless, soulless fucks who suck.
You ain’t artsier than me
'Cause you only read books, don’t watch tv.
You ain't artsier than me
'Cause you shop at Whole Foods
In open-toed shoes
- "Artsy" by eDIT with the Grouch
"My neighbors are coming," Kelly told me. "They're a hoot. You'll really like them."
Why do people promise me this? I hate everyone.
I didn't pay attention to their names during the introductions, so let's call them Ken and Barbie. While I prepped bland food in the kitchen, they and our hosts stood on the deck and drank wine. At one point I expressed hope that Whole Foods would come through, for once, and you would have thought I'd insulted Barbie's messiah. "I LOVE WHOLE FOODS WHAT'S WRONG WITH WHOLE FOODS?" I told her that the food sucks. She concluded that yes, she could see why I wouldn't want to go there. "Yes, they're very expensive."
It was officially time to pay attention to Barbie. She's your prototypical eastside kept woman, with her freakishly unnatural yellow hair, Versace capris (!), and yes, open toed shoes. At Whole Foods, I had just been bumped into, without acknowledgment, by a dozen of her self-centered ilk. I know Barbie.
After meditating on my single status for everyone's amusement, she moved on to dogs. In that among the options I'm considering is getting a purebred dog, I am the devil. "There are so many puppies available for adoption, we'll be sure to find you one," she said. "Don't get a purebred. That's irresponsible and I could never do that when the world has so—"
I was then I stopped listening. I have this speech memorized. As this stranger shoved food that I'd purchased and prepared for her into her cry-hole, I reflected that she's a living metaphor. She actually bit that hand that was in the process of feeding her.
If you're cool with me, then I'll look past the void in you.
- Same song
posted by john at 07:46 AM • solamente
July 21, 2008
gratitude
Two weeks ago, my co-worker Kelly had a family emergency that required that she fly off immediately. This left her husband in a stressful situation where he was watching their two kids, one of whom is autistic and requires undivided attention, while trying to work from home. Kelly was freaking out and asked me to take him beer and verify that the kids were alive. It seemed kinda invasive and insulting, but I did. I embarked on a 5 hour round-trip to their house with $120 in groceries and alcohol.
Two days ago, to thank me for that effort, Kelly invited me for dinner. "We're grill challenged," she said. "Can you cook?" Um, sure. I'll stop and pick up stuff en route. And thus did I buy another $85 in groceries and courier it five hours to their house.
Where I spent the evening cooking for my hosts. And their neighbors. While they talked and drank in another room. And at the end of the day, I was lauded for all my expense and effort. Lauded. As in not compensated.
To summarize, my thank you for driving five hours and buying them $120 in groceries was to drive 5 hours with $85 more in groceries and refine said groceries into a meal for them and their neighbors. I suppose I should be grateful that I didn't have to clean up.
Lauded.
"Please," I said. "I can't afford any more of your gratitude."
posted by john at 10:36 AM • solamente
July 17, 2008
i, phone
"I want to have sex with this phone," I purred into my new iPhone.
"HANG UP! HANG UP FIRST!" said the person on the line.
What a marvelous, life-transforming piece of technology. This is not, as I would have thought, merely a phone with a couple of extra features. It's whatever I want it to be. Thanks to the App Store, I've easily installed free features that are already changing my life in ways both subtle and not so.
An app that uses GPS to determine the nearest bus stop (and route, from where I am to where I want to be) is perhaps the most practical, or it would be if I ever deigned to use Seattle's shitty public transportation system. By far the most amazing free app is Shazam, which listens to any song and correctly identifies its title and author within seconds. Useless? Yep. And irresistible. There are thousands of these apps.
The GPS and Web-browsing features combine to allow me to watch "me" drive across satellite photos in real time. While practical, especially when I plot my destination, too, this turns out to be dangerous. Sometimes virtual-me swerves off the road to the right, and real-me compensates by lunging left of center. Ah, progress.
posted by john at 05:36 AM • solamente
July 16, 2008
term limits
With all due respect to Mr. Sedaris, the single funniest line I've read this year comes from Lewis Black's new book:
"It would be nice to be in a relationship with a woman who might carry my child to term."
posted by john at 12:12 PM • solamente
July 15, 2008
the bat
When d'Andre and Pam visited a few years ago, I gave them the nickel tour of my house. d ridiculed me unremittingly, as is his wont, and Pam heaped supportive praise upon me, as is hers. Until we got to the master bedroom.
"Jee. Zus. Christ." She was staring at my baseball bat. Apparently her husband sleeps next to one just like it. And thus did their point of contention overflow into my life.
The following dialogue ensued.
We need them for safety, we explained.
You can afford a gun and a security system, she countered.
We'll take them, too, but we're keeping our baseball bats. Besides, that stuff is antiseptic. I want the satisfaction of hearing skull cracking.
I get why you had them back in the day, but now you both live in neighborhoods that haven't had a violent crime since the 30s. The 1730s.
But that's Edgar Martinez's bat!
It still doesn't belong in this otherwise lovely room. Everything's so tasteful and elegant, and then there's...this...club.
d'Andre and I argued with Pam for a while that the bats are, in fact, absolutely necessary for a good night's sleep. And then we argued with one another about whether "down comforter" or "ghetto tazer" was the better term.
Three years later, both bats remain permanent parts of the respective decors.
posted by john at 10:51 AM • solamente
