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Number of Catholics who have written in the last week taking offense at the negative portrayal of Mark McGwire in my journals: 5 Number of people who have alerted me to the fact that Mr. McGwire is a "practicing" or "devout" Catholic: 5 Number of Catholics who have written taking offense at the image of the Holy Father crapping his pants during the celebration of the mass: 0 Amount of correlation between baseball and religious devotion: ??? |
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Dear Canada, Please forgive me. I'm sorry. I'm really, really, really sorry. Really. In all fairness, though, you have to admit that I never made any pretense about knowing what I was talking about when I wrote that entry in October of '97. I made it pretty clear at the time that I'd never even been to Canada. I still haven't. I'm not sure I've ever even met a Canadian. I knew a guy named Corey once who kinda talked like a Canadian, but he lived in Washington state near the border and I don't think that counts. You probably don't think so, either. The point is, I was never trying to say that I knew anything about your country, other than what I'd seen online. All I was ever trying to say was, most of what I did know about Canada from being online was really, really annoying. And for that, I'm sorry. Even if it is true. The thing is, I still have a soft spot in my heart for our neighbors to the north. It's reflected in the entry. Notice: there is not a single snide comment about your Smokey-Bear-lookin' police force. Nowhere—nowhere at all—do I even imply that each of you keeps a moose as a pet. I do not ask how exactly a hockey team named after a leaf is supposed to be intimidating. And I didn't make any tacky "Oh Canada!" puns like every other American who talks about your country for more than ten minutes. That has to count for something. These are just some of the many reasons, O Canada, that you must forgive me for my petulance. But the main reason you must forgive me, the most important reason, is that I never meant to hurt you. Hell, I never even meant for you to find out. It was all supposed to be behind your back. When I wrote those hateful, hurtful words, I had no idea that a magazine like Canadian Content even existed. (I suppose I should have guessed from everything else I'd seen, but there you have it.) I certainly didn't expect them to find me. And when they did, I never could have guessed that they would publish the entry for all of you to see. So you see, it was all completely innocent. Utterly. And again, I am really, really sorry. So there's really no reason for any more of you to write me fifteen blank e-mails entitled "Yankee B****" from a nonexistent e-mail account. (How do you do that, anyway? That could be useful.) It's that kind of reckless behavior (behaviour?) that gets countries labeled "violent." That, and building up a strong military to defend an entire continent which simultaneously allows other nearby nations to spend their defense money on things like education, health care, leaf-related sports, and ingratitude. In other words: if you're trying to get me to change my mind about Canadians, ya ain't exactly doin' it the way I would. Or maybe you are. That's probably what got me here in the first place. Anyway, I like you. I even liked the article. And I'm really, really sorry. |
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inner monologue: Jim! Hey, Jim!
Jim: What? Who's there?…. Oh, it's you. Hi.
im: Very nice. Could you try to sound a little more disappointed to hear from me, please? I've never seen someone so unhappy to talk to himself.
j: Can you blame me, really? I can't remember the last time the two of us had a pleasant conversation. Come to think of it, I can't remember the last time I heard from you at all, I'm pleased to say.
im: Yeah, I've been taking it easy. Things have been going pretty well lately.
j: Now you're the one who sounds disappointed. Yes, things have been pretty well. Work's been busy, my client load is at about 150% of what it's supposed to be, but I haven't been ripping my hair out or my coworkers' throats out or anything. My next door neighbors haven't had one of those breakup, make-up, love-hate just-this-side-of-domestic-violence things in almost two weeks now. I signed my new lease on a month-to-month basis so I can start looking for some nicer neighbors. I got a chance to see some movies that have been on my list forever. There are still about 15 new episodes of Deep Space Nine before the series finale. I have a kitchen table after only a year of waiting. And—stop the presses—I seem to be meeting new people here and there for the first time in a while. And decent people, too, people I would hang out with even if there were other people around.
im: Well, that's just super! Glad to hear it. Good for you. Say, I was just noticing in the bedroom the other day that you hadn't changed your calendar over from January yet.
j: Really? Huh. Must have forgotten.
im: Forgotten? How odd. I mean, it's been a week already. You walk past it every day, after all, and you usually cross the days off just so you'll remember what date it is.
j: I guess it just slipped my mind. I've been busy.
im: Well, I mean, it's not like you're doing anything right now. Why don't we just go turn the page over now, while we're thinking about it?
j: It's not that big a deal. February's over so quickly, we probably missed it already. I'm trying to watch TV, if you don't mind.
im: Yes, I know what a big golf fan you are. February… February… I'm supposed to remember something about February…
j: You little bastard. I knew you were going to do this.
im: Hmmm… Groundhog Day is in February. But that couldn't have been it… President's Day? No, you don't get the day off for President's Day, no reason to remember that…
j: Let's just get this over with, shall we?
im: Oh, shit! I know! Why, your anniversary is tomorrow! How thoughtless of me, I didn't even buy a card! Tomorrow is your three year anniversary with your sweetheart! Three happy years with the girl you're going to marry! Congratulations!
j: sigh. and then, somewhat theatrically, he drops the other shoe.
im: Wait, I forgot. My bad. What I meant was "with the girl you were going to marry, before she got so sick of being with you that anybody would look like a gift from God by comparison." That's what I should have said. Sorry.
j: Well, that was even more fun than I had anticipated. Thank you so much for dropping by. Should I pencil you in for Valentine's Day, or would you just like to take care of that now while you're here?
im: Actually, I was planning to just kinda hang around until then.
j: Oh no. I'm a big enough basketcase without having you around for the next week.
im: Oh, but it's going to take at least a week for me to remind you just what a monumental loser you are. You've been walking around here for a month all, I don't know, happy or something. And frankly, it disturbs me just a little bit, because I can't for the life of me figure out what gives you the idea that you deserve to even be alive after screwing up the central event of your life so incredibly. I mean, look at you grinning! The kids! The house in the suburbs! The stability! Knowing there's one person who's always going to be there for you! That's all gone! And it's all your fault! Are you deluded or something?
j: No, I just talk to myself.
im: And it's a good thing, too. Who would listen to you otherwise? Yeah, you're so free of delusion you think the day won't come until you flip the friggin' calendar page. Do you still have that t-shirt that says "I Am A Winner"?
j: You know, other people have a little voice inside them that says, "Don't listen to them, kid! You can do it! You're a good person! You have positive traits, somewhere! There are people who don't despise you!" Where do I get one of those voices? Was that my parents' job, or am I supposed to make one for myself? What did I do to get Satan's motivational speaker on speed dial in my head?
im: I only talk to you the way you talk to everybody else. You want positivity? Fine. Go bang your head against the wall! Carpe diem! You can do it, slugger!
j: You're not even trying. And that stuff about the way I talk to people is completely untrue. I don't treat anybody as badly as I treat myself.
im: Oh really? Why don't we open some of your old e-mail for a while.
j: Not today. Some other time, ten years from now when I have more of a life. Not today.
im: Let's just take a little stroll down memory lane, here… ah, here's a good one! Allow me to read it aloud to you.
j: That really won't be necessary.
im: "happiness is… you," it begins… wow, and it just gets better from there. It's a long way from this to what she thinks about you now. And in record time! Wow. I mean… wow. You must really be a jackass.
j: I've really enjoyed our time together this afternoon. It's quite useful, actually. The next time somebody yells at me for slamming them in my journal, I can reassure them secure in the knowledge that I'm no harder on anyone else than I am on myself.
im: If you're like this to everybody else, that isn't much in the way of reassurance. No wonder you're so popular. Hell, the only reason I talk to you is because I feel sorry for you… what's so funny?
j: I'm sorry. Heh. It's just that I stopped paying attention to you for a moment just now, and I was amazed to discover how good it felt.
im: Don't do that. That's a dangerous thing to do. Your inner voice is your guiding force, you know. Without me, you could start smoking crack or something. You need me.
j: I'm not so sure anymore. It's funny, you know? I was abandoned by my biological parents. Although my folks provided me with everything growing up, they also had a nasty habit of threatening to take it all away when I didn't fall in line. All my friends growing up either turned their backs on me or turned to alcohol and drugs until I couldn't bear to look at them anymore. All my friends from college moved away. All the men of God and administrators I turned to at SLU turned out to be cynical, power-hungry manipulators. My girlfriend promised me eight million times we'd always be together and then gave up on me. And you know, throughout all of that, I always told myself that I would be all I ever needed. People leave; you always have yourself. But the more I sit here and listen to myself, the more I realize that I am the worst thing for me. I have to get the hell away from myself.
im: I'm not following. I'm intentionally not following.
j: Let me put it this way. Remember the time I was driving home from work, listening to my favorite tape, wind blowing through my hair, a smile juuust beginning to crack on my face, and you shouted, "You memorized all the ring sizes on Kelly's hands!" Remember that?
im: As I recall, the pinky was a size six. The middle finger—the one she last showed you—was an eight. The ring finger was a size seven, not that that'll ever be relevant to your life, stud.
j: Now see? That's what I mean. What the hell good does that do me? That kind of fixated idiocy? I mean, after everything that happened, I wouldn't take her back if she knocked on my door wearing lingerie made out of hundred dollar bills. So why do I allow myself to get misty and freaked out over a number on a calendar? Why do I make fun of her for being happy with a new guy?
im: The sweet sweet joy of petty vengeance?
j: Yeah, okay, the vengeance is pretty sweet. But the rest of it, though. It's all a waste. Even the petty stuff is played out. I've given myself the external shell of a life, but it's time I start listening to another voice. The one I've been missing up until now. I feel a turning point coming on. No more treating myself or other people like I scraped them off the bottom of my shoe. I want to be the person I was before I got to SLU and got warped. Before I started talking to you.
im: So what are you saying?
j: I'm saying, I'm using this anniversary as an opportunity to work on myself. Making myself a better person, before I end up pulling a rerun of my sophomore year and alienating Kelly as a friend and everybody else who's left and still cares about me. I'm saying, my inner enemy, that this is goodbye. I'm dumping you.
im: But… what about all the psychological S and M?
j: I guess I'll just have to find a new way to make my own fun.
im: But…but I… dammit. (sniffle)
j: Sorry. It's over.
im: Can we still be friends?
j: Sorry. I think I know myself a little too well.
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The current issue of Newsweek magazine refers to the President of the United States, the leader of the Free World, as a "Wascally Wabbit" (p. 28). I don't know what that has to do with anything, but I think it pretty nicely sums up the way the world is spinning these days.
Mardi Gras celebrations are starting this week in St. Louis, which I was recently told is renowned for having the biggest party this side of N'awlins every year. How this renown has escaped my attention for two decades, I cannot be sure. It's probably because, socially, I'm smooth like a sand milkshake. But I do know that the few friends I have are flocking to be a part of it. Mardi Gras is, apparently, the bomb diggity.
Now, while I think the idea of Pope JPII defecating at the altar is just a #1 movie waiting to happen, I do get offended every once in a great while. I get offended when priests ask for donations and drive off in Lincoln Towncars. I get offended when I see that commercial for the Hardees Monster Burger, the one where God steals a monk's cheeseburger (I don't know what's more offensive, the fact that the monk actually fights Him for the burger or the notion that God talks like an asshole in an echo chamber). I got offended when I saw that billboard the other day that had a big picture of Jesus on it that said, "Jesus Was A Vegetarian!" I mean, I don't even care if that's true. Why not just use Jesus to sell breakfast cereals while you're at it? "As Jesus preached the Gospels, he and his followers lived a simple, healthy life, full of long heart-healthy walks and foods like new Honey Bunches of Oats…"
Anyway, along with all that, the idea behind Mardi Gras and its status as the bomb diggity is one of those things that makes the cloud over my head drip noticeably. Because the idea when you get right down to it is that Lent is coming up, and Lent is a time of reflective Catholic self-denial, so we best party while the partyin's good! Something worth confessing! All of which, if you ask me, is a little like scrubbing your face with barbed wire to get the most out of your health insurance. It's the kind of thing that makes thinking folk ask, "But isn't that ridiculously purpose-defeating and hypocritical?" and makes me answer, "Why, yes! Welcome to my religion! Tomorrow's lesson: Why We Worship One God and Only God, Unless a Very Old Man In a Robe is In Town."
("And when was the last time you gave something up for Lent, Jim?" Probably around the same time I last went to church. I'd like to think that I'm reforming my religion from within, but that's probably only true if by "from within" you mean "from within my bed on Sunday morning.")
It could always be worse. At least none of my religious leaders have gone on television and accused the Teletubbies of being gay.
(Apparently, I've only caught really bland episodes of that show. Exactly how often do the Teletubbies have sex, Reverend Falwell? And is the talking vacuum cleaner involved?)
Mardi Gras itself doesn't bother me too much, no more than I'm bothered by the daily general feeling that I live on the outside looking in at a world that generally embraces and tongue-kisses everything that I find abhorrent and that I will die miserable and alone. Other than that, though, Mardi Gras itself is okay.
Although I could do without this year's organizers encouraging everyone to "bring the kids."
It's all got me thinking about something unrelated, though. Because I generally avoid Mardi Gras (man, I expected a medal for going out on New Year's Eve), so there are a lot of people who would say I can't dis the bomb diggity until I've actually been there. I don't necessarily disagree with those people. Mardi Gras could be the victim of monumentally bad hype and a few bad apples who ruin it for the rest of the cola-sipping, heavily-clothed parade attendees who have just gone down to the Big Easy because they have a squirrelish attraction to shiny beads and the crawfish is to die for. All I know is, the filming crew for "Cops" goes to Louisiana every February, and that can't just be a coincidence. One can draw conclusions from some things.
The point is, I do see value in experience. Other people's as much as my own. That's an important distinction, because I've run into a couple of incidents lately where people seem to think that only things you have done yourself should count for anything. Nothing you've read, nothing you've seen, nothing you've heard about should have any impact on the way you live your life. Not until your hand blisters over can you say the stove is hot, and don't you dare tell anybody else not to touch it.
What I'm thinking about in particular is this brief something-or-other I read on a comrade's home page. Privately, I have always made it a policy not to involve myself in other online dust-ups, but this one gave me a funny feeling in my tummy when it occurred to me that, had I been her, the same thing would have happened. And when I read it, I quite suddenly realized that I am
And I realized how backwards that is, because as the clean dull teetotaler it's supposed to be my job to blather and bore. I'm supposed to be the irritating, judgmental one, I thought. Maybe I even am. But I'm barely giving as good as I get these days. The other team stole my playbook! Whether the topic is religion, chewing tobacco, sexuality, or waving to people on the freeway, lately I've seen some supposedly judgmentally-free people get jiggy with hypocrisy.
I think only once in my life have I had a mature, frank, open-minded discussion about the possible merits of drug use. It was a few weeks ago with an exquisitely brilliant woman I met only recently. (I think e-mail was actually a useful tool in this case, because I didn't get to interrupt.) I think the reason it went so well was the fact that she was a truly open-minded person, perhaps the last one left. Most people, when you strip away all the academic bullshit, just have an emotional reaction on some level to issues and then use logic to try and explain to themselves and others what's causing the reaction. The opposing logic is never going to change their minds, because in most things logic is the effect rather than the cause. If you ask me.
Why is it that people who talk to you about being more open-minded never consider the possibility that their stance is wrong? I sat in on a lot of debates in college, mostly between jackbooted Housing administrators and mobs with pitchforks and torches, and never once did I hear anybody say, "I think you need to be a little more open-minded like me, although with that in mind I think you may have some interesting points and am therefore going to try it your way." All I've ever heard is a variation of, "That opinion reflects a closed mind, and being an open-minded person, my mind is completely closed to that way of thinking. Your closed-mindedness is wrong wrong wrong laa laa laa I am not listening to the closed-minded person laa laa laa laa laa."
I've had that closed-minded thing lobbed at me a few times. I'm not sure if it was true or not; if it was, would I know? Because I always had opinions that were different from the people I was hanging out with, I evolved into a kind of Personal Freedom Dunking Booth for people. They'd mosey over occasionally and toss a few barbs at my stance, just to see how big the splash would get. Sometimes it was stimulating, other times irritating, but I never went as ballistic as I did when I read that piece on Krystyna's site. I thought (and essentially wrote),
Have you ever been drowned?
Have you ever driven with a blood alcohol level of .12?
I'm a f***ing human being, that's who, as opposed to some B.F Skinneresque pleasure-pellet-seeking, electric-shock-avoiding f***ing rodent in a self-made psychotropic lab for my entire wasted life! Judgmental? Only one of these stupid coke-snorting ************* could actually disparage me for exercising judgment!
What if you were judging Alex? What if you were? Would that be bad? For him to tell you that's bad, wouldn't he be judging your actions? Judging you as a person? Jesus, you can hear him clucking his tongue right there on the page!
The needle is buried on my emotional Geiger counter right now. What the hell is wrong with people?
Do I really have to lose a friend to drugs for me to realize drugs are bad? Do I have to run screaming naked down the hall, nose gushing blood, covered in imaginary bugs, before I can go, "You know, I'm really not sure, but I may not have made the best choices up till now"? As I watch the bleeding man covered in bugs convulse on the floor, am I to think, "You know, gosh, it would be a shame to let any of this bias me. Does anyone know where the rest of his stash is"? Can these stupid bastards really aspire to be so incapable of basic reasoning skills? You did say "open-minded," not "empty-", didn't you?
And you know, when I look back on what I wrote now… I feel very closed-minded. I'm not comfortable with it. But you know, I'm not comfortable with the alternative, either. I've since thrown out the voice responsible for that diatribe, and I'm kinda between selves at the moment. I know this much: I find myself aching to have something substantial in common with someone right now. I think I'm vastly outnumbered by the Joshes around here, and I would very tangibly like to talk to someone and feel like I belong... I wonder if Falwell has a hotline....
Although I suppose you never can start exposure to public nudity too early.
"Mom! Quick! I need some beads!!!"
just
so
god
DAMNED
sick of being lectured and judged.
If one more person in my life tells me that I can't judge something I've never experienced, I am going to smash their f***ing teeth in with a loose brick. And when they say, bloodmouthed, "Ooooaaaaaugh! That really really hurts!", I'll say, "I really wouldn't know."
How do you know you wouldn't like it? It might be better than consciousness.
Then who are you to say it's bad?
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So I've been trying for six weeks now to go back and patch the holes in this damn journal. There is this period from May 21st to September 14th of 1998 that is enshrouded in mystery. What was I doing for three and a half months? Nobody knows. I don't know. I have virtually no memory of those months for some reason. I took a trip to Kansas City right after the last May entry, and my next memory is of Mark McGwire hitting a home run while I got dumped. Maybe I was lured to KC so that my medical student friend could use me in some sort of insidious KU neurosurgical mind control experiment. I should have suspected something was amiss when Kelly cited as a reason for leaving me "the time you assassinated that congressman."
I was going to piece together a little bit of what I was up to during those months and make that a kind of half-assed 1998 Year in Review for myself, but it has turned out to be a dicey proposition. Normally, when I go back and do those reminiscing entries, my main source of "inspiration" is the pile of old e-mail I sent during that time. Looking in my mail program's "out" folder, however, I have made a shocking discovery: during the month of June, according to my records, I wrote one e-mail. One. On the 25th, to my friend Jen, in response to the question "Where are you?" I wrote,
Yes, I am always here.
And that was it for June. In July, I wrote six e-mails, most of which were about my friend Greg keeping some of his things in my basement while he prepared to move to Colorado. Three e-mails in August, all about nothing.
So what the hell was I doing??? From the looks of things, I was wasting a lot of time at work writing my frivolous e-mail. I tried reading the messages I received during those months, but most of them are from my ex- and full of really mushy stuff that obviously didn't mean much and I am just really not up to that sort of thing this week. So, the hole in my life will have to remain unpatched for a while longer. I am working on it, though.
I had the opportunity to go straight to the source of my amnesia this weekend; my friend Joan and her guy Andy had gotten some time off of medical school for good behavior and came into town for the weekend. I didn't really get to probe her about my missing time, though, because a visit from Joan provides less fun in actually hanging out with Joan than is provided by the delightful human scavenger hunt that she embodies.
See, Joan's one of these spontaneous types. It's a way of reacting to an otherwise structured life. I can appreciate that. Many's the day that I sit up in my chair and say, "I'm going to go see a movie! Right now!" But there's a difference between that and what Joan does, which is to say things like, "We're coming into town next weekend! Around dinner time! Depending on when you eat! We'll be staying with someone! We might go to a basketball game! And I need to see Holly one night! I look forward to seeing you!"
So, to anticipate a Joan visit is to laugh a lot. I mean, she might as well say, "I'll be somewhere in Missouri on Tuesday. I'll be the one in the striped hat." I always try to track her down, though, because she's one of my best friends on earth. Plus, if I find her, she has to take me to 'er pot o' gold!
I woke up this morning, however, only half-sure of Joantime. As I always tell her, when I go to KC I have three people to visit. Joan knows everyone in the St. Louis area, and typically tries to see 48 people in 48 hours. If I slip off the list one visit, I will try to find a way to carry on. So today, I got up, threw on a very loungy Hawaiian shirt, and lied around for most of the day. I ate some leftover pizza, watched Schindler's List (because Valentine's Day was just making me too cheerful for my own good), and sporadically pondered whether Joan had ever made it into town for the Mardi Gras festival.
The minutes flitted by, as they often do on a Saturday, and I noticed that the sun had set. I picked my head up and took my body with it into the next room. The time for the scavenger hunt had begun. I needed to know if I was doing anything today. I pulled up Joan's last e-mail and searched it for context clues only briefly before locating the names "Lynn" and "Holly."
"Lynn," I said into the phone moments later, "this is Jim. I was your neighbor for four years in college? Hi, how's it going? Listen, I normally hate to call people on a pragmatic, biannual basis, but I have it on good authority that Joan's in town and she told me she was making a special effort to see you this weekend, so I was just kinda trying to figure out where she is and what she's up to."
"Guhhuhhuhhgh," said Lynn in frenzied exasperation, as if my voice had popped a bile balloon somewhere in her brain. "She does this every time she comes to town! Every time! I hear she's coming in, and then I never hear anything! Natter natter natter natter natter!"
(She obviously didn't say "natter natter natter," but there was a certain amount of distortion that I couldn't really filter out. Lynn goes into some other frequency when she's frustrated, which is not exactly an occurrence of Haley's Comet rarity.)
"So what you're saying," I continued to cover my inability to listen, "is that you don't know where she is?"
"I didn't even know she was making time for me this visit!" said Lynn. "Did she tell you that? She didn't tell me that! Who told you that?"
It was at that point that I thought, "Oh, dammit. What if Joan meant the other Lynn? Well, this Lynn's got a full head of steam now. I've certainly stepped in something smelly this time."
"Say, Lynn: you wouldn't have Holly's number by any chance, would you?"
…..
"Hey, Holly? This is Jim. We used to hang out in college? Remember me? We didn't talk much senior year because your roommate suddenly wanted to spear my genitalia for no reason I was ever made aware of? Remember? Well, it's time for my annual phone call again. Have you heard from Joan?"
"Actually, she's staying with me tonight," said Holly. "I think."
"Super!" said I. "So you've heard from her."
"No," said Holly. "Not really. I heard she was coming. I think she got in last night."
"But you're not sure?"
"I think she stayed with Lynn F."
The other Lynn! "And would you have that Lynn's phone number?"
"Yes, but I'll only give it to you if you agree to let me know whatever you end up doing."
"I'll even give you a cut o' me pot o' gold and any Lucky Charms I come across along the way."
"Um, whatever you say."
So, as I finally reached the end of the trail, I was pretty psyched about actually getting out of the house. Joan was somewhere in the city, and she was as good as mine. The only obstacle: Lynn F. lived in a Christian Community with like half a dozen people, and you never knew who was gonna pick up the phone or whether that person would have a clue.
"Hello, is Lynn there, please?"
"I don't know, really. Possibly. Can I have her call you back?"
Oh, no no. The trail is not going cold this late. "Actually, I'm looking for a guest of hers by the name of Joan. You wouldn't happen to know if a Joan or Joans are there, or if they're still together at this point in the visit?"
"Hey… is this Jimski?"
Huh? "Yes, I'm afraid it is."
"No way! Jim, this is Chris!"
Chris!!!
Chris was probably the coolest woman I have ever not really gotten to know in my life. All through college, for every single waking moment, she was winsome and intelligent and friendly and kind. Every single time I saw her. It could be finals week, and she could be fleeing the dorm as it burned to the ground, and she still always seemed happy to see me. Hell, I have girlfriends who weren't that glad to see me. Hell, none of my girlfriends were ever that glad to see me. I never got to know her very well, though, and it always drove me nuts. This is a woman who could say hello to me in the elevator on the worst day of my life and have me singing showtunes until I fell asleep. She always managed to make you feel like you were the only person in the room. Her company was so enjoyable that I am still convinced that they could televise her reading the phone book and it would eliminate the national suicide rate. Saying that I had a crush on Chris in college is like saying food, clothing, and shelter "come in handy." Not becoming friends with Chris may well be literally my biggest regret from college. She must wear hypnotic jewelry or something.
Of course, I imagine she thought I was an idiot, but that's okay. She was in good company. Every time I saw her left me thinking to myself, "Gosh, I remember being articulate. I wonder what happened?" This woman would talk to me and I'd forget my own name. And I'll wager she never even knew how cool I thought she was, or how regretful I was when she graduated and moved away, because the only times I ever tried to tell her all I said was, "Guh buh duh guh buh!"
"Chris!" I managed in shock. "You're on the phone! With me, now! Talking!"
"Yeah, hi!" she said cheerfully. "How have you been?"
"You here don't live!" I choked. "Graduated and away moved forever very sad to me. Confused now. But happy! Happy to be speaking, but confused also, with you. Me."
"I'm back from the Honduras," she said. (She understands! Maybe I've just been speaking Honduranese all this time!) "I'm up at med school, but I just kind of popped into town for the weekend."
"Hooray! Good you are here, again. Last time I saw you, I thought, would be the last time I saw you ever. That bad, because guh buh duh guh buh."
"Did you say you were looking for Joan?" she said.
"No!" I said. "Joan who? Who the hell cares about Joan?"
"Let me see if I can track down Lynn for you," she said.
"No! That's okay! You don't have to go, and yet you have, clearly, because I have regained my ability to shape a cohesive thought. I had better make the most of this brief period."
"Jimski?! Hi! This is Lynn! How are you? I haven't talked to you since we tried to puncture your genitals!"
"Yeah, those were some crazy times. Have you heard from Joan recently?"
"She stayed here last night. She's upstairs napping as we speak. You're more than welcome to come ov-"
"I'm on my way!" click.
I was in my car before the receiver hit the cradle. I find as I get older that the people I miss the most are not the people I knew the best. Quite the opposite; my most bittersweet memories are bound to the people I never quite got to know well enough. In fact, since college, I think the biggest social slip-up I make is trying too hard too soon to get "in" with people I really like. Overcompensation for a friendship I never quite had with a person who never quite realized how much I admired her.
I got to the Christian Community's house only to realize that they were having a huge party. I also realized, once I was inside, that I was dressed like Jimmy Buffett after a night in the dumpster out back. I was wearing a wrinkled Hawaiian shirt that I'd been lying on the couch in all day, and my hair looked like I had just gotten out of bed. Another nasty side effect of finding someone who says they'll always love you no matter what: you tend to stop worrying about presentation. Or at least I did.
Yes, yes, I let myself go and took love for granted. So crucify me for getting comfortable with myself for once in my life.
"Comfortable" has been on my mind all night, actually. Because after I got there and woke Joan, we joined the party for a while, reminisced and all that. And at one point, Joan was sitting in a chair talking and I was standing behind her, my hands on her shoulders, listening attentively. And as she spoke, I looked up, and across the room I saw two people I hardly knew looking at me, both of them hardly containing wide smiles. When I glanced over, they shifted in a way that confirmed to me that they were talking about me, and that I was pretty damn funny in some way. I was about to let it slide, but just then the edge of my ear heard one of them laugh,
"...and he's just so comfortable..."
What? What's that? Is there something I should be uncomfortable about? Should my hands not be on Joan's shoulders? Should I feel awkward about being at this party, not knowing any of these people? Am I rude for wanting to be here? I just came to get Joan! And to see Chris! I really do look terrible, don't I? I should be ashamed to be in public! But I'm not! Or I wasn't, anyway! Do I really lack the vital mental process necessary to clothe myself before venturing outside among people? Or is it something else?
Well, one thing's for sure: I'm not comfortable anymore! No, sir! I can't remember the last time I felt this completely unwelcome! This must be a Christian Community!
But it was all okay. And do you know why? Because there was at least one person there who was glad to see me. I got at least one big hug. A hug! There are days when I don't get a hug out of my mom. I almost wept openly.
Oh, and Joan was there too. Which, you know, was just icing.
The question is, where are you?
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How can February be ending already? How?
Remember how ridiculously distant the year 2000 sounded a few years ago?
I was thinking the other day about a very special episode of the Facts of Life. It was from the later, post-girls' school years, when Mrs. Garrett owned a little shoppe and George Clooney would occasionally make what I'm sure are now very embarrassing appearances as the scruffy neighbor guy or whoever the hell he was supposed to be.* In this very special episode, the girls sat around and pondered their futures, and there was this little dream sequence wherein they all returned to the shoppe in the year 2000 with gray hair and success stories in their various fields. And I remember that as I watched, Tootie just looked so old that it moved me to subtract 1975 from 2000.
"Good God!" I thought as I did the math. "I'll be 25 years old! I'll have my foot in the bloody grave! This is terrible! They better hurry up with those Martian colonies and flying cars! At this rate, I might actually die on earth!"
When I was little, 2000 seemed centuries away. Now that it's here, I feel centuries old, so at least I'm consistent. I just can't get over it. February will be over before you know it, and it'll be March. March will be over before you know it, and I'll be twenty-four years old. Twenty-four! One year further away from those damn punk teenagers. I'm getting fitted for dentures this week.
If I seem to be putting a little more weight on my cane this week, it's mostly because I have spent a lot of time these past few days reading resumes and conducting job interviews. Even as I write the words, I have no idea how to express what an absolutely bizarre experience it is to be on this side of the desk. I have no business deciding people's futures. I have no place choosing who deserves to have rent money and who deserves to have to drive a bus. I have absolutely no business shaping the future of my company by saying, "I vouch for these people! These are people who should be in charge of our clients, according to me!"
I mean, say I hire one of these people and they totally screw up everything. They just start telling the clients to piss off and download some kind of malignant porno virus onto the network and clog all the sinks in the office with toenail clippings. Who do you think gets the dirty looks in that situation? Sure, they get scolded themselves, but after the scoldin's through, the extra crispy looks are all saved just for yours truly. I've seen it happen. It's happened to me already. My cousin did database work for the military; she's been working on PCs since they came into being. I get her a job as an at-home researcher, and suddenly it's, "Now, do I have this internet thing on my computer? How do I plug it in?" I looked like a total moron. People still say things like, "Hey, we haven't had any unnecessary delays in a while; Jim, do you have any more friends or relatives we can hire?" So when the Big Boss Man told me I was doing the interviews this time around, I made him at least promise to meet them and help me pick. Gotta spread the blame around if nothing else.
Even with that concern taken care of, it was still utterly strange. These people would walk in wearing suits with portfolios and notes and things, and I'd come out to meet them looking like a gas station attendant. Actually, gas station attendants have a dress code. Scratch that. More like a chimney-sweep. They'd come in and sit down, and they looked so nice it was all I could do not to let them interview me. "Hi there, nice to meet you. I appreciate you taking this time to meet with us. I think we're a really good match for you, we've been interested in having an employee in this field for quite some time. Here's a sample of our work to help you in your decision. What will your salary be?..."
Plus, even in the best of circumstances, I don't know what to ask people. I run out of the standard "tell me a little about yourself" questions in like three minutes, and I end up asking things like, "What kind of music do you like?", "Does the idea of working with lunatics appeal to you?," "You're too good for this job!", and "Will you go out with me?" Most of that is made up for, fortunately, by the big boss man's follow-up interview, which usually consists of questions like, "Are you nervous? If not, why the hell not?", "Are you sure you went to college?", "What is the best reason for me not to hire you?," and "Convince me in seven words or less that you are not a boob. You have four seconds, starting two seconds ago."
I've never heard him ask those exact questions. Per se. He is a lot more hard-hitting than I am, though. Something to aspire to, I guess. It certainly demonstrates people's dedication. I'll never forget the time he tried to shoot the apple off that applicant's head....
During an interview today, though, I witnessed the most amazing thing I have ever seen in my office thanks to Steve. I've mentioned Steve before; he's the youngest member of the staff (four whole years younger than I am!) and the most likely to inspire sheer terror. While he's terribly gifted when talking to the machines in the office, he struggles with his fellow humans and tends to be very quiet. His e-mail often reads as though large portions of it are missing. Periodically, someone will turn around only to realize that Steve has been standing behind them for half an hour without a word. He tends to giggle for reasons no one can determine, usually after someone has said something awful. He signs his name as a Celtic rune he designed himself. A large part of his vocabulary consists entirely of dialogue from Japanese animation (and while I predict that someday in the future "Simpsons" quotes will constitute their own language, their effectiveness hinges on the fact that you aren't the only person in the room who's seen "The Simpsons," whereas Steve will shout "Gohan!" and then look at us like we're morons for never having seen Dragonball). Any time someone is killed in St. Charles, we blame Steve.
The most unique thing about Steve lately has been his infatuation with a television show called "Blue's Clues." The show is on Nickelodeon every day of the week. They repeat the same episode every weekday, because "Blue's Clues" is aimed at 2 to 5 year olds.
By itself, I do not consider this fact strange. Steve can watch whatever he wants. I watch "Science Court" every Saturday morning. And I usually learn something.
What I find unique is that Steve has a plush Blue dog. By itself, this is not strange either; I've had a Donkey Kong and a Dilbert beanie on my desk since practically the day I got there, to say nothing of the X-Files figures with Corpse Autopsy Playset. What's odd is that Steve carries this dog with him everywhere he goes. He takes it home every night, and he brings it in every day. And he talks to it. A lot. And when he works, he holds it in his lap and strokes it, like he's Dr. Evil and it's Mr. Bigglesworth. When he leaves his desk, he takes it with him (although I believe this evolved mainly from the fact that one of the sales guys hangs it from something every time he leaves it unattended). Steve has also pierced Blue's ear for no reason I care to discover. Steve's handling of the doll was best summed up by Hannah, our CEO's five year old, who once asked, "Mommy, Steve does know Blue's not real, doesn't he?"
"I don't know, honey. I don't know."
Since just about everybody in the office does at least one thing regularly that makes me wish I had pepper spray, I leave Blue alone and Blue leaves me alone. At least Steve is fun to work with. Today, however, I was conducting a job interview with a somewhat nervous young woman. She had good reasons to be nervous; because we have a very small office and all the rooms were occupied, I had to interview her at my desk within earshot of three other people. And Jerry was playing a Phish CD, and Nancy was having Eudora errors, and the place was just a hive. While this prevented people from listening in on our interview, it also made it a little hectic on the applicant (luckily, Dan will be out again tomorrow and I can use his office for the rest).
So, the interview was well underway, and I began to get a sense that the woman was fairly qualified for the job and had no history of, say, arson. All of a sudden, Steve walks into the room with Blue and, silently, wordlessly, creeps up right behind this perfect stranger and just puts Blue on her shoulder in the middle of her interview.
What is your computing background?
And she turned, just horrified at this sudden explosion of weirdness, and looked at Blue. And Steve took Blue's pierced ear, and he waved at her with it.
"Hello!" he said in a squeaky voice. "Hello!"
And then he picked up Blue and went back to his desk. Just went right back to work, as if "Blue Hello" was in his employee manual somewhere. Like it was just the most normal thing in the world to do to someone you'd never met.
She did not run away. Needless to say, I offered her the job later in the day. If she turns it down, big boss man and I are taking turns beating Steve all next week.
*I tried to look this up, since excruciatingly detailed episode guides for utterly vapid television sitcoms from the 80s just have "Internet" written all over them. Unfortunately, the Facts of Life web site I went to was so incredibly elaborate that it crashed my computer, which I always take as an omen.
What interested you about the position?
Plop! Here's a dog on your shoulder!
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You know, the internet would be absolutely amazing if it only worked.
Between MP3 sound files and RealMedia, there are ways for me to watch cable for free online while simultaneously putting the record industry out of business. Is there a song you like? Don't pay for it; download it! Is there a show you missed? Point and click, baby!
In theory.
In actuality, watching anything through RealVideo is like watching a VCR eat a tape through a kaleidoscope, with the soundtrack coming through on of those tin-cans-and-string telephones. And MP3 songs would be magnificent, if I had ever ever been able to successfully download one ever. I discovered recently that every song ever recorded is available for free online if you know how to look for them, except none of the links actually work (MP3 sites don't last long since they're massively popular and kind of incredibly illegal), and so in actuality the name of every song ever recorded is available for you to stare at online. Clicking on it and getting somewhere is a different story.
I'm only griping about it to spare you the pain I've suffered trying to get these my hands on these @%#$ things. For three days, I've been clicking on these links. At home on the modem. At work on the ISDN. Daytime. Nighttime. 2 a.m. Click click click.
It's got me talking to invisible webmasters again. "Fine! Be like that! I hope the FBI kicks your f@$#in' door down, you pirate bastard!"
("Pirate bastard? Jim, how many VCRs do you have again?"
Of course, maybe it's just because I don't know how the internet works. I discovered my ignorance today, when a brand new client called me to inform me that I did not know how the internet worked at a very high decibel level. This gentleman was infinitely helpful, not only in explaining to me how the internet worked, but also in providing me with the worst day of my professional life.
We get these big companies with brand new web sites that hire us every once in a while. They've been online three days, and they list their chief competitor as, like, Yahoo. In three days, they have decided that Yahoo or whoever is their enemy (despite the fact that if they launched a real assault on Yahoo, no one at Yahoo would even know who they were, perhaps pausing only to laugh at them before releasing the guard dogs). And they have decided to destroy Yahoo in the marketplace, despite the fact that Yahoo has a multimillion dollar advertising budget, worldwide name recognition, and a four year head start on them. Their site goes up on Tuesday, they give us 600 bucks to promote it, and when they aren't bigger than Yahoo by Wednesday they are pissed off.. And then they call me.
This guy who called me opened the phone call, actually began the conversation, by honestly really saying with a straight face the words, "Do you know who I am?! Do you realize who you're dealing with here?!"
Well, you didn't really start the call with a proper introduction or anything, but I'm guessing from the fact that you think you're important that you must be that guy who wants to kill Yahoo.
I have never survived anything like this on the phone in my life. It was like picking up the receiver and getting hit in the face with a tropical storm. This guy was pissed off--I know this because he said, "I am so pissed off! I am really f@$#ing pissed off here!" no fewer then fourteen times during the course of the phone call--because things hadn't gotten underway yet after two days. Two days. The campaign to date has cost his giant company a whopping $300. I'm one guy, and I spent more than that on my last trip to Best Buy. Hell, by the time the phone call was over, I was ready to write him a check just to get rid of him.
Now, I tried to explain to him, that's how it works. You sign the contract; we send you some materials to approve; you read over them and approve them; we send you some files to upload; we do a campaign based on the materials and the files you uploaded. If you actually read the stuff you approve and upload the stuff when we tell you to, it takes a couple days to get things rolling.
What he helped me to see, though, is that the e-mail I sent him called "Here are some things for you to look over and approve" should have been called "Everything is already magically done."
"You people do this for a living! You don't even know how the shit the internet works! This is the internet, people! There is no turnaround of three or four days! You're full of shit! This is the internet! Turnaround is seconds! Bang bang bang! SECONDS! Jesus, people! I am really pissed off here!"
"You have conveyed that very well, sir."
"And the keywords! These meeta tags! We tell you to get moving and you send us twenty words to approve for the f@$#ing meeta tags! I want hundreds of keywords! Do you f@$#ing understand me?! Hundreds!"
"But... not how search engines work... extra keywords dilute focus... you won't have placement... you'll blame me... torture is imminent...."
"Too many keywords hurt?! You're full of shit! You don't even know what you're talking about! Gee whiz, hotshot! Hundreds of keywords certainly don't f@$#ing hurt Yahoo!!!"
"But... they're Yahoo!"
My God, you don't even know what a meta tag is. You want to place #1 in the search engines for a word that is not even on your home page anywhere. You're in charge of the site, and you don't even know what it is or how it works. It's like watching you pick your nose with a handgun. And I'm accountable to you. Someone please kill me.
"I have a lot of contacts! I could make things very sweet for you people, or I can make things very unpleasant! Do you understand me!?"
Please, sir, please don't destroy us like Yahoo! I don't want to be destroyed!... oh wait, at this point in the call I actually kind of do. Carry on.
"Do you know who I was going to recommend you to? IBM! I-B-M!"
IBM? Oh, my! What might that recommendation have been like, with all those connections of yours?:
Because God knows, if IBM needs anything, it's to finally make a name for itself in e-business industry. "IBWho?" People are often heard saying. I mean, last night I went almost TWENTY MINUTES without seeing one of their commercials! Yes, they would truly benefit from our services; what a tasty recommendation that would be.
"Send us all the materials you want! I'll show you how this works! You send them, and I will approve them and have them back to you in MINUTES!"
After having read them thoroughly, no doubt. Note to self: anticipate phone call in three weeks re: "How the hell did this get into the approved materials?"
"I want this thing live by TO-morrow! Do you understand me?! I am really pissed off here!"
And really professional too... I bet I could have a sample chapter for a novel finished and on a publisher's desk by this time next week... make some advances, some royalties... I wonder if people would buy my journal...?
"Are you hearing me?! Are we clear?!"
... I need to remember to get some soda on the way home… I wonder if I have enough bagels to get me through the rest of the week?… might as well get some while I'm at the store...
"Are we clear?!"
"Yes sir. Crystal clear. We'll abandon the proven methods we've been using for the last three years and do the exact opposite, which I'm sure will cause us to be very successful and not end up upsetting you even worse at all. I look forward to your next call."
A call has never been less effective. Weight has never been less well thrown around. As a result of that call, I am less inclined to help this guy than I ever was.
My friend Greg used to say something every once in a while: "Well, I wasn't going to do what you wanted, but now that you've threatened and insulted me...." That was all I could think of all afternoon. That, and "God DAMN am I gonna kill the salesman who sold to that guy!"
Later, my boss apologized for the whole situation.
If this is the way people in business talk to one another, and it is considered acceptable, I do not want to succeed at anything for as long as I live.
Oh, and the guy also added to my list of Sad Quotes. At work, I have a short list of things that people have said to me that provide a window into their worlds, a pathetic window that breaks my heart for them. My favorite one until today was the time the little bureaucrat in charge of a huge company's project called me and asked, "Will there be anyone in your office on Saturday or Sunday I can talk to about this?"
"Um, no, and if you're going to be at work all weekend over this, you need a new job."
The new quote, from the angry guy:
Two days. $300.
"Too many users; try again later."
"File not found."
"Too many users; when we said 'try again later,' we didn't mean 'try again immediately after you read this warning.' Go to bed."
"Access denied, even though you stayed up all night to do this, which by the way is really sad."
"Not enough users; try again and again and again…"
Those are for personal use! I only use them to make copies of home movies for friends!)
I can't wait until we get started and you get the e-mails from Infoseek and Excite that say, "Thank you for your submission. We will hopefully process it within three to four weeks." Maybe then you can explain to the search engines how the internet works.
"IBM Customer Support Line, how may I help you?"
"Hello. I'd like to recommend a company to you. Oh, uh, and my monitor's broken."
"Please hold."
Not to me, mind you. To the guy.
You know, for the intolerable holdup, which incidentally he personally designed into our way of doing things. Anything to keep unpleasable people pleased.
"You know how pissed I am about this?! Do you know where I'm calling from?! The Bahamas! I am calling in the middle of my vacation in the Bahamas because I am so pissed!"
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In response to some recent mail and conversations, I have decided to devote some space to some IFAQ (Infrequently Asked Questions). Hopefully, this will cut down on some confusion and make us all better people.
Q. You often write about friends or people you work with in ways that are not entirely flattering, such as the recent "Steve's Clues." Do these people ever read these stories, or do you cravenly hide the existence of your journal rather than take responsibility for your big mouth?
A. A little from column A, a little from column B. I always try to write as if the people involved might be reading, which kind of forces me to have very up-front, no-games relationships with a lot of people, which in turn kind of forces me to have a lot of fights. Unsure of how my page would be viewed by some of my coworkers, I try to keep it quiet there, but I doubt it would matter; everyone at work knows I have a page, but none of them really cares (everybody where I work has a web page). The day my parents read my page will most likely be my last day on earth. Other than that, though, I'm pretty open about it.
Q. Why don't you put up some kind of Guestbook or chat board, so that the people who read your journals can post their thoughts or defend themselves against your vicious, vicious slander?
A. You must be insane. (No offense.) It's bad enough I have people writing in to tell me I'm a beer-hating closeted Yankee imbecile; do I really need people opening discussions about how much I suck on my own page? Don't I do enough of that myself?
Q. You do a lot of work with search engines all day. Do you come up in the search engines, and if so do a lot of people find your page that way?
A. Having your page hosted by AOL is like search engine leprosy; a lot of shady businesses used to set up cheap AOL pages, so a lot of engines pretty much ignore AOL. Still, I'm in Alta Vista, where I place exceptionally well for the word "M*******ski" and where I have been found by one person this month according to my new statistics program.
Q. What was that person searching for?
A. "Revealing+Photos."
Q. Where do you come up in Alta Vista for "revealing photos"?
A. As of yesterday, I'm all the way down at #45, which means that guy was really, really looking for revealing photos. If he was still clickin' away at #45, he was making an afternoon of it. Some horny freak frantically scanning my site for some skin; there's your mental picture for the day.
Q. Has your presence on the internet ever caused you to come into contact with any other Jim M*******skis?
A. Yes it has. On two separate occasions, while minding my own business, I have been contacted by Bizarro Jim M*******skis. In college, I met a 35-year-old banker from Michigan (as well as his childhood friend, who once wrote me a "long time no see" letter because he didn't realize I was the wrong guy, which amused me considering he had to scroll past my picture and vital stats to find my e-mail address in the first place). A few weeks ago, I was also contacted by a Canadian artist and professor of education who was also Jim M*******ski. I had found some of his artwork online in the past while whimsically doing a search for my own name. In e-mailing him back, not realizing he was the artist, I inadvertently insulted him (what is it with me and Canadians all of a sudden?).
Q. Would you recommend searching for your own name online?
A. No I would NOT. It is creepy. Other Jim M*******skis running around out there, ruining my good name, answering whenever people shout, "Hey! Jim M*******ski!" It's damn weird, and a little saddening. To paraphrase something I recently read: no matter how bad things got for me, I could always console myself with the thought that I was being the best doggone Jim M*******ski I could be. Now I know that's not true; they're all over the place, and most of them are doing a better job than I am. Don't make the same mistake I did! Never search for your own name!
Q. What do you say to another Jim M*******ski?
A. "How the hell should I be saying my name?"
Q. Are you ever going to update that atrociously hideous home page? You haven't touched it since like 1997!
A. Shut up!
Q. Seriously.
A. Yes. I'm toying with some things right now. It isn't easy to redo what is essentially the Stereotypical Home Page without ripping anybody off.
Q. Have you ever been on a blind date?
A. Why, I just had my first one yesterday, as a matter of fact!
Q. On purpose? Were you tricked?
A. I was tricked! Yes I was! My friend Frederica decided that I needed to go out with a friend of hers. I said, "Fred, I'd be happy to; let's all go out sometime and you can introduce us."
Fred replied, "I told her all about you and gave her your number. Here's hers; give her a call."
I said, "See, I would do that, except I'm normal. When I asked you to introduce me to her, I meant while I was present. While this is a welcome change of pace from the rest of my friends, who act as gatekeepers and forbid me from meeting any of their female friends out of terror that they might get blamed if we dated and it didn't work out, I think you've taken it a little far in the other direction."
A week later, Fred relented. "Okay. A couple of us are going out to dinner tonight, and I would love it if you could join us and meet my friend."
"Excellent," I said. "Where shall I meet you?"
"Here's the thing," Fred replied. "I'm running a little late with work, and I probably won't be able to make it for a while, so I was thinking since I'm going to be so late you could call her and go ahead without me, and…"
"A-HA!" I shouted. "Nice try! Very clever! We will wait for you. When you are done at work, we will all meet up together."
"It might be a while."
"Doesn't matter."
"I have a lot to catch up on."
"Don't care. I'm too unsure of myself around new people. Plus, God knows what you've told her, and what expectations she has. No, I think we will wait for you."
"I won't be ready until nine or so..."
"Splendid! Dinner at nine. A delightful time to eat dinner. Nine it is! See you then!"
I got there at nine. The girl got there at nine. Fred got there around ten. Needless to say, the waiters were delighted.
Fred is very lucky her friend is a nice girl. I don't like feeling tricked and beaten as a typical part of my social life. She was a sweet person, but I spent most of the evening feeling like I was looking up from the bottom of a bear pit.
Q. On a related topic, have you ever listened to someone really cool lament that they would never find anyone in this world, and that they would die miserable and alone, and all the while as you listened you knew for a fact that the person would willingly and gladly accept that life rather than try going out to dinner with you a couple of times?
A. Why, yes.
Q. Isn't that a great feeling?
A. It sure is. And I ought to know; it's happened to me twice this week!
Q. Would it bother you if your ex-girlfriend had already decided to move in with the guy she dumped you for?
A. You know, I think it would. Why do you ask?
Q. Oh. Uh, no reason!
A. Actually, between all the verbal abuse I took at work this week, the cold I've been fighting off, all the social and emotional turmoil, and the fact that after three years of waiting I'm now expected to be at a wedding the night the Star Wars prequel comes out, I am at one of the most amazing low points in memory. And you know what? It's very liberating. Because whereas I used to be able to say things like, "Oh my God! This is the worst thing that's ever happened!", I now say things like, "This is the worst thing that's happened in fifteen minutes or so!" It gets harder to take stuff seriously in that light. It's not really like being kicked while you're down. It's like someone coming over to kick you while you're down, slipping, falling with his entire weight onto your spine, and spilling his drink all over you. As the Pepsi drips off of your nose onto the pavement, all you have left to do is laugh.
Q. Is this the most pointless entry you've ever written in this journal?
A. Quite possibly.
Q. Then why don't you stop?
A. Fair enough!
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