6.30.2002
Well, this is it. I'm off to Paris! I'll post as often as I can with my progress and some stories. I'll be back August 12th, but if you need/want to get in touch with me, write me at benpopik@hotmail.com. Wish me luck and many croissants.
6.29.2002
Like half the Western world, I drive a Subaru Outback. At least in the Northeast, it's one of the more popular cars on the road. Which is really distracting. Because whenever I pass an identical car on the road, regardless of the speed I'm traveling or the size of the turn I'm about to enter, I always have to crane my neck to see the face of the driver of the other car. I've always done this. Because on some level, I'm absolutely sure that one of these days I'm going to pass myself. I'm not sure what it would mean even if it happened, but then again, I never said any of this was logical. Again, I've always done this.
On the door of my room in Connecticut, there's a picture of a guitar I painted in the sixth grade. I can't stand it. Every time I look at it, all I can see are the mistakes that young-me made. First of all, it's not very symmetrical at all, which bothers me to no end. Secondly, the colors in the background are all wrong -- it's clear that I used one shade of blue one day, and then came in the next day and tried to recreate that color out of other colors. It's all wrong, and it's obvious. But I never take it down. Because on some level, I'm afraid that the day I take it down, a twelve-year-old me is going to walk through the door of my room, look at me sad-faced, and go, "What did you do that for?" I can't seem to fully grasp that I drew the picture, because enough time has passed in my life that I see the twelve-year-old that I was as an entirely separate person. And he makes me feel guilty.
My memories are all in third-person. When I remember being four-years-old, I actually see myself in my memories, face and all. When I remember myself watching Wonder Woman in the kitchen of my first house, I don't just see the television and the details of the room, I actually see a little kid watching television. Not totally concretely, I can't make out specific details of the child, but I definitely have an impression of the child watching television, and my perspective in the memory is not his, but is rather behing him. Like I'm watching a movie of myself. Again, I'm not sure what that means. Leigh thinks it's because of photographs, because photos are the only visual impression we have of ourselves at that point in time, and so we superimpose those impressions into our memories. I agree with her to an extent, but at the same time, even a lot of my new memories seem to be third-person. Maybe all of them, I can't decide.
6.26.2002 I leave for Paris on Sunday. Any time I tell that to anyone, they go, "Ooh!" which is less a word and more a three-syllable noise, "are you excited?!"
And every time I lie. Because the truth is, I don't really get excited about things beforehand. I know, you don't think that's human. I know, you think that's really strange. I've told this to enough people to establish that:
A. I'm alone in this.
B. The idea really bothers most people.
So I lie. I go, "Oh yeah! Absolutely! WOO!" which is really just an act, because I'm tired of getting the confused, shocked, "you-must-be-dead-inside," judgment face. Jesus, people, it's not a choice. I just don't get excited about things beforehand.
The truth is that I don't really feel like I'm going to Paris at all. I mean, I can rationalize that I'm going; I can pack and I can plan and I can use the trip to liven up my small-talk, but the truth is, I don't really feel like I'm going anywhere. I genuinely feel like I'm going to be stuck in Connecticut all summer, huddled in the back of some coffee shop, typing away at a laptop. Cough cough. And when I get to Paris, I'm going to be overcome by excitement, the kind of exhilaration of total surprise, the sort of surprise of "who knew?!" to find myself, as if without knowledge, in complete and total contentment. You all ruin your experiences with presumptions and expectations. Everything I do is an emotional surprise party. Just without all the yelling and obnoxious singing.
Here's a picture of me in Paris. That's one of my favorite ties.
6.25.2002 A dollar to the first person to correctly guess who or what this is.
UPDATE: The dollar goes to Todd, with Gina in second place for creativity and Adam in third for being self-absorbed.
Try zooming all the way in on the third picture. It's Alex Hale, wearing sunglasses, jumping down a pile of rocks at a quarry in New Jersey. We drove past the quarry on the freeway, and decided that our lives would be significantly better if we climbed the sand-mountains and jumped down them. We were, of course, correct.
19 Ashborn Ln. From the minute she opened the door, she looked shocked.
"You're not Chinese!"
"Well...I'm not your food." This was the best I could come up with. I could feel the skin of my cheeks warming to a visible blush. But there was no way I could've seen that remark coming, and in retrospect it was she who should have been embarrassed.
Enter her suspicious husband. "What's going on here?" Clearly I was having an affair with his wife, and he was right to be concerned.
"Oh, honey, this is the Chinese delivery boy!" she laughed, catching her own accidental play on words, "or, I guess you'd prefer 'boy who delivers Chinese food.'" Actually, I preferred "man."
"You're not Chi--" he cut himself off, puzzled. "Well, you're new anyway."
"Yeah, I am actually. New, that is."
Finally, something I could respond to. This was my first day delivering Chinese food. And though I didn't tell them, already tired of the awkward exchange and partly afraid of how they'd respond, this was my first delivery.
"So what's that bill come to again?" the wife asked, taking out her checkbook.
"Twenty-one eighty-three."
"Okay, what I'm going to do is: I'm going to give you a check for twenty-two eighty-three, I'm adding your tip into the check. So when you get back, you make sure that they don't cheat you out of your tip, okay?" A dollar? Yeah lady, it was the guys at the restaurant cheating me out of my tip.
"All right, great, thank you. Have a nice night." I took the payment and turned, stepping over a dog to trip my way out the front door. It had been an interesting first delivery.
But apparently, it wasn't over. The husband chased my car down the driveway, signaling for me to stop. Clearly he'd sensed how much sex I'd had with his wife and just wasn't going to let it slide.
"Hey, you forgot my Coke."
I didn't forget your anything, asshole. "Oh, did we? I'm sorry. Want me to pick one up and bring it back here? It's no problem." If I do this, you're going to tip me again. And for real this time. Asshole.
"No, whatever." He was upset. "Just forget about it." Maybe he thought one of the features of my car was a stocked refrigerator, which would have made his run down the driveway worthwhile. "Look, just don't forget it next time." Next time there is going to be so much spit in your food that you won't even need a drink.
"Absolutely. Again, I'm sorry about the mistake. Enjoy your food."
38-B Oak St. This house had been particularly hard to find, and it was here, or, rather, on the porch of the people who lived above, that I had learned that the 'B' in '38-B' meant "basement." And once the owner, a cruel-looking round woman in her thirties, had finally come to the door, I could hardly hear her over the barking of a very angry dog.
"I'm sorry about him. He's very protective of us." I understood, being equally protective of my genitals.
"It's all right," I told her, like I told the owner of every house, each time like it was the first time I'd said it, "every house has a barking dog." Her dog was snarling, though. If every house had a snarling dog, I would've gone back to working at the furniture store.
"Maureen!" she yelled, turning back into the house. A few seconds later, "Maur-EEN! Bring the thing! The guy's here!" What thing? What was 'the thing?' Was it the dog? Oh good god, was it the dog? It had to be the dog. It was the dog. Was I going to be attacked by a dog? Oh man, I was going to be attacked by a dog.
I raised my eyebrows curiously and obviously, I wanted her to understand that I had no idea what was going on. "Sixteen forty," I repeated.
"Yeah, I gotcha. Not just yet." She smiled widely and cruelly; there was clearly something valuable she knew that I didn't. "You're going to love this," she said, dragging out the parts of the words with a sarcastic tone that made my stomach turn.
"Oh?" I said, already half-bracing myself for the snarling dog.
Still smiling, "I'm really sorry we can't do this any other way." I could hear Maureen approaching.
"Look, if there's a pr--"
"Fi-nally!" the first woman exclaimed as Maureen arrived at the door from the dark within. "Did you bring it?"
"Yeah, I brought it," Maureen cringed, with her arms behind her back, "but he's not going to be happy!"
"Okay." There was nothing I could find to say at that point, save repeating the cost of their dinner a third time. And besides, I was ready to accept my fate.
Still cringing, Maureen brought her hands forward from behind her back. In her hands she held a bowl, which she slowly lowered and put in front of me so that I could understand its contents. It was coins. A lot of them. A hell of a lot of them.
"It's eight-forty, in quarters and dimes--"
"And there're a few nickels," Maureen interrupted, "but not many."
"I hope that's not a problem," the first woman said, putting a ten-dollar bill on top of the change in the bowl. "Oh, and your tip's in there," she added, nodding toward the bowl.
"Oh. Alright. No, it's no problem at all," I said, thanking them and handing over the heavy bag of food in exchange for the even heavier bowl. "Enjoy your food," I finished, starting down the steps of the porch, bowl in hand.
But the first woman called after me. "Hey! Where're you goin'?"
"Pardon?"
"We need the bowl back."
5-G3 Hartman Condos I found the building, found the apartment, but instead of a doorbell, found a video camera mounted above the door, peering down at me. I held up the bag and pointed at it, and could immediately hear someone heavy moving within the apartment.
He opened the door quickly. "You the Chinese guy?" he asked, chuckling. Everyone loved this joke, and I was slowly beginning to take to it myself.
"Uh, yeah. Yeah, I guess I am." I kept up the small talk while soaking up as many details as I could. He looked like Mr. Clean. He was huge, a bald head taller than me, with muscular arms protruding from holes in his shirt where the sleeves had presumably been torn off. "That's what they call me anyway."
"Alright Chinese guy, wha' do I owe ya?" He opened the door a little wider and I could see into his apartment. He had a Confederate flag draped across the back wall of his living room. I wasn't surprised, really, it seemed to go well with the video camera, like a package kit from some Confederate Ikea.
"Let's see...fifteen thirty-four."
"Do ya take money orders?" Earlier that night I had asked my boss to make change for a twenty, expecting people to need change. The entire night, I didn't need to make change even once, and hardly anyone paid in cash. But a money order? I don't think I've ever seen a money order. I must have looked shocked. "HA! I'm just fuckin' around with ya," he laughed, "here ya go. Keep the change."
And so I returned to the road, which over time, as I became more familiar with the twists and turns of the town, I began to consider “my office.” It was a great time in my life, and at that time it was the best-paying job I’d ever had. And it was an exciting job, as rich with characters and absurdity as any book I’d ever read. At the end of the night, when the town had taken-in its fair share of lo-mein, and the paper fortunes had been debated and tossed aside, I would count my earnings and stuff it all into my wallet, so full of ones I could hardly close it. I loved my job. I loved my office. Where the only annoying co-workers were slow drivers, and the greatest complications were mailboxes without numbers and streets newer than my map. My cubicle had wheels. My office had windows. And I would roll them down and sing out-loud.
____________________________________________
Ben Popik is winner of both the Nobelle Peace Prize (1998, for being really calm) and the Pullitsir (2000, for his book Reaganomics and You). Additionally, he played the role of “Jacob” in David Lynch’s upcoming film Dude, Where’s My Plot? He aspires to write sketch comedy and adopt a kitten.
6.21.2002 Great songs off great albums - Right-click to download A. Brad Mehldau - Exit Music (Radiohead cover) - This song, which was originally very beautiful, comes across even more beautifully in this piano cover.
B. Neutral Milk Hotel - The King of Carrot Flowers, pt. 1 - A genuinely happy track off what is in fact a great album, in the sense that the songs work far better together than they do alone. Now let me ruin the album for you.
C. Remy Zero - Fair - The (arguably) saddest song on their album Villa Elaine, probably one of the better albums I've heard in years and definitely one of the few I've paid for.
D. The Beta Band - Alleged - This song is from their third album, Hot Shots II, which (in my opinion) is one of the best albums of the year. The track is relatively happy-sounding, and if you're contented enough with that illusion, don't ever listen to the lyrics.
E. The White Stripes - The Same Boy You've Always Known - I've had more than one person tell me, "Man, the White Stripes are gonna save rock n' roll." Pardon? Save rock n' roll? Just because a few of their songs sound like Who rip-offs doesn't mean that they're going to "save" rock n' roll (a ridiculous concept in itself). Which is not to say that I don't really like the White Stripes, I just don't see the sky opening up for them.
I was writing about up in Michigan and since it was a wild, cold, blowing day it was that sort of day in the story. I had already seen the end of fall come through boyhood, youth and young manhood, and in one place you could write about it better than in another. That was called transplanting yourself, I thought, and it could be necessary with people as with other sorts of growing things. But in the story the boys were drinking and this made me thirsty and I ordered a rum St. James. This tasted wonderful on the cold day and I kept writing, feeling very well and feeling the good Martinique rum warm me all through my body and my spirit.
A girl came in the cafe and sat by herself at a table near the window. She was very pretty with a face fresh as a newly minted coin if they minted coins in smooth flesh with rain-freshened skin, and her hair was black as a crow's wing and cut sharply and diagonally across her cheek.
I looked at her and she disturbed me and made me very excited. I wished I could put her in the story, or anywhere, but she placed herself so she could watch the street and the entry and I knew she was waiting for someone. So I went on writing.
Brendan drives a 1988 Toyota Corolla with a hood ornament off a Cadillac. Across his back bumper: "Join the Army! Travel to far away, exotic lands. Meet interesting, fascinating people...and kill them." The sides are littered with rust spots, the volume-down button on the stereo doesn't work, and I'm fairly sure that the trunk doesn't lock. But Brendan loves his car. But even more than Brendan, the police love Brendan's car. It's like a warrant on wheels. They see him coming and they go "Yay!" Before last night, he had been pulled over exactly fifteen times.
We spent the night at the office of the Hartford Courant, pretending to write and rifling through other peoples' things. It was an unproductive night, but it was fun pretending to be professional. Sitting at the desks of the people I've read. Measuring their worth by the size of their chair. Jim Shea has a giant chair. We loitered there until almost three and the novelty of professional journalism had worn thin.
We met one snag on the way home.
"License, registration, and proof of insurance." TV crime dramas had taught me to expect more foreplay.
Assuming the identity of the world's kindest driver, "Uhh, yeah, sure, hold on one second please." His character was so empathetic he was practically stuttering. "Sure, here ya go." He handed the cop his license while fumbling through his wallet for his insurance. He quickly found the card and gave it over to the officer, while I flipped through the maps and papers in the glove compartment to keep from laughing.
"This is a health insurance card. I need proof of auto-insurance. Do you have that?"
Still clawing through the glove compartment, now with a purpose, "Is this it?" I asked, handing Brendan a toll ticket from the Mass Pike.
"No, no, that's not it." This was so much fun. "Officer, what does it look like?"
"Neither of you knows what the insurance certificate looks like?"
"Is this it?" handing him what appeared to be a receipt for tires. The cop was getting fidgety.
"I think so. Wait, no, that's not it either. Did you look under the thing? Look under the maps."
I finally produced the actual insurance card from the cluttered compartment, and handed it down the line to the annoyed public servant, who took it back to his patrol car to do whatever cops do.
Brendan was gleaming. "D'ya like that health insurance bit?" he laughed, "It's brilliant! JD taught me that one. He pulled it on some cop and they let him go."
I could hardly talk, I was enjoying this so much. I had to keep myself from laughing too loudly for fear that the cop would catch on to our performance. Granted, on some level, I was sorry for Brendan that he might have to take a ticket. He'd hardly been speeding and we were the only car on the road. But mostly I was overjoyed, because the situation was fantastic. I had nothing to lose, and this was the most exciting thing that had happened to me all day. Earlier that afternoon I'd fallen down the stairs, right into the middle of a dinner party my parents were having. But this situation, if only for being personally consequenceless, was far more worthwhile.
"Do you want to know the worst part?" he asked, smiling.
"What?"
"My driver's license is expired."
The cop took his time. We must have sat in the car for ten minutes, debating various humorous scenarios and telling each other police jokes. "What if I got out of the car and just started running? What if I rolled down my window and screamed at the top of my lungs, 'OFFICER DOWN! OFFICER DOWN!' Think that's illegal?"
"What about me, did I look sorry enough?" Brendan asked, rearranging his features. "How about this face, is this sorry enough? I'm really sorry, Ben. I'm sorry I was speeding with you in the car. Sixteen miles over the speed limit? It was unreasonable, and I'm sorry to have endangered you." I was tearing with laughter.
When ten minutes had passed, we resolved ourselves to the fact that a warning couldn't possibly take this long, and that Brendan would probably have to stomach a ticket. This was the sixteenth time he had been pulled-over, and this would be the first ticket he'd receive. The cop finally came back:
"Brandon, were you aware that your license has expired?" I might have laughed when the cop called him "Brandon," this had not been a very professional night for me.
"Oh, really? I'm sorry, Officer, I didn't know. I just got back from school--I go to school in Ohio--and I've been meaning to--"
"Well, we're going to need to tow your car, you can't drive without a license. I can call the tow tr--"
"What if I drove, Officer?" I asked, "I mean, I have my license, I can drive him home."
Addressing Brendan, "Does he have his license?" Sometimes it's like I speak braille.
"Sure," I responded, opening my wallet and handing over my ID, after having made sure that it was, in fact, my real ID, and not that of my twenty-three year-old alter ego.
For a second time the cop walked back to his vehicle, this time with my license, and for a second time Brendan and I broke into a fit of laughter.
"Oh shit." He paused, "Ben, do you know how to drive a stick?"
"Oh shit." I paused, "No. Not at all."
"No, I don't believe you. You drove Mel's car once, you just weren't very good. I'm sure I remember that story."
"Brendan, that never happened!" This situation was fantastic.
"Shit. Shit shit shit shit shit. Shit."
"So teach me! Teach me right now, before he gets back."
"Alright, let's do this. Are you ready? Here we go. Whacher gonna do, is you're gonna put your foot on the brake, your right foot, release the emergency brake, put your left foot on the clutch and put it to the floor, then with your hand, your right hand, take the stick and push it all the way to the left and up, that's first, (Are you following this? You'd better be.) so now you're in first, and you'll ease your foot off the clutch and give it gas, (Roll down your window so you can hear the engine) and when it sounds like you should shift, put the clutch to the floor and pull the stick straight back, that's second, (You with me? Shit, he's coming back.) uhh...middle-up is third, straight back from that is fourth, you'll be fine."
"Alright Brandon, I'll tell you what I'm going to do. The fine for your speeding is sixty dollars, but I'm going to let it go at a warning if you let your friend drive you home."
Opening his door to get out, "Thank you, Officer, thanks a lot. Yeah, he'll drive, don't worry about it. And I'll get my license renewed soon."
Sternly, "Before you drive again."
"Right, will do, have a good night."
The car exploded forward, stuttering back and forth and shaking.
"Push the clutch all the way down!" I lost myself in a confusion of gears and pedals. The transmission let out a gutteral growl and I imagined the patrol car behind us lost in a cloud of smoke. And so we rocketed forward, Brendan yelling commands about pedals I couldn't find and the two of us screaming with laughter. After I made it to second-gear, I caught on to what I was actually doing, and the rest of the ride was a breeze. Which was fortunate because the cop followed us.
6.16.2002
I end up at Blockbuster almost every night, which makes watching movies an expensive past-time. The cost of a trip to Blockbuster is $4.87, plus I have to run into one person I knew in high school, per video. If I want to rent two movies, I have to wait around the store until I run into a second person from my freshman math class, or the people at the counter won't let me leave. And so I've mastered the six-question, faux-personal, catching-up-quickly-and-ackwardly conversation:
1. "Hey! How are you?!"
2. "How's school?"
3. "That's great. What are you studying?"
4. "Oh wow, that's really interesting. So are you around for the whole summer then?"
5. "Wow, that's awesome. So what (video) are you gonna get?"
6. "Yeah, I've heard that's good." (The people at the counter signal that I've talked enough and that they'll unlock the door.) "Alright, I should get going. Give me a call sometime, okay?"
The most interesting tidbit I generally take from these chance meetings, and probably the bit I retain the longest, is an updated report of who's engaged and who's pregnant. And, conveniently, I don't have to trouble myself distinguishing between the two lists, because they are, without exception, exactly the same. One couple from my class has been married for more than a year, their child is already teething, and they've begun house-hunting. Approaching twenty-one years of age, I'm older than these people, and they're already several life-stages ahead of me. Not that I'm in any hurry. I hardly have the drive to clean up after myself, the prospect of having a child is inconceivable to me. Especially a baby. I think I'd just like an eight-year-old who would follow me around, and who would, on cue, repeat various lines of slang that I'd taught him.
"Hey Tiny, whacha up to?"
"You know Mixmaster Ben, just keepin' it real."
Oh, and he'd call me "Mixmaster."
6.15.2002
I don't think you're particularly funny for having a college-style "Star Fleet Academy" sticker on the back window of your car. But that's just my opinion, don't let it get in your way.
6.14.2002
There are too many ways to begin this post and too few ways to end it.
Carolyn and the myth of propriety
I only read Cosmo at Carolyn's house, and usually while she took her time choosing what bra she'd wear that day. Cosmo was a good distraction because each page was a sensory festival. Even besides the carefully-waxed models in sheer tops, each page had about eight pictures and everything was more colorful than life. If only the articles weren't written by melodramatic female children. But I wasn't unhappy, I was surrounded by half-naked women. And even though Carolyn changed her underwear the insecure-female way, pulling both her arms and the bra into her shirt through the sleeves and mothering the amorphous sack of contortion that ensued, only the outer shape of which I could see, I appreciated the idea that, if only for a moment and under a shirt, I was within feet of unclothed breasts. I was fifteen years old. And Cosmo was a good distraction, I didn't want to appear to be too engaged in the process of her changing.
"This is ridiculous. It says that after a break-up, you're supposed to wait half the length of the relationship before seeing someone else."
Modelling in the mirror, "That makes sense." She quickly decided against the undergarment and chose another from the heaped pile in her drawer.
"What? No it doesn't! So if I'm with a girl for a month, I should wait two weeks, but if I'm with her for ten years, I'm supposed to wait five years? Five years?"
"What woman is going to be with you for ten years?"
Ignoring her, "What am I supposed to do during those five years? Golf? I don't even like golf."
She looked unhappy with the second bra, and continued to rummage through the pile. The new color hadn't made her breasts any larger. Some color had this power, and I sensed that the changing would continue until she'd found it.
"So you agree with this crap?"
"I don't know, I haven't really thought about it." Of course, she was right, neither of us had ever really thought about it. And while at that point I was prone to subscribing to a magazine interpretation of the world, that relationships were easy and formulated, that there was an appropriate length of time, and that the minds at Cosmo had just miscalculated it, I had never even had to deal with a break-up. Again, I was fifteen years old.
"Besides," she added, "that magazine's not for you, it's for women. You're supposed to read Jerk Magazine, or something like that." Eight months later, when her boyfriend would dump her after she twice cheated on him, I would scour a subway newsstand in hopes that Jerk Magazine did in fact exist, and that I could mail it to her quickly enough to hurt her feelings.
"So this is a 'women's concept'? This isn't for me?"
"Look," nodding her head in the mirror to finalize the acceptance of her outfit, "all I'm saying is that if you had emotions, you'd understand these things."
"If I had emotions."
"Right."
The appropriate response
Every man I told responded the same way:
"Oh shit! D'ya hit him?" or, "Where d'ya hit 'im?" or, "Dude, you shoulda hit 'im, it's totally your right. You woulda felt so much better."
No matter how many women I told, none of them seemed to understand. For being the self-proclaimed softer sex, every woman I knew was surprisingly hardened.
"What's the big deal? You were already broken up, right? So what's the big deal?"
But the men understood. Every one I told. Some of them had been hit, others had done the hitting, but regardless of their personal history, all of them seemed to understand the appropriate conduct for the situation. I tried to explain to one of my female friends the nature and sacred power of the unspoken Rules of Conduct that all men live by, but the finer points eluded her.
"So you were supposed to hit him?" She looked perplexed.
"Yeah, it's the appropriate response. Either that or never talk to him again."
"So did you?"
"Hit him? No, I wouldn't hit Jon. He wanted me to, though."
"Why would he want you to hit him?!"
I had to think about how to answer that. I was born with a knowledge of these rules, I'd never heard them verbalized and it felt strange to reduce such stone laws to words.
"I guess the best way to articulate it is that a punch in the face evens things out a bit. He hurt me, so he too should be hurt. It basically means that he values our friendship despite contrary evidence."
She was silent at that. It was a full minute before she spoke again. "Okay, one more time. You and she broke up?"
"Right."
"He and she hooked up--"
"And I walked in on it, yeah."
"Even if you did walk in on it and even if he is your best frien--"
"Was my best friend." I smiled and she rolled her eyes.
"Fine. Even if he was your best friend, I don't understand how any of this translates to physical violence."
"Well, it didn't, I didn't touch him."
"Alright, so you didn't punch your friend in the face. So, what, are you never going to talk to him again now?"
"I don't know what I'm going to do. I feel really sick about the whole thing."
"This all seems really ridiculous to me, you weren't even dating her anymore.
Comic relief from Alex Hale
We were two hours into a three-and-a-half hour drive, and we'd already listened to the same album all the way through twice. And we had talked about one thing the entire ride. At least we were out of New Jersey.
"What if you fooled around with his mom?" Somehow in Alex's mind, mothers and ex-girlfriends were comparable.
"Is Jon's mom hot?" These are the times that try mens' souls.
"Err...no offense to Jon's mom, but maybe you should just wait until he gets a girlfriend, and then fool around with her."
"But they'd have to be together for two years before the situation would be comparable." What am I supposed to do during those two years? Golf? I don't even like golf.
"That's true." He thought for a moment. "You could kill him."
I smiled, finally, "Yeah, I could always kill him."
"And Jon? He's not even that big. Seriously, do you know how easy it would be to kill a man?"
"Oh, yeah, totally. I could kill us both right now. I could hit that tree, or that tree, that tree, or that pole, or that tr--"
"Whoa now. Whooooooa now." As if coaxing me off a ledge, "Stay focused, man. Remember, you're not su-icidial, you're hom-icidal. It's a big difference right now because it involves me."
A different person without glasses
It was one of the longer nights of my life. I couldn't sleep, couldn't stop thinking about it, and every time I closed my eyes I saw him on top of her again. Strange the details we remember. His red face. It's rare that I see Jon without his glasses, he always looks like a different person. Her smile. She looked proud and I worry that I'll never forget it. The way every organ in my body sank. I could imagine my blood turning white and the color leaving my entire body.
It was a long night, but it eventually ended. Nearly everyone at the party was awake by eleven, and fifteen bodies that had in sleep crowded every soft surface of the house emerged to the kitchen to feed. Everyone except for Jon. Which on any other day would have been worrisome, Jon normally woke up before any of us. At school I'd often stop by his room on the way to breakfast to entreat his company, but most days I'd find his bed empty and Jon up and gone. But today was hardly normal, and Jon stayed in bed until one. Maybe he thought he'd wait me out, or maybe he was just tired from late night endeavors, but even once he emerged in the early afternoon, I never seemed to find myself in the same room as him. Every room in the New Jersey home seemed to have two doors, and as soon as I'd enter one he'd slip out the other. And even when we were in the same company, which was at most for a matter of minutes, his eyes never met my stare.
Finally, before I left, I managed to corner him in the kitchen.
"Jon Capone."
"Ben." He paused for a second and looked down at his shirt before starting into an apology. "Look, I just wanted to say that what I did was inexcusa--."
"Take your glasses off." I was giving him my poker face, for fear of showing any emotion at all. I wanted him to know how serious I was.
He took off his glasses, folding them closed with both hands before resting his arms at his sides. "Wouldn't want to break those." He had clearly been waiting for this. "Look," he said, "I want you to know that I'm not going to fight back." And that was the last straw. I couldn't take it. I couldn't maintain a straight face any longer, and my cheeks broke into a smile and my silence into a laugh.
"Jon, what the hell are you talking about?" I laughed, "I'm not going to hit you, put your fucking glasses back on."
6.11.2002
I've been working for a couple days on a substantial post, so excuse my recent, apparent hiatus. I'm almost finished with it, and I don't really want to post it until it's complete.
Something to think about until then: Alex called me a few weeks ago with a question he wanted my opinion on. After he told me what it was, I quickly admitted that I didn't have nearly the background I needed to approach the question intellectually. So we agreed to hold the question for a period of weeks, each do some research on the subject, and talk again on June 10th. Of course, being of the easily-distracted/lazy generation, we didn't talk then, and we haven't talked yet. So, instead, I'll open the debate here, and hope that a few of you (and myself) will have the energy to join us. I'll begin by posting the broad debate, and then tailor the question if the argument is reduced to semantics.
And so, I bring you, The Hale Debate:
What does it mean that Einstein, Darwin, and countless other scientific icons believe in the existence of a God?
6.06.2002
I promised a girl I'd write something really inspiring before I fell asleep, but I'm going to let her down. I'm not feeling that inspired right now. In fact, for the first time in as long as I can remember, I don't really feel anything. It's not bad, I'm not unhappy, I just feel...sedated. Coming back to Connecticut has in the past been accompanied by such extreme emotions, but this time is different. I spend most of the day alone, but I'm not particularly lonely. Which is odd for me. Something about me has changed, must have changed, for me to feel this way. It's like I've put my active mind on hold, like I've paused my progressing reality, and am instead dealing with things on minute levels. Walking down to the mailbox today I was struck by the beautiful smell of the white roses that line our driveway and I was blown away the sensation. Like it was new to me. I wanted to lie down and take it in all afternoon. I think on some level I'm not letting myself be affected by things, mostly by the shortcomings that have plagued past breaks. But at the same time I'm not used to being so devoid of emotion. I have a plan, though, I won't stay this way for too much longer. I even have a date in mind. I know that must sound strange.
Animals have inborn behaviors. Salmon swin upstream to die. Squirrels begin stocking up on food long before the first frost. Entire flocks of birds simultaneously pick up and fly South. All animals have these behaviors. Humans are animals. I'm a human. I have these behaviors.
I don't wear jeans. I don't like the way they feel. They're not comfortable, so I don't wear them. But every six years, at the beginning of the summer, I buy a pair of jeans. Imagine my surprise: I woke up this morning and I knew, "Today I have to buy some jeans." It wasn't even an option, really. Driving to the mall I thought about it, and the last time I bought a pair of jeans was six years ago this summer. Six years before that I did the same. In both past instances, I wore the jeans religiously for about six months before tossing them aside. What a boring pattern. Jesus christ. Salmon swim upstream to die, and I drive to a West Hartford mall to buy uncomfortable pants.
And so, I went to the mall. Which is always an experience. The theme at the mall today, which must have been advertised, though I didn't see any signs, was "attractive women my age and their babies." It was a lot of fun, winding my way through the strollers. The mall always puts a big smile on my face, it's so alive with absurdity. Probably because of that smile, I was stopped by two men.
"Excuse me, sir, we'd like to have a word with you." Great. What was this going to be about? A scam? Some Nigerian proposition? Jesus?
"This is Steve, and my name is Bob." They were large men, and Steve's front teeth were chipped in half, which I didn't discover until later because Bob did all the talking. I shook their hands, because they stuck them out in front of me. "And what's your name?"
"Oh, I'm Ben, I'm buying pants."
They smiled at that, "Ben, the reason we stopped you, the reason we wanted to talk to you, is we wanted to invite you to come experience something that change my life." Had Steve experienced this? Is this what chipped Steve's teeth? I'd had too much orthodontic work to risk an experience like that. "I'm speaking of a new non-denominational church in Hartford." Oh, it was Jesus. I tried to keep my polite-atheist poker face, but one of my features must have given way to a look, probably the look of realizing that I hadn't won anything and these poorly-dressed men were decidedly not from the state lottery commission.
Steve spoke for the first time, "Ben, this church changed my life, I mean, it really did. It showed me the real Bible and it opened my eyes. Let me ask you, are you a religious man?"
"No, I wouldn't say that I am. Not really, no."
"Well have you read the Bible?"
"Yeah, definitely. I've read the Bible, I just don't agree with a good deal of it. And since we're on topic, I have a lot of quarrels with organized religion as well."
"So you believe in a God but you don't attend church?"
"Well, actually, I wouldn't say that I limit myself to the concept of a God." Steve laughed at this point, and looked down at his stained Patriots shirt so that he wouldn't have to keep eye contact me while laughing at my ideas. But Bob kept a straight face, so I kept talking. "I would say that I'm spiritual, that I do have religious beliefs, but not that I'm really tied to the notion of a God at all."
It was Bob's turn again, "Well maybe you could come down to the church and check it out."
It was lying time. I wanted my pants, dammit. "Actually, I don't live in Connecticut, I'm here visiting friends."
"Oh, where do you live, we have churches everywhere."
"New York, actually."
"Oh! Great! We have several churches in the city, there's one right on--" Bob was enjoying this game.
"Not in the city, I live hours north of there, in the countryside, in a town called Red Hook. Do you have a church there?" Take that, bitch.
"What's that near?"
"Nothing, Bob, nothing at all." I shook their hands again before parting in silence, and continued on my way past a store where you can design and build your own teddy bear. I hate the mall.
6.05.2002 In the "News" "Teen Killing Prompts Call for 'Scream' Ban" - This is absolutely ridiculous in about eight ways. In "Scream," which I would hardly consider to carry any message at all, let alone the message to kill your classmates, the poorly-written ending consists of the two teenage murderers both blaming the violent movie industry for motivating them to commit the crimes, and admitting that they would use the media to defend the substance of their supposed motive in an attack on the makers of such films. I can't believe the article misses this point! The symmetry is pretty, if only for the unintended irony, but the total story is immature at best.
I think this whole movies-motivating-crime argument is really ridiculous. Why stop at movies? Why not impose our fear and restrictive power onto more mainstream media? Consider how many more fire scares, bomb threats, and actual school shootings resulted of the news-festival that was the Columbine shootings. These kids were obviously looking for attention, so our media gave them the most attention than the Gulf War. And then we're surprised at copycats? We need more of a check on the media that we have.
"Sexually Frustrated Dolphin Sparks Alert" - 400 pounds! Jesus! That would be like being attacked by a sexually frustrated motorcycle. That would keep me out of the water. I'm just not in the mood.
"Fire Station's Beer Machine Questioned" - "Between the fish fries and people up there working, they'll have a few beers," King said. "When we get a fire run, they'll say, 'Stop (drinking).' They'll say, 'You go, you go and you go.' They point out the people who've never been drinking." That wasn't a very good quote at all.
Actually, in my town, all we have are volunteer firefighters, which wouldn't be a problem if:
A. I didn't know half of them, and
B. my house wasn't begging to be burned down already.
Let me explain. My house is on the top of a winding road, near the top of a hill. The only hydrant, however, is a six of a mile down the road, and it's really just a tube which would connect the fire truck to the murky pond at the bottom of my street. There's certainly no water pressure in the tube, I hope they bring that with the truck. Anyway, so as if my house, built conveniently out of tissue paper and kindling, weren't in enough trouble as it is, (Are the hoses even that long? Can the trucks pump water a sixth of a mile up a hill?) the only firefighters who could possibly respond to the hypothetical fire must first respond to a walkie-talkie telling them to leave whatever they're doing, which may or may not be a party at Dan's house, and come down to the fire station.
I think what gives New York its power, at least in my mind, is the strength of its geometry. I love that city. I love letting my eyes get lost in it. And I need to live there. And I'll need a job.
6.03.2002
"You're welcome to join us for lunch, we'd enjoy the company." She must have mistaken my daydreaming stare in her general direction for some sort of deliberate advance.
"Oh, no, thank you. I'm already eating with someone." But who? Quickly. "I'm eating with my friend Jon."
Inevitably we'd end up eating at the same restaurant, where I would have to dodge her loaded glances and grudgingly feign the tension of waiting and the eventual disappointment of having been stood up. I stared at the glass doors expectingly. I wore my grief face. I made a point to glance at my watch about every two minutes. Sometimes I'd hold my wrist in the air until I saw her head turn toward me in the corner of my vision. I wanted her to know how serious I was. Lying is one thing, but being caught is something entirely different, something I just wouldn't have ruin my sandwich.
I finally finished the new layout! There was one final step in the writing of the code that proved impossible to even circumnavigate, so I had to redesign the entire table structure. Anyway, it took too long, but now it's finished. I'd like to thank Adam Conover, (who is now--for better or worse--totally immersed in German culture) for being a bigger geek than I and having some good ideas about how to solve annoying HTML problems. I'd like to use this line to express my honest opinion that the internet is designed all wrong. The best part about this layout is all the tricks I used to substitute for actual knowledge. There are a lot of them. Look for them, it will make coming to my page more like reading Highlights magazine.
In this picture, find the snake, needle, golf club, nail, ice-cream pop, carrot, pencil, ax, pushpin, bell, ring, spoon, and toothbrush. Then scold yourself for feeling accomplished after completing a puzzle intended for children. Then get a job, hippie.
6.01.2002
I'm leaving in a few minutes for New York, where I'm going to spend a couple days hanging out with my girlfriend from seventh grade. Can you believe that? I haven't seen her in literally ten years. I think I've been using the word "literally" too often. I'm definitely excited. She's this one. Man I love having a linkable past. You know those girls that change your life whether they intend to or not? She's one of those, or, she was, when she was ten years smaller. So, the whole idea of meeting up with her again is rewarding on several levels. My hair's an inch long right now and I still can't get it right.
