My Games Manifesto. Although I am tolerant of people’s Mafia and Farmville addictions, if you add me although we never talked in high school for the sole purpose of trying to recruit me to your Farm, I’ll annul our virtual coupling faster than Charlie Sheen can say “Another court subpoena?”
My Stalker Manifesto. Yes, I will continue to drop in on your profile every now and then. Yes, it’s because we did that one thing that one time. And I do realize that you could de-friend me at any time--although if you do, I’ll simply worm my way back into your network by pretending to be your long-lost cousin Olaf. By the way, like that dress in your profile pic.
My Stalkee Manifesto. Feast your eyes, Glenn Close. It’s my treat.
My Don’t-be-So-Literal Manifesto. Yes, I know that every time you log in, Facebook asks “What’s on your mind?” Think of it as Facebook making polite conversation. This doesn’t necessarily mean that Facebook wants to know how much you need coffee, or a nap, or a way to get the lint out of your clothes. If you keep it up, Facebook is going to run away from you--just like everyone at the office.
My Picture Tagging Manifesto. Okay, look, I know you have that pic of me and the aardvark. Please don’t upload it and tag me for everyone to see.
My 2nd Picture Tagging Manifesto. Or the one of me and the mongoose.
My 3rd Picture Tagging Manifesto. The one with the ferret is okay, though, because I’m pretty sure I was wearing a Groucho Marx mask and rainbow wig at the time.
My Ignore-the-Luddite Manifesto. Whatever, so you don’t want to “risk your personal information,” or “compromise your privacy” or something and that’s why you refuse to join Facebook. Fine, that’s your choice. Just don’t expect me to respond to your emails and texts. Do you know how much energy it is to hit “reply” and type something? I would much rather simply click the “Like” button and enjoy the fulfillment of a genuine moment of human interaction.
My Arms-Reach-is-Close-Enough Manifesto. I like being your Facebook friend because it allows me to see your life with my peripheral vision--not straight on, but crooked, like peering through slanted blinds. And I may occasionally leave a comment. But if you leave a post on my Wall saying we should get together some time, I’ll simply leave a non-committal “that sounds good.” Because really, that person you’re with--not so great. And that thing you do, not so hot.
I wish you well, though. Perhaps you’d like to join my Farm?
I knew it would be a change to go from a large company, where I oversaw a team of six, to a startup with an annual operating budget that’s only slightly higher than the average budget for a junior high presentation of My Fair Lady. But it really has been a learning experience. By the end of my long tenure at my last company, I was ordering my employees to go out and get haircuts on my behalf. Now? I have to do everything myself.
ME: We’re launching our new site in two weeks! We need to record videos of our high-tech widget!
THEY: Great. What’s your plan?
ME: I know several vendors who can do the job!
THEY: Do they work for free?
ME: ....no.
(THEY drop a video recording and editing software package on my desk.)
THEY: Congratulations, Spielberg.
(LATER)
ME: The videos are done! Now we need voice talent to record the audio tracks!
THEY: Great. What’s your plan?
ME: I’ll hire Kate Beckinsale! She has the sultry, sensuous style that’s needed to truly differentiate our high-tech widget in the marketplace.
THEY: And how much does Kate Beckinsale cost?
ME: I think I can negotiate her down to two mil. Actually, I hear she’ll do it for one mil if you don’t force her to wear her leather jumpsuit from the Underworld movies during the recording.
THEY: Given that our budget for voice talent is zero, we advise you to start doing diaphragm exercises.
ME: Me? Do the voice work? I’m not a professional voice artist.
THEY: Just do your normal speaking voice.
ME: But my normal speaking voice is a falsetto that intermittently breaks out into the chorus of “No You Girls” by Franz Ferdinand.
Can you believe that the son of J.D. Salinger is Matt Salinger, who played Captain America in a really terrible direct-to-video movie in the early ‘90s?
Wouldn’t it have been nice if Matt Salinger was the recluse who never showed his art to anyone, and J.D. was the one who was up in everyone’s face with Catcher and Glass family sequels?
But no, there’s an old saying: if you have a father and son who are both in the entertainment industry, the one who doesn’t dress in spandex will be both brilliant and agoraphobic.
Although, I must say, I don’t think of J.D. Salinger as dead. I think of him as just slightly more reclusive than before.
On the same day that J.D. died, so did the tiny psychic woman from the old Poltergeist movie. I hear she’s going to be on TV later to talk about it.
Speaking of celebrities, did you know that Evangeline Lily, star of Lost, got her start doing party line commercials?
I post this because everyone used to laugh at me when I called those things, saying I was wasting my time. Well, this proves that I wasn’t. I was talking to future television stars.
I do wish I had asked her why she bothered to put on all that makeup just to talk on the phone, though.
My new morning routine includes a 20-minute walk through San Francisco to work. I’ve started to recognize a few regulars. For example, as I emerge out of the subway I often see a homeless man who spreads his arms, twists, and pirouettes in place, off in his own little corner. He never asks for money or even mumbles to himself. He seems fixated on filling up a little patch of space with his own twirling self. On Martin Luther King Day, which was a vacation for much of the city (but not for me), he wasn’t there. It’s good that he took the day off to recharge; pirouetting takes a lot out of you.
A girl often thrusts a newspaper at me whenever I climb the stairs out of the subway station. I think she must recognize me, because I’m pretty sure I’m one of the only people who takes the steps two at a time. (Life is too short to take steps one at a time.) I always smile and shake my head at her, and for a while she gave up. But every five days or so she thrusts her newspaper at me obstinately, as though hoping that last night was the night I destroyed all my RSS feeds and swore my undying allegiance to newsprint.
A guy on the corner sells stuff. During last month’s cold snap, he sold gloves. Lately, during the downpour, he’s been selling umbrellas. I want this guy around whenever I’m mugged; he’ll probably be selling tasers. Or when I’m making out with someone; he’ll be selling...well, anyway.
I walk down 2nd street and I am constantly amazed how many places there are to buy coffee. With all the competition, you’d think that they would fall over themselves to please their customers. But I have found myself ignored when I want to order, or glared at impatiently as a woman stands by with a sponge, waiting to wipe the counter when I’m done pouring in cream. I wonder if perhaps the point of selling coffee in the city isn’t profit. Perhaps they are all part of a big Coffee Hive, and it doesn’t matter which of them does the selling. They’re all in it together--a vast network of caffeine vendors--and all they want is to make us speed up, walk faster, last longer, go farther.
The people I really like to see are a rare occurrence, but I keep an eye out for them. They’re the people who come at you from the opposite direction. And they’re smiling and laughing. You have to look to see if they’re actually talking on a bluetooth, or if a little white wire trickling out of their ears indicates they’re listening to a funny podcast. If not, then you’re in the presence of a very rare sighting. You’ve found the people who are remembering something or thinking something so great that they can’t keep it inside of them. It floats up to their face and causes them to grin as they walk, and they carry their amusement with them like a balloon.
We all carry burdens with us as we move forward on our life’s journey, and I’ve recently realized that I have many unresolved issues in regards to Ryan Reynolds.
It has nothing to do with taking Scarlett Johannson off the market--he can have her. Nevertheless, my issues with Reynolds are manifold:
1. First, I had a screenplay in mind a while back that Reynolds would have been perfect for, but I never finished it and shortly afterwards his star really took off. So that’s annoying.
2. He ditched Alanis Morissette, and her music seems pretty angry to me. What did he do to her? I bet it wasn’t nice.
3. I am highly distrustful of his admittedly impressive trifecta of comic timing, perfect hair, and abs. You can be funny or you can have abs, but you can’t have both. And he always shows them off in movies, which is annoying. They tell you to turn off your cell phone in the movie--can they also tell Reynolds to sheathe his abs?
I’ll record the voiceover myself: “Please, be considerate of other patrons and keep your shirt on for the duration of this movie. If you cannot comply, the usher will be by to kick you all the way back to Two Guys, a Girl, and a Pizza Place.”
And finally, he’s got the same problem that Jude Law did a while back: he’s everywhere. In fact, it’s possible that he’s stalking me. I’ve seen several movies lately, and he’s been in all of them.
The Proposition. First, you may be asking me why I saw a Sandra Bullock romantic comedy. The answer is simple: shut up. But you know, it could have been kind of good the way the first Miss Congeniality was. Sandra Bullock is more naturally funny than the raptor-like Julia Roberts. But no--the experience of watching this movie made me long for the sweet, simple pleasures of a sucking chest wound.
Adventureland. The main stars of this indie coming-of-age story are Jesse Eisenberg (recently in Zombieland) and Kristen Stewart from the Twilight movies. Reynolds has such a small part that I can only assume he took the role specifically to annoy me.
The Nines. Reynolds is the star of this movie from writer/director John August, and I liked it quite a lot. I suspect most people will have issues with the confusing story construction and the completely over-the-top ending, but John August, who wrote the brilliant Go, didn’t bore me once and brought his trademarked snappy dialogue, and so I enlist myself as this movie’s personal bodyguard. Reynolds, however, takes off his shirt.
And finally, I got a chance to see Avatar. You never know what you’re going to get with these CGI movies, but all I was hoping for was a little freedom from the burdens I carry in my everyday life. Instead? It was a lightning-fast frame of the film, but in the background of one of the Na’vi scenes, I could clearly see:
Some people wonder when it’s necessary to enter into couples therapy. Personally, I like to do it on the first date.
It’s pretty simple to do as long as I don’t tell her about it in advance. I take her to dinner, maybe a couple of drinks, and Boom--Suddenly we’re inside an office with wood paneling and framed degrees on the wall. I say, “Well, doctor, I think she thinks that I undertipped at the restaurant. It sounds trivial now, but it will escalate into major problems down the line.”
The best part is when she’s staring at me incredulously. “See?” I like to point out. “She’s completely dumbstruck. This indicates a lack of trust and commitment.”
People tell me that they believe in therapy because it helps them “work” on themselves. You know what I’m working on these days? My upstairs bathroom. The grouting is insane. Apparently, the former owners of my house thought that grout was like a gang sign and you should “tag” your bathroom. The grouting is all over the place, kind of like Obama explaining why he’s committing more troops to Afghanistan. Unless therapy involves grouting, I categorically refuse to spend my free time “working” on anything.
None of this is to say that I don’t think that couples can’t benefit from a third party perspective. I genuinely believe that people in love should visit someone who can assess them objectively, explain their current situation, and help them map out a path for the future. It’s just that I don’t call this individual a therapist--I call this person an accountant.
I’m not putting this here because I can’t say “I love you” to you, because I can; it’s just that I want to say it more than once, and use as many mediums as I can find. I’d skywrite it above Pacbell Park if I could, interrupting the game and forcing everyone to crane their necks upward. It wouldn’t matter if they didn’t understand the message--even though it’s left where they can find it, it’s not for them any more than hieroglyphics are for museum patrons.
I know you have to leave, and I never expected you to stay forever, and so now I want to tell you that there have been times in my life when I’ve needed strength, and I had strength, and the strength was yours. There have been times in my life when I’ve needed courage, and I found courage, and the courage was yours. There have been times in my life when I’ve needed wisdom, and I found wisdom, and the wisdom was yours. I wasn’t able to get all of it, but I was able to learn something about how you used yours, and then I was able to use part of it for myself.
And it’s not just me. People around you are attracted to those qualities in you and often stand in awe of them. And you’re able to share them, to allow other people to gain the benefit of them. Here, perhaps this will be an analogy that you like: you create a thermodynamically favorable reaction--you transfer your qualities to others and they receive the energy, like a transition from a high-energy state to a low-energy state.
That doesn’t quite add up? Well, you know that kind of talk isn’t my comfort zone. It’s the thought that counts.
I know there’s no way to make this easier on myself, and I find that all I really want to do is make it easier on you. So maybe I’ll just remind you of a few things: for those who won’t have a chance to know you, I will tell them all about you and their heads will fill up with images of you. Pictures and videos and stories will be passed on from person to person. It will be easy to remember you because no one will ever have forgotten. And through the cycles of forgetting and remembrance, they will also carry the embers of your strength, wisdom, and courage. Your store of these qualities is tremendous and it is not so easily depleted.
I understand that we may not meet again, but even if we did, saying “Until we meet again” is a cop out: that’s not what I want to say. I want to say that I’m glad that we met at all, that I knew you and for so long, and even though I wish it were longer, I’m still grateful for the time we had. And I want to say “Goodbye” and I want to say “I love you.” And I will keep saying it until you have to leave, and I will probably continue saying it for some time, even if you can no longer hear me.
The other thing I did lately was quit my job of nearly eleven years. I quickly learned to sympathize with Robert Pattinson and Kristen Stewart: everyone asks you the same questions, all the time. So I can be forgiven for making things up. I just didn’t expect anyone to believe me.
HUMAN RESOURCES (calling my cell): I can’t believe it! I just heard the news! Where are you going next? What’s your plan?
ME: Well, I never meant for this company to be my entire life. I want to get back to my real love--the thing I was doing before I took this job. And that’s what I’m doing. I’m going back to porn.
HR: ....
ME: But I don’t want to call it ‘acting.’ I think that’s crude. I think of it more as performance art. And there’s a lot I’ve learned here that I can take with me. For example, when you do a marketing campaign, there’s a point that I like to think of as ‘the money shot.’ Now, it’s not an apples to apples comparison, but I think the money shot of business-to-business marketing can be very applicable to a literal money shot.
HR: ...
ME: ....
HR: ....Ohhh.
ME: I’M KIDDING, KAREN.
HR: Oh! Okay. I take it very seriously when people tell me where they plan to go next, so I thought, well maybe that’s what Greg is planning to--
ME: Even if I wanted to, in what alternate universe do I actually have the qualifications?
Moving into a new neighborhood is like stepping into a face full of cobwebs. You blink your eyes and realize that you weren’t the first living thing to be here, and it almost feels as though your presence disrupts the natural order.
When I pull into my driveway, I sometimes look up and see that the people on the hilltop across the street--whom I haven’t had a chance to meet yet--go to their window and peer down at me, apparently making sure that I’m supposed to be there. They recognize my car and retreat back into their living room to watch TV.
“Oh, we look out for each other here,” said a woman whom I did get a chance to meet. “We’re all in the neighborhood watch and we make sure that we’re all okay. Why, just last year I helped run off a burglar. They were about to break through the glass at Janey’s house!”
How this waif-like mother helped run off a burglar remains explained. Perhaps she’s tougher than she looks. I take a step back.
Of course, you always have to explain yourself as well. “I’m in marketing and I work in the city,” I say. “I have never killed anyone, although sometimes I like to put underwear on tiny dogs. I am also available for babysitting at a nominal fee.” I haven’t said this last bit, but I’m often tempted.
“You mean you haven’t been approached by Tom yet?” Another neighbor exclaimed. “He always talks to the new residents. He’s sort of the caretaker around here.” There’s always one of those everywhere, isn’t there? The self-appointed guardian. Someone with too much time on their hands who hasn’t discovered either embroidery or the Internet.
“Do you want me to give him your e-mail address?” The neighbor continued. “He has a mailing list for the neighborhood.”
“...and what kinds of things are discussed on this mailing list for this entire, expansive block?” I asked.
“Oh, you know. Whether the nearby school is making too much noise, when we’re having a block party. That sort of thing.”
I gave him my e-mail address. Because I’d like to be on that mailing list. I’d like to know what’s going on. A neighborhood street is a lot like a big, cement life raft in the middle of an ocean...people jump on at random times, look at each other warily, and then relax and take comfort in the fact that other people decided to join the exact same raft. We float through time for a while--some jump off, but generally speaking, we all expect to be with each other for the long haul, so let’s make sure we recognize the cars that pull into our driveways, and for God’s sake let’s make sure we’re on the same page about that next block party.
Oh hey, I have a blog? Why didn’t anyone tell me? I had no idea.
Yeah, so, I’ve been a little busy lately. First, I sold my condo. When I got the paperwork back on the sale, I noted that the buyers were two women. Now, this doesn’t necessarily mean that my place was bought by two women in a relationship, but it does kind of point in that direction. And I have to say that I’m a little annoyed. I used to spend practically every weekend in bars trying to get two lesbians to come back to my place, and as soon as I move out they make a beeline for it? Real classy, ladies, real classy.
Then I bought a house. I spent a lot of time trying to find one I liked. It wasn’t easy. But I found a nice little house and it felt like the right fit. I decided to make an offer on it. When I came back to look at it more carefully, I found an omen: in the back yard was a little Ben Kenobi action figure with its feet planted into the foundation:
I came over to it and knelt down. Ben seemed to be meditating.
I said, “Should I buy this house, Ben?”
Trust your feelings.
“Right, but what I’m saying is, is it a good idea to go ahead and get this house?”
Trust your feelings.
“Do you say anything else besides ‘trust your feelings’?”
‘Get my feet out of this damn cement’ comes to mind. I’m a Jedi master, not a 1930s gangster.
The place has some problems. It’s perched on a hill, and to say that the floors are sloping is like saying that Chris Brown has anger management issues. The hardwood floors squeak like a pack of mice. But it’s big, quiet, and the from the deck relaxes me. I may need to be relaxed in the months ahead due to work and some other matters, so I’m going to hope that Ben didn’t lead me astray.
There’s been a snag in the sale of my place. I received a nice offer, but then the buyer conducted a home inspection that revealed something behind one of the bathroom walls.
“What is it?” I asked my realtor.
“It appears to be a monster.”
“WHAT?”
“Yes, there’s a monster behind one of your bathroom walls.”
“What kind of monster?”
“Well, the inspector thinks it resembles that beast that tagged Luke Skywalker across the face in The Empire Strikes Back.”
“You mean a Wampa?”
“.........how did you know the actual name?”
“Never mind that. Look, there isn’t a Wampa hiding behind my bathroom wall.”
He shrugged. “The inspection shows otherwise. We’ll have to kill it with a lightsaber. You and the buyer will have to split the costs.”
“I don’t have a lightsaber.”
“Hmm, that means we’ll have to kill it with a balpeen hammer. That will increase the cost.”
“God damn it!”
Well, okay, apparently the inspection actually revealed “a high level of humidity, possibly indicating mold,” rather than a Wampa. But seriously, it might have well been a Wampa. There is no mold in my goddamn place. Except maybe when I forget to clean out my refrigerator sometimes.
I recently put my condo on the market. Before I did, I hired a stager.
I was a little afraid to do so. I can always tell when I visit a staged house. It doesn’t feel real; it feels...staged.
So how did they do?
Well, first of all, they put wagon wheels on the wall:
Apparently, you should want to live in this condo once you’ve had a long, dusty day heading out west with the rest of the pioneers.
Also, and you can’t see it very well, but there’s a gigantic wooden key behind the vase on the left. What exactly does this key unlock--the place where the good staging furniture is kept?
There are also, on the dining room wall, gigantic cut out wooden pieces in the shape of utensils:
I’d feel less weird about it if I had the actual utensils to use. I mean, sometimes I like to take a really big bite of cereal.
That drawer against the living room wall is actually mine:
The stager dragged it out of my bedroom. It holds my clothes, which are still in it. I wondered if any prospective buyer opened a drawer and got an eyeful of my underwear and socks.
Also, note that she took the TV out of there. Personally, I think a house without a television is just creepy. But she also took out the bookshelves and books. Without TV or books, what are people supposed to do who live here? Admire the cut out utensils?
Finally, there’s this bed:
Nice duvet. Did the country of Ireland get sick and puke all over it? How are you supposed to fall asleep on it--count not only sheep, but also Shepherd’s pie? Is the northern part of the bed fighting for home rule? I mean…
HE: And I found out that Green Day was playing a secret show at the club to practice for their upcoming tour, so I grabbed my videocamera, went there, and totally caught them playing their new single. Then I uploaded it to YouTube.
ME: Wow. Really? You did that? I’ve always wondered who films those things and uploads them. And here I am, talking to one of them. You’re one of them. You’re one of those guys.
HE: Yeah! It’s great! It’s already got 150,000 views and, like, over 100 comments by people saying how cool it is!
ME: Don’t you worried about getting sued?
HE: Oh no, the record company and the band don’t care. It’s, like, free publicity for them.
ME: Okay, cool. So can I find this masterpiece by doing a search on YouTube for your name?
HE: Well, no, you need to do the search for my alias, Biff Barton.
