So I scheduled a doctor’s appointment, and the doctor assured me, “It’s called [UNINTELLIGIBLE SKIN THING THAT I DON’T REMEMBER] and it’s completely benign.  If you want, you can have it removed--although since that would qualify as elective surgery, your insurance won’t cover it.”

I said, “If it’s benign, why would I do that?”

“Well, for aesthetic reasons.”

“Aesthetic? It’s an armpit.  I wasn’t planning to enter it in any beauty contests.”

“Some people like to have those sort of things removed.”

“Doc, if I’m going in for elective surgery, it better be for something cool like grafting Pegasus wings to my back.  Lasers are for shooting at stormtroopers; I don’t want them anywhere near my armpit.”

Anyway, that pretty much wrapped up the point of my visit. But since I was already there, I went ahead and had the rest of the checkup done--including blood work. The young girl came in and prepared to put the needle into my arm.

She said, “You have great veins.”

I blinked. “Thanks?”

“It’s true. I’ve had patients in here all day but these are the best veins so far.”

I said, “Don’t worry.  I’m not vain about it.”

(Crickets)

Then she said, “Okay, I’m about to put the needle in. You might feel a pinch.”

A second later, I said “That didn’t hurt at all.  You’re a pro.”

“Yeah. I get that a lot.”

No wonder she doesn’t like puns relating to the word “vain.” She’s got more vanity than all the characters in a Thackeray novel put together.  If I was carting around that kind of ego, I’d be touchy about the subject too.

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?

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.

THEY: Perfect!  Just be sure to enunciate.

This is going to take some getting used to.

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.

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.

ME: Huh?

SHE: We’re a soap company. This person will handle marketing our hand soap product.

ME: Oh right.

SHE: So we’re trying to figure out how to ask the questions we want to ask without getting sued…

ME:  Like what?

SHE: “How much do you want this hand job?”

ME: .....

SHE: “"What do you need to be paid for this hand job?”

ME: “Tell me about friction you’ve experienced with your previous hand jobs.”

Landscape back yard using “The Complete Middle Earth” Lord of the Rings action figure collection.

Don’t let 2010 become another landmark year of celebrity deaths--volunteer to be Kristen Bell’s personal bodyguard.

Show my loved ones I care...Superpoke them once a day.

As for loved ones who aren’t on Facebook, gradually phase them out of “loved ones” status.

Manage my finances better and stop putting all my money into War Admiral; that nag hasn’t won in years.

Achieve a 95% approval rating on Rotten Tomatoes.

Unlock the power of my mind--be able to freeze people with a single thought by April, set things on fire by October.

Give up that dangerous, pouting, hunky, shiny vampire and--goddamn it, Bella, get out of here and do your own damn resolutions.

Diet enough that I can get down to my original weight: 12 pounds, three ounces.

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:

I’m as creeped out as you are.

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.

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.