The Sounds of Douchebag America

That’s the best course of action, right?  Like…okay, for example, there’s these three friends from college down in Chicago I’m really close with, and we talk alot, and they’re close with someone else that I kinda know and enjoy but don’t know as well, so, I thought hey, I’ll invite the original three out to dinner, and when I thought “hmm, maybe I should tell the fourth guy too,” it just didn’t feel right, you know?  I mean, he’s definitely a friend, but I didn’t want to invite him mostly because he wasn’t as close to me as the other three were.  It’s like, I didn’t want to hurt his feelings by making him believe he was more of a friend than he actually was.  Does that make sense?  Like, at dinner he might feel a little out of place, you know?  If I invited him, he might feel out of the loop.  So, since I’m all about avoiding the awkward situation of making him feel out of the loop, I invited all of his friends out and not him.  Dinner was sort of awkward anyway because they all said, “Oh, I wish Roy was here,” and I said, “Well, I didn’t want him to feel like he was obligated to be in our little group, you know?”  Like, maybe he’d feel intimidated by our cliquishness…I mean, we’re not a clique, we’ll totally invite anyone to come spend time with us (well, kind of)…and I don’t want him to feel like he’s trapped with a clique, so I didn’t invite him.  Like I said, he’s not close enough with us anyway.

…I mean, that’s probably the biggest situation in recent memory.  A while ago, though, a bunch of us were going on a road trip to San Francisco and it was three girls: me, this girl Jessica, and Amanda, I think, it doesn’t matter, but anyway, Jessica said “Oh, you know, maybe we should go to Seattle because I love lousy indie and rain!”  And, I guess I was okay with that, but, we didn’t want to spring such an unpleasant surprise on Amanda, because she doesn’t really like Seattle.  She’s got a fear of needles and stuff, so, but…we wanted to go, and I didn’t want to make a fuss out of it, so we kind of decided not to tell her anything.  I mean, she had no idea what was happening up until the last minute.  Since she couldn’t change any of her flights and stuff, she opted to go to San Francisco instead, which is fine, I mean, it’s not that big a deal to spend your senior year Spring Break by yourself.  I’ve done it my junior year because I didn’t want to fly down to Puerto Rico with a group of my guy-friends because they might be uncomfortable having a girl in the same hotel room with them.  I had a good time in Seattle, and here’s the best part: no confrontation at all.

I think that’s really the best thing I can come away with here.  I don’t get into big spats or huge fights with my friends.  I’m really good at avoiding the confrontation, what can I say?  You should do whatever it takes to avoid offending friends.  They’re your friends, you know?  Part of that is not responding to a text or a voicemail for fear of saying the wrong thing back.  Another part is to stay perfectly quiet and mention nothing when you’re around someone who wasn’t invited to a birthday party later that night.  Either way, I’m on good terms with my friends…at least so far as I know, I haven’t bothered with them for a while.

I remember back in 1997…it wasn’t too long ago…I would sit in bed with my pajamas and squirt Welch’s Squeezable Grape Jelly into my mouth and watch the Weather Channel.  It was a different time then…after I didn’t get that big promotion to Assistant Teller, my wife filed for divorce.  I remember thinking to myself, “I want as many people as possible to know about this.”

At that moment, there was no Twitter or Facebook or what-have-you…I didn’t have a computer because my ex-wife took it with her.  I kept a journal, but found the privacy too safe, too…practical.  To this day, I think back to that moment, when my face was caked in a sticky-salty mixture of jelly and tears, that maybe, just maybe, if I had anyone I could talk to, anyone who would listen and not talk back…that perhaps it would, I don’t know, give me some sense of purpose.  I don’t know.  Either way, part of me wishes that she and I divorced in 2008 so that I could tweet through those television-filled Saturday (and Sunday and Monday and Tuesday) mornings.  Also because I wouldn’t have had to suffer a decade of loneliness, but, you know, either way.

I don’t know what it is, but typing “watching TV in bed again, so awesome” into what I sometimes call “The Great Ether”…it makes me feel so special, you know?  Makes the pain go away, just for a moment.

I find there’s something poetic in the hopelessly mundane.  I think of almost every poem written in America after 1950, and how they are all simply about watching things through windows.  So why not myself?  Timeless intellectuals like Billy Collins get to have a legacy left behind.  I want the same thing.  Who knows, maybe someone will come across my blog and think, “Wow, he sure has a sharp wit and command of tone, especially in those passages about the Food Network.”  They never message me, though.  It might be a private kind of admiration.  I can respect that.

But you’re probably asking yourself (assuming you’re even reading this, but I’ve adjusted to this pretty generous assumption) if I have any followers or readers, and there are some friends and family in the picture.  Maybe some strangers come by and look through my musings…if they look through hashtag trends at precisely the right moment…which could happen, I feel, maybe.

If there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that it’s time to lead a public life.  And I’m doing so by keeping myself locked in my house and writing about the things I see on my computer or maybe on my desk.  Or at the bank, you know, sometimes a check bounces or gives me one of those dollar bills that says “Where’s George” on it…that’s always a fun time.

I wonder sometimes if maybe she’s Googled me or looked at my Facebook page, or my Reader shares…or Buzz shares…or the Twitpics I have of me making funny faces to my computer.  I have one that’s like four different copies of me, but it’s in the style of Andy Warhol…pretty neat.  She always liked Andy Warhol.  Or maybe just soup cans?  She had a post about it on something, I think…to be honest, I wasn’t reading as closely as I should have been.  I’ll admit it; I skim.  I skim through her statuses from time to time. It is hard to pay attention to all that information, you know, to hang onto every little detail.  Who can remember that?

Ew, you got a Kia Sportage?  Really?  You know those things get, like, 23 miles a gallon on the highway?  Even my friend’s old beat-up Saturn gets 34.  I know what you’re thinking…”You don’t have to drive to work; you don’t even have to really work to begin with.”  Look, I made an environmental decision when I opted to work at my alma-mater (Tufts ’07, by the way) part-time, and to still live with students.  Because it’s a ten-minute commute by foot, that’s why.  Why do you need all that space in your car anyway?  You don’t have a wife or kids.  Just get a regular one of those hybrids.  I would’ve said get a Toyota…actually, I used to mock a buddy of mine who bought one, because he wasn’t supporting American labor…then when he bought a Chevy, I gave him shit because they’re not as enviro-friendly as Toyota, at least not anymore, but then when his Chevy broke down, and I insisted he get a Toyota, it had all kinds of acceleration issues.  Whoops!  I should have guilt-tripped him back into buying a GM car, with the whole economic collapse and all.

Oh, you’re mad because I said you don’t have a wife or kids.  Well, you got that girlfriend, I…wait, really?…Oh, congratulations, I didn’t know you were getting engaged!  You didn’t buy a diamond, did you?  Did you? Was it a blood diamond?  Was it?  WAS IT?…Oh, wow, good.  So, is it a good diamond?  Oh…see, that’s no good.  I mean, if it means that much to her, you can’t just glue a cubic zirconium onto a washer and call it an engagement ring.  I’m all for socially conscious, but seriously, my ex-boyfriend has nicer cock rings than that.  Oh, and don’t worry, they’re pleather, not leather.

Honestly I don’t think you should be getting married in the first place.  It objectifies women, you know?  Puts them into a predetermined gender stereotypes…it’s like the institution itself morphs women into these complacent, subservient, domestic automatons, doomed to perpetual anger and disconnect from their true identities.  You don’t want to do that to your soon-to-be-gender-stereotype, do you?  My ex was all about that…I mean, he was taking Women’s Studies when I was dating him.  You met him, right?  He was a sophomore and I was one year out, which is kind of weird I know, but I like that I was able to force him (or guilt him) to do the craziest stuff sometimes.  Like taking Women’s Studies, for example.  But then I told him to drop it.  These girls would hit on him because he was the “sensitive guy” taking Women’s Studies, and that made me feel kind of jealous.  Now he was a W on his transcript.  Whoops!

But seriously, why would he want to date a student anyway?  Don’t get me wrong, I like the students I live with, date, and hang out with, but, seriously, come on.  If I could go back to college, I’d go for dating the alums that were still around.  They’re a little more well-versed, you know…if I could go back.

I really want to go back to college.

Wait, before you finish, let me interrupt — do you  mean Darren as in the guy who started that sketch comedy group last year?  OH MY GOD I KNOW HIM!!!  I remember one time I totally ran into him on the bus and he started talking to me all like, “What’s that smell?” and I was all like, “I don’t know.”  Then he told me this story about this weird thing that happened to him in a cab, kind of like what happened to my cousin once.  She got into a cab in New York and the driver was all like, “So do you have a boyfriend?”  and she was like “Um, no,” and then he was like, “Well, you’re cute.”  Totally gross!  But hilarious, you know, like, pretty funny and all.  Anyway, yeah, he’s a real…

Wait, stop, I just heard the name Lucy over there.  You guys!  Stop!  No, not you…you!  You, in the blue!  Lucy…what’s her last name?  Lucy what?  Lucy Moore?  OH MY GOD I KNOW HER!  With the blond curly hair and all?  Yeah she’s kind of a bitch and all, sorry, but like, we did choir together for a while and she was always so mean to me.  She’d be like “You’re late” and “What’s that smell?”  all the time.  God she was so mean.  She kind of has an ugly face too, you know what I mean?  She looks like someone took her face in Photoshop, and, uh…well, you know, did some weird stuff to it, I guess.  I’m not as clever as Darren.  You know he’s really funny.  But anyway, yeah, she’s just lame and has that homely look to her, you know?  Like, she’s trying to be ugly.  I’m surprised her boyfriend’s still with her.  Oh, you’re friends with her?  Close friends?  Oh, well, I don’t know what you’re thinking.  But anyway, sorry if I offended you somehow.

Anyway, wait, I know you guys are having a serious conversation because of like, all the tears and all, but I know you guys do the whole jazz ensemble thing in the neighborhood, and I’m wondering if you know a guy named Matt.  I forget what his last name is.  In fact, I barely remember what he looks like.  Wait, is his name Matt?  Maybe it’s Pat.  I’m pretty sure it’s Matt…anyway he’s got kind of lightish-darkish hair, kinda…hmm…shortish-but-in-a-tall-way.  The details are really hazy, but…Matt…oh, yes, Matt Roland!  OH MY GOD I KNOW HIM!  He’s kind of a poser, though, I think.  Don’t you guys think so?  Sorry I’m, like, interrupting everybody and all, I don’t know what’s come over me, like a spell or something.  Whatever, I try not to think about it, hell, I try not to think too hard about anything.  I don’t know, I get the feeling that he’s really fake, you know?  No, to be honest, I haven’t talked to him.  No, I barely remembered his name, you’re crazy to think that I might have talked to him.  Well maybe he’s really shy or maybe I’m really shy in those situations, but no, he just comes across a huge fake poser kind of guy, you know?  Well, like, he was wearing some dark, slim-fit band T-shirt when I saw him and I was thinking all “Here we go, one of those hipster types” or whatever.  He was really nice to other people that he talked to, and he seemed nice to the people he talked on the phone with, but, yeah, still, kind of fake, you know.  I don’t know that much about him though, to be honest.  I just figured because he was wearing one of those band shirts, you know?  Is that judging too quickly?

OH MY GOD IT’S YOU CHRIS, I KNOW YOU!  Welcome to the party I hope you’re having a good time.  What’s that band on your shirt?  Yeah they’re pretty cool I guess.  They look cool; I haven’t heard them at all though.  Nope, not even a little.  To be honest I just listen to musicals and recordings of my neighborhood’s Sunday Mass.  I’m glad you’re here and all, is all.  Ha, I said all twice in a row all silly like.  Silly me!  Wait, stop, who did you bring with you?  Is this…OH MY GOD I KNOW YOU TOO…

Come on, guys!  Give me more cowbell!  Like that SNL sketch!  You know!  Come on!  Seriously!  I’m not being ironic this time, I swear!  Though I have a hard time confusing when I’m being sincere and when I’m being ironic!  Or even when I’m acting out of spite!  You may be able to tell by my size, headband, and/or beard!

More cowbell! Ah jeez, I know you guys can hear me!  Do you have one!?  I think you do!  You do too!  Play it!  Hit it just once!  For me!  Because I actually want it!  I don’t even know what I’m saying anymore!  I’m saying what comes to mind without thinking what it might mean to these other concert-goers and possibly their loved ones!  More cowbell!