[LISTEN UP (OR READ UP OR WHATEVER GAWL): There is SO totally swearing in this post. There is also a section of satirical writing that some highly sensitive people might not realize is satire, but is is satire, and you know that because I just said so. (If only your entire life could be this easy.)]
I had a rough weekend.
Before anything rough happened, I didn't think I knew anything about other people. What makes 'em tick. Why they think merging onto the freeway should always take place at the lowest speed a car can travel before it starts moving backward.
Stuff like that.
After everything rough happened, the belief that I didn't know anything about other people turned into a fact, and my trust in the reliability of other people was taken down a few notches. I'm avoiding the hell out of other humans right now. It's peaceful, but inconvenient. I went to get a latte at Starbucks, and I felt like I was at a stalemate with the barista. I wanted something from her, and she wanted me to talk so she could take my order.
Impasse.
When I got home, I decided to watch Breakfast at Tiffany's. Audrey Hepburn was one of the gracefulest things ever made. In the opening shot, she's wearing a long, narrow dress, and she manages to walk evenly even while eating a pastry and drinking coffee. It might not seem like much, but I'm sure there are some ladies out there who'd be happy to tell the opposite sex just how difficult it can be to get dressed up and spend the night out.
But I wasn't watching because I dig Audrey's ability to remain upright in a difficult outfit. I was watching because I love her character. Holly Golightly might be the most emotionally unreliable character ever to walk out of an author's twisted headspace. Everything about her is a warning not to get attached. Her apartment is decorated with crates for furniture, part of a bathtub for a sofa, empty bookshelves, and a cat with no name. It wouldn't be hard to dump all of that should the fancy to perform the moving equivalent of eloping strike Ms. Golightly.
As her agent says at a party, "She's a phony, but she's a real phony."
I think "a real phony" is a much more comforting sort of person than someone who gains your trust and then, when life seems nice and quiet and good and nice, totally betrays that trust.
With "a real phony," there's never any question that the person is going to let you down.
Well. I think we all know where I stand on this.
Very shortly into the movie, a guy named Paul Varjak arrives at Holly Golightly's apartment building. He's moving in. But, he needs to make a phone call, and because this movie takes place during a period of human history before people had decided that they needed to walk around with those stupid Bluetooth headsets attached to their ears twenty-four hours a day as though they're expecting a call from the King of the Universe Himself, Paul didn't have a convenient way to make the call.
I don't know how many of you remember this, but phones used to be attached to walls by cables, and you could only use your phone at home. Also, your phone didn't play Eminem when it rang.
Paul went to Holly's apartment and asked if he could use her phone. Good taste.
Here's the way-over-the-top-amazing-thing: She lets him.
Not only were phones different, but so were people, apparently. When was the last time a stranger knocked on your door, asking to use the phone? And, if it happened, what would you do?
I thought about this. In part because I wanted to get a feel for what it might have been like to have lived in that primitive and backward time, but mostly because I want to go canvas my neighborhood and ask every attractive girl I find if I can use the phone. I figure the larger sample would be my gateway to success. I could pick and choose, separating the hopefuls from the hopeless, and then have a huge contest during which I would, based on performance during many challenging events, select the finest three ladies from the group, and then end the contest by pitting the three against each other in a fight to the death that would involve tight shirts, dinky shorts, a lot of vodka, glow-in-the-dark shoulder pads, go-carts, and three sniper rifles. The survivor (if there is one) would be made my queen.
My dreams of being such a classy gent were shattered when I started thinking about how the canvassing would really go. Especially around here (Bellevue) where the women have huge fake boobs, fake orange tans, and my genuine contempt.
Then, what happens if it isn't a female who answers the door? I mean, what if it's the opposite of a female?
I've figured out all the possibilities of what might happen if I were to knock on a woman's door in the beginning of the 21st century to see if I could borrow the phone. Here are my findings:
- She would welcome me in and then sex me like a wild thing. This is the most likely result.
- She would let me in, wait until my back was to her, and then chop me up with a machete into tiny pieces she would then place in a large freezer out back with all the other chopped up people she's met and chopped up. This is the second most likely result.
- Before I even finish my phone request, she'd blow a hole through my head in self-defense (with a GUN). My corpse would then have to stand trial and explain what it thought it was doing on her doorstep, aggressing her with a question.
- The door would open, and I'd see that I came across a PARTY of WOMEN. And ALL of them would have MACE. And I'd be all, TENNIS BALLS OH DANG. (I've been engaged in a long email exchange, and part of it has involved an exploration of new ways of swearing, with most of the old ways having lost their punch. I feel that "TENNIS BALLS OH DANG" - as does my correspondent - has great potential.)
- She lets me in and actually lets me use her phone. Then I rack up eight-hundred dollars in pornphone. This shows that I'm nobody's patsy, and that the JOKE is on HER. LOL! Stupid!
Those, as I said, are all the possible outcomes. If you think you've found another, then check your math, dirtface: you're wrong.
What would happen were I to knock on a guy's door was actually tougher for me to imagine. I have brains, taste, wit, and Tod's on my feet, so I find it difficult to relate to the average modern American male. (Guys - don't get all freaked out about whether you're the average American male - first off, a bunch of you are foreign, so that clears you, and the Americans who make up the rest wouldn't be reading Neopoleon for the simple reason that I don't write enough about how wicked it is to don a pair of jean cutoffs, take your ATV out to a pile of dirt, and ride around as you read Maxim with one hand and consume a hot dog with the other.)
Unfortunately, the result of my ignorance of the average modern American male forced me to work with what little I know. My approximation is based on:
- The highest frequency words and phrases - according to what I've heard - in the average modern American male vernacular.
- A constant emotional state that is a lovely combination of angry, insecure, and paranoid. This might just be a side-effect of the steroids.
- An intense preoccupation with homosexuality. So much so that I believe they think about homosexuality more than homosexuals do.
I did my best. In the future, I'd like to redo this example with a deeper understanding of the culture, but for now this will have to do.
After having rung the doorbell...
Me: Hi. Sorry to bother you. My car broke down and my cell phone's out of-
Todd: Are you a fag?
Me: What? OK, my cell phone's out of batteries, and I was wondering if I could use your phone.
Todd: You want to view my bone? What the fuck does that mean? Fag. I knew you were a fag. Faggot.
Me: No, no, no... you've got the wrong idea. I don't want to view your bone. I want to-
Todd: Yeah? Now you don't want to view my bone? What's wrong with it? A minute ago, you thought my bone was pretty. HEY, MIKE - THIS FAG SAYS THERE'S SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY BONE!
Mike: Dude, you fag. There ain't nothin' wrong with Todd's bone. You want me to kick your ass, fag? I'd love to just stick my foot right up your ass, you faggot.
Todd: GOOD ONE, MIKE! YEEEEAH!
[Mike and Todd slap each other's asses the way American football players do on TV in front of millions of people.]
Todd: Dude, bro, that'll teach you not to not want to view my bone.
Mike: You tell him, Todd. You tell that fag right there that faggot fag ain't got no right to be sayin' your bone ain't off da' hook. 'CAUSE, BRODAWGG, YOUR BONE IS TIGHT! WOOOOOO! GET OVER HERE, BRO!
[Mike and Todd chest-bump as strapping American lads often do. It's a little awkward since their shirts are off, and their pectorals are basically boobies thanks to the Beefcake Weight Gain shakes they drink six times a day to add bulk to muscle they've built inbetween beer sessions. Awkwardness aside, there is, of course, nothing more masculine than the widespread macho custom of slapping your bare, clammy man-boobs into another man's while making ape noises. (Boob slapping and grunting to take place for at least one minute to provide sufficient opportunity to demonstrate fertility and major league testicles to any other people nearby of any gender. Signal completion with one final boob slap and a "BOOYAH! DAT WAS OFF DA' HOOK!" - this means that you very much enjoyed the intimate, very masculine contact with the other man and that you're already looking forward to the next time you get to nipple-kiss a man to your satisfaction. Celebrate your masculinity! Show those fags what it really means to be a man! BOOYAH! DAT WAS OFF DA' HOOK!)]
Me: Uh. I'll just go use somebody else's phone. Good night to you, sirs.
Todd: Oh, YEAH, fag - go view somebody else's bone. I so knew you were a fag, bro.
Mike: What a fag.
Todd: Fag.
Mike: Yeah.
Like I said, I don't know anything about other people.
Paul Varjak was a lucky bastard.
And I had a rough weekend.