Friday, February 08, 2002
NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR LOST OR STOLEN ITEMS
Shouldn't chicks who steal boyfriends wear shirts that say that?
No, no one took my goddamn boyfriend. Jeez, you fuckers are so chafingly literal.
There's a raw thrill that comes from typing straight into Blogger, a thrill that cannot be replaced - that need not be replaced. OK, there are ways to replace it, truth be told. Perhaps it does need to be replaced.
Oh, need. Who cares about need, when there's want and long for to contend with? Was that three prepositions in a row? Do I get a door prize, a frisbee that says "Margler Life Insurance" on it?
Sometimes I think that I don't exist, except in the tortured mind of a male housewife.
Also I suspect that if I talk too much about happiness, I could start a veritable avalanche of female power, which brings to life things like threesomes and strong apple martinis and hurtful shoes and dildos, a word which might demand an "e" in the plural, but if it does, we're unaware.
You will feel better tomorrow, but that means nothing. You'll feel worse next week, but that also means shit. I am the worst possible person to ask for advice, for I trust not emotions. Or, I didn't, and now that's all I do. Emotions keep a slippery hand on the wheel, and one eye on the first mate's big dick. You know. They're not to be trusted. Or it's best to trust them, depending on how you look at it, and how much fiber you ate today.
Sometimes nonsense cuts the cleanest path to truth. Sometimes nonsense cuts twisting circles through the Amazon jungle, leading nowhere, and several infected bug bites and teary, desperate cries to the gods for mercy later, you starve, and are immediately eaten by large worms the likes of which no civilized man hath seen.
Sexy, huh?
I think there should be a soap opera set in the Amazon, sort of like "Santa Barbara" meets "Aguirre, Wrath of God."
big-breasted woman: Did a praying mantis the size of a poodle just run off with the last can of refried beans, or are my eyes deceiving me?
arrogant european man with gorgonzola breath: I am the ever living and the all powerful! Get behind me or die!
Actually, this reads more like a presidential address. Is nothing exotic and morbid in this godforsaken world?
2:44 AM
Wednesday, February 06, 2002
INFINITELY APPROACHING ZERO
Dear Rabbit,
I don't exist, except in the tortured mind of a male housewife. I might be a drag queen or I might be a hated and feared media critic, maybe with a technology or business slant. Plus, I might be just a horny construction worker. I might be all these things or none of them, alpha and/or omega, being and/or nothingness, but my question is how do I actualize myself? I know that this is not a problem you have faced, but how do these people who don't exist get famous? Do you have to have an agent?
Am I being too abstract?
Admiring the rabbit,
Cisco LaPerla
Dear Cisco,
I object to the ease with which you sidestep the obvious dichotomy you present with your "all and/or none of the above" trick. One might say you subvert the trap of duality in a provocatively non-Western manner. However, I find it typically male and very American of you to conquer the concept of Other by simply using a bigger net.
Yes, I'm kidding. There's nothing I like worse than lit theory wanking. OK, lit theory wankers, maybe.
Onward: It's much easier to get famous when you don't exist. Existence is one of the major impediments to fame, in fact. No one wants to think that you actually have a name that might remind them of someone else they know, some ordinary lump with mediocre dreams of couplehood, televised sports, moderate wealth, and the occasional plate full of chili cheese fries. Better to be an archetype of some sort, that way you can bend the collective unconscious to your will. Talk about your bulletproof marketing strategies!
Naturally, you'll need an agent. You're nothing and/or everything without one. I'd hook you up with some of the agents I know, but they won't even call me back, and I exist in the material world, as far as I can tell.
Everything and/or everything,
Rabbit
2:58 PM
UNFLINCHINGLY YOURS
Rabbit -
You seem well-versed in men behaving oddly and have put out a call for crappy-advice seekers. Why not chew on this carrot?
Say you have a man, who is by man standards pretty incredible. He can basically dress himself (except for the occasional marriage of two shades of green), can hold intelligent conversations, has his own business, and has pretty decent taste (with the exception of his penchant for bad '80s bands). Say the two of you fall in love, move in together and go through an unfortunate rough patch. Say the cause of the rough patch has been solved and was not a major indiscretion (no cheating, lying , etc.).
This man, though insistent of his love for said advice-seeker, decides he needs "space" to heal from this indiscretion (which never amounted to more than poorly chosen words of anger fueled by momentary insecurity). Man says to woman, I would like to to move out, but there is no rush, take a few months to get your self together. As an aside, advice seeker upon moving in with man fire-saled all furniture type belongings.
After a few initial days of mutual crying, hurt, proclamations of love etc, things start getting "better". Advice seeker commences an aggressive campaign of focusing on her own life and having fun. Since that point and over the past few months Man and Advice seeker resume all relationship type activities including dating/sleeping together. Man has not told friends or family of situation and maintains to outside world that we are "together", which in all ways conceivable, we are.
In fact, things inside relationship have never been more rational and fun, except that in our inside world, he says he still needs space. What type of Flinchy behavior is this? Why go through the trouble of I love you's and caring/dating etc. to just push me away? What is he trying to accomplish here? What is his soft flinchy skull thinking? There are only so many warm loving conversations and good times one can have without wondering, why if you are happy with how things are progressing do you feel the need to stop the forward momentum.
Is there anything advice-seeker can do to convey to man the silliness of the situation?
Crappy Advice Seeker
Dear CAS,
I'd love to launch right into some half-baked thoughts on your situation, but there are so many holes in the information I have to work with. Please fill out the following form and return it to me, signed and dated, and we'll proceed from there.
Flinchiness Aptitude Test (FAT-462)
1. Which bad '80s bands does Flinchy like?
a) Duran Duran
b) Journey
c) Rush
d) other _____________
2. When you refer to the indiscretion, i.e. "poorly chosen words of anger in a moment of insecurity", are we talking:
a) "You know, kelly green and army green don't look so hot together."
b) "If you were such a self-involved jerk you'd understand how I feel!"
c) "At least I'm not a short, balding loser who can't get it up."
3. Did you, in fact, move out? Or are you still living with him? And if so, does he still want you to move out?
4. Is he a sugar-coater, or does he have trouble saying anything that might be misleading?
5. Is he less than proactive in other areas of his life? Would you describe him as "passive" or "distant" or "avoidant" or "a real dickwad"?
6. Is there a little voice inside your head that screams, "He doesn't fucking love you! Get out while you still can!"?
7. Does he come from a family where confrontation is acceptable, or are there lots of smiles and nods and simple summaries, along with occasional oppressive silences?
Rabbit
Rabbit:
1) Flinchy likes a, b, and c, but they are not as offensive as his favorites, d) The Outfield (I am convulsing at the thought)
2) My words of indiscretion lean more towards b than c, something along the lines of (while he was preparing for a trial, yet still hanging with his friends) "Pay attention to Me! Am I not important? Perhaps I should leave, etc.." Not that I had any plan on leaving, but ya know things get fuzzy when anger and self esteem collide. He tends to think teal and olive green match, but really, that is just icing compared to his bright purple sweatshirt obtained circa middle school.
3) Still living with him and carrying on as a couple, oddly enough he is spending more time with me than before, and we are getting along like peanut butter and chocolate. He only brings it up (moving out) when he is cranky, and that is almost 100% of the time about something outside the relationship. After bringing it up he immediately becomes almost overly affectionate. On a few occasions, after a long stint of normalcy he brings it up, this is also coupled with the affection and I love, care about you's. Not clearly waiting, if anything still making plans for us to do things as far as a month away.
4) Not a sugar coater to me usually, but that said, he is a lawyer. He tends to be a little girly and emotional and has trouble letting go of things.
5) Pretty proactive, has his own business.
6) Little voice is screaming "Flinchy Dumbass, If you say you love me, make effort to spend time with me, and carry on as if you are in a relationship with me, in fact calling me your girlfriend outside the house, and things, as you have admitted, are better than ever, What Da Fu@#$$ do you think you are accomplishing by having me leave... What are you Smoking?" Perhaps I am missing something, after all I am in the situation. I just wish I understood what is going on in his flinchy mind.
7) His family, there's a touchy situation. I don't get the feeling that there is a lot of confrontation amongst his parents, his mom is sort of the demure, happy to have little contact with her husband so long as he keeps bringing in the big dr. paycheck to keep them in Lexus's and Beverly Hills sort. His parents drive him nuts though. They have very distinct ideas about what he should be doing with his life that he does not like to hear about.
I get the distinct feeling that if I take off, he will come crawling back on his flinchy hands and knees, but I'd really like to avoid that situation, Crawling is not very flattering.
Advice Seeker
Dear CAS,
When someone tells you about their relationship troubles, the easiest thing to say is "Forget him. It's over." It takes a little more effort to encourage someone to reach deep inside and find the strength to understand and accept another admittedly flawed yet fragile human being, even when it seems well nigh impossible.
But to you, I say: Forget him, it's over.
One of the most common mistakes women make is thinking that, "The more fun we have together, the more he'll see that we're meant to be!" That's not how it works. If he's asking for space, but still clinging to you whenever the mood strikes, he's not going to wake up one morning and find himself in love with you. You could be more fun than 50 barrels of monkeys and he still wouldn't commit to you. Mr. Flinchy doesn't make up his mind via fun, he makes up his mind via suffering.
Which is why you have no choice but to move out. He'll only figure out that you're the one for him if you move out. But let's hope that he doesn't, because you're better off without him. Here's why: He doesn't want you to rock the boat, ever, period.
You said "Goddamn it, spend more time with me" and he's so hurt that you need to move? Has he ever dated a woman before? I'm not saying women should feel comfortable losing their shit constantly, but everyone knows that part of dating a woman (hot hot! radioactive!) is putting out fires and cooling jets. If you got pissed off all the time, I could understand, but you got upset once and he acted like it was the end of the fucking world. If he blames you for breaking down once, out of insecurity (join the fucking club, everyone's insecure with Mr. Flinchy - for a very good reason), he's not up to the realities of a committed relationship. Either he's a pussy or he's using it as an excuse, or a little bit of both.
You're making it so easy for him, too, because you know the second you stop being easy, he'll be lugging home boxes from the grocery store and urging you to put your stuff in them.
Let me paint you another picture: You stay together, and one day you're trying to take care of the baby and the Christmas tree falls over and your hormones are a little wacky so you start to cry and you call him at work. What does he say? "I'm at work, jeez, I told you not to call me at work. You know I can't deal with this now." You hang up the phone and feel like the loneliest human being on the planet. You can't have a good relationship with someone who wants you to be consistently even-keel and strong and 100% need-free. Either he'll turn into an uncaring robot or you will.
Is that what you want your life to look like? If you think he's Flinchy now, just wait until you're 40 and you've got a little army depending on your emotional stability. See how you feel then, and see how he feels about having little people depend on him. He's not up for it and he knows it. Yes, he loves you. That's why he feels guilty for not really wanting to spend his life with you.
You can make all the jokes you want, but I know how it feels to get advice like this, I got some strong advice in the same way once and it fucking sucked, but I knew it was right. I hate breaking up, I hate moving out, and some days I really do hate being alone and thinking that I'll be the lady with all the dogs and the funky hats and the needlepoint throw pillows. But come on, we all do, or it wouldn't be a punchline on Sex & The City. The more you face the bag lady life, the better it starts to look. Oh sure, it's deeply uncool, but what truly good thing isn't?
This is where The Outfield come into the picture. As you're packing your stuff, listen to one of his worst Outfield albums. See? It was never meant to be.
Rabbit
11:49 AM
Tuesday, February 05, 2002
WAVE OF RELOCATION
Apologies for the lull in these parts. I moved this past weekend, and seem to have tripled my stuff in the past two years. The sheer volume of crap I own, it's unnerving. If the crap weren't quite so crappy, that would be one thing. But I seem to be lugging around boxes of terrible, pointless, bulky junk that I've hauled around for...Oh god, ten years now.
Ten fucking years! That's old, when you're ten years into your independent adult life. You'd think I'd be an utter swami by now, the amount of time I apply to analyzing where I'm fucking up and what to do next. But nay, cricket. The road to enlightenment is not smooth, and neuroticism is a rickety bicycle with flat tires.
Cricket! Don't eat all the goddamn brownies, I just made those!
Special thanks to Ken, Matt, David, Laura, Apryl, and Emmanuelle for helping me relocate my huge piles of junk without complaint, at least none that I could hear over the sound of my own voice, bellowing orders.
Just the memory of it gives me goosebumps.
COOKIE, I DIG YOUR FRAME
I went to a Superbowl party, and didn't watch the Superbowl. Naturally, it turned out to be the Best Superbowl Game Ever To Be Played, Now and Forever and Ever, Amen. That's all well and good, but I had eyeballs to lose.
As much as I'm morally opposed to regret, I have to say, I look back now and I regret missing the game. I comfort myself by remembering the last good Superbowl game before this one - two years ago, I know it was close, but I still barely remember the game, because stupid teams were playing. I think the Tennessee Oilers played. Is that possible? Tennessee Oilers? Throw in the Memphis Grizzlies and you've got a state in search of itself.
As opposed to a self in search of a state, which is what I was on Sunday. Speaking of altered states, if you think you kind of sort of like Elliot Smith but you don't own the first album with the free-falling guy in blue on the cover (blue and white cover), you need to do some more research. This is just an excellent album, and suddenly my favorite song is not "Southern Belle" (as in "Kill The Southern Belle" for those of you who imagine me to be the kind of chick who gets green contacts and then sings along loudly to lines like "green-eyed lady, wind-swept lady!"). My new favorite song is "St. Ides Heaven". It's such a sad little song about addiction. I love sad little songs about sad little people. No matter how many times they remix and rehash it, I still love "Jane Says"- the first version is the best.
As in, the first version is the best, dude.
Something about living alone again has me rediscovering my music collection. My ex was completely nice about listening to my stuff, too. I just got lazy. But it's almost worth it, to comb through my old Pixies and Slint and Pavement and Built to Spill and appreciate them afresh and anew.
Things are getting dangerously blog-like around here, so I'd better duck out and look for more and better inspiration. I've got plenty of great letters requesting bad advice, and will get to them in due time. In the meantime, munchkins, hang in there and rest assured that the daily schedule shall recommence.
I will not lead ye down the path to empty rabbitless living!
Me, smug fucking me!
The world revolves around me, me!
5:27 PM
