Set Goals
I (Andy, the real guy who writes this blog) run a storytelling/character monologue show in Brooklyn called Real Characters. And, in honor of tonight's show, I thought I'd share another quick, true story:
In my mid-twenties, I was a sign painter at Trader Joe's grocery store--mostly chalkboards or wine displays, a few murals now and again.
One day, we ran out of art supplies, but there were still masala sauces that "needed their value shouted out." I was the only person who hadn't biked to work that day, so I drove over to Home Depot to restock. I was wearing a paint-splattered Hawaiian shirt and nametag at the time.
In the parking lot outside Home Depot, I made my way to the green, dumpy Saturn I had gotten at sixteen. I loaded the trunk with cans of primer, brushes, sandpaper, some paint markers, and a few sheets of luan, which is like a thin version of plywood. By the time I got it to all fit, I was sweating.
I walked to the driver's side door, and here's where it gets subtly interesting. A woman--probably in her late twenties, blonde and chewing jgum--cut me off. Just as I put my hand on the door handle, she jogged over and body-blocked me so that she could open the passenger door of the car to my left.
Now, I should point out that this was not New York. This was Chicago. So, getting cut off by someone is extremely rare. Almost unheard of. Definitely attention-grabbing.
I suddenly noticed the car next to mine was a white BMW convertible. The driver was a tall blonde man with wavy hair, also chewing gum. I'm blonde; I have nothing against blondes. But, sometimes blonde men look like they should be the bad guy in a movie about lacrosse. This was that guy. Gucci sunglasses, if that helps paint the picture.
The woman who cut me off was carrying a single item from Home Depot--a toilet plunger. As she and her boyfriend (or perhaps husband), both wearing tennis whites, peeled out of the parking lot in their white Beemer, I saw the license plate. It read, in bold letters, "SET GOLS."
Sometimes I like to think about that couple going home to their Gold Coast apartment building, nodding to the doorman, taking the elevator up the their condo, and unclogging their fabulous shits. It reminds me to set goals.
Guys, remember to set goals. Set goals, everybody. It's important.
Mannequin
I never really understood the movie Mannequin, until I saw a mannequin I truly wanted to make love to. Not just sex, but making love.
You know what movie I’m talking about? It stars Andrew McCarthy and Kim Cattrall? Meshach Taylor plays a flamboyant homosexual? It was one of those late 80s movies about romance between a man and a mythical woman. Like Splash, Date with an Angel, Miracle Beach, Hello Again … others.
At the time, I could never understand the basic premise of those movies. I mean, sure, every guy wants to have sex with a mermaid or a mannequin, but who wants a long-term relationship with one? Doesn’t the magic stop once the magic stops? Then, one day, I saw the most beautiful, compelling mannequin I’d ever laid eyes upon.
She was in the window of a Chico’s Outlet store off of I-80. I can’t really explain what drew me to her—her poise, her eyes, the way she wore that beige turtleneck. Whatever it was, I knew this was a mannequin made for more than just fucking. This was a mannequin for true love.
I was too shy to approach her that day. She was working, after all. But, as soon as I drove off without telling her my name, I knew it was the biggest mistake of my life. I began sending her love letters addressed to Chico’s corporate headquarters. I wrote her some songs that I posted on Youtube. I submitted to Missed Connections.
None of it worked. I realized I’d missed my chance with such an exquisite, fiberglass woman. I’d like to think there’s more than one soul mate out there, but deep in my heart I know she was my one and only. I’ll always lament the day that I failed to kidnap and then make sweet love to that mannequin in the Chico’s window.
Despite the heartache, one thing I did learn is the meaning behind all those 80s films. It’s not about nebbish-y men learning to stand up to their goofy friends hoping to make a quick buck off exposing the magic. It’s not about the mystical transformations of those women from magical super-being to submissive girlfriend. Those movies are really about looking deep into a fake, idealized woman and seeing something no one else sees—her soul.
Then it’s about having sex with that soul. Long-term, monogamous sex.
[sigh] What could have been …
Christmas Songs
I’ve decided to write some Christmas songs. It’s not because I’m like super bananas over Christmas. I’m more of a Halloween guy. Red makes me look puffy.
However, writing a Christmas song is like printing your own money. Except, the Secret Service doesn’t crawl up your asshole for writing a Christmas song. (Listen, Secret Service, I have no idea why those $50 bills had pictures of Martin Van Buren on them. Leave me alone, already!) So, I decided to try my hand at songwriting.
I thought it’d be easy. It turns out most of the important rhymes have been taken. And, I guess my nightmare about my mother having a sexual affair with Santa Claus has already been covered successfully.
Anyway, here’s a list of songs I’ve come up with. Do not steal them:
The Christmas/Hanukkah Get-Together with Light Appetizers
Sledding Elves are Sledding
Oh, Pinecones on the Door Wreath
The Tinseling Song
Holy Holy Holiness
It’s Weirdly Important That Mary Was a Virgin
Lights, Lights, Lights are Untangling
Jolliness: Put It in You
The Camel Who Believed in the Power of Christ’s Birth
The Littlest Angel’s Ukulele
Plum Day
Forsooth, Ye Swaddling Babe
The Jingle Jangle Bebop
Old Saint Nick is Breaking In
The “Looking for Scissors” Song
Stuff Those Stockings Mightily
and
Yule Log and Eggnog: Best Friends Forever
Those are the songs I’ve written this season. So far, I’ve only come up with the titles. But, I’m googling song structures, and I used to be pretty decent on the trombone. So, expect great things.
If any of you want to write any music or lyrics to these, that’s fine. Just post them in the comments section and sign off any rights or copyright over to me. You will not receive a reply, but who knows? Maybe one day you’ll hear the Muzak version of your (legally my) song in a department store.
Until then, Merry Pre-Holiday Season!
Beard Growing Tips
People often ask me how I grew such a lustrous, manly beard. It's probably the number one question I get after, "Are those your eyes, or did God open two windows to Heaven?"
Well, I'm here to tell you there are no secret tips to growing a perfect beard. Here are a few secret tips to grow a perfect beard:
- If you can, try to be born with a Y chromosome.
- At age 4, on an annual camping trip, wrestle a bear to the ground, saving your family from certain death. (I'm not sure if this is a hard-and-fast requirement. I'm simply writing what I know.)
- As a teenager, encourage your testosterone output with a daily regimen of manual testicle emptying. (Again, just writing what I know.)
- Your first three beards--much like your first three screenplays--are going to be absolute shit. Don't get discouraged.
- Regarding stubble, three words: exfoliate, exfoliate, exfoliate. I can't stress exfoliation enough. Be careful not to over-exfoliate.
- Examine your deeper motivation for growing a beard. A beard grown out of weakness or deceit will carry that negative energy with it forever.
- At day ten, a new beard will curl in and itch like crazy. Like goddamnit-to-fucking-hell crazy. To get past this, check your phonebook for local beard growing support groups.
- If you do have to itch your beard, always itch across the grain. Never against.
- If your wife or girlfriend questions your wisdom in growing a beard, ask yourself what else she's holding you back from achieving.
- A daily beard conditioner can help with texture and body. I get mine shipped from an 80-year-old artisanal beardist in New Zealand. But, you can buy over-the-counter beard conditioner at any of the more reputable beard salons in your city.
- If you need to look at a picture of me for motivation, that's understandable. But, please, no creepy shrines.
- For whatever reason, beards grown during hunting trips tend to come in fuller than those grown on fishing trips.
- At some point, you'll have to define the edges of your beard. [*This post is aimed only at full-beard growers. I consider goatee or mustache growers simply hobbyists.] I suggest creating a simple, clean border along your neck from one corner of your jaw to the other. Do not over-stylize your beard. No one can pull that off a chin-strap beard, unless he is a Persian prince.
- If your beard is red or blonde, do not enter any pie eating contests. You risk permanent berry stains.
- Visualize your future self with a powerful, Viking-like beard. Try this: You're walking down the street. You see a man in a shop window. His thick, wavy beard broadcasts a sense of wisdom and sexual prowess. He stands tall and holds his head high. Look closer. That man in the shop window is a reflection. That man is you.
- Finally, this one might be obvious, but mother of pearl beard combs only.
That's it for beard growing tips. Next week we'll move on to tips for a rakish smile and penetrating gaze.
Your Doppelganger
Hey, I think just saw your more successful doppelgänger on the train. He looked exactly like you, except he was wealthier and more self-assured. But, other than that, exactly the same.
He had your nose. And eyebrows. He had the same curly, black hair as you. Although, he clearly goes to a better barber than you. Certainly, he goes more often.
His jaw was exactly the same as yours. Except your doppelgänger's jaw seemed stronger and more assuredly set--like whatever decision he makes, he sticks to it. He certainly didn't hold his jaw in a way that made you want to push him down and yell at him.
He had a navy coat on, just like your navy coat. Well, just like the coat you used to have before you forgot it at a bar. Also, his didn't have any stains on it. Also, his posture made it hang better on him. Also, you could tell he bought it somewhere besides Salvation Army.
Even his laugh was the same as yours. That's how I noticed him. I thought it was you, until I saw he was holding an iPad. I was gonna walk up and ask if you had an iPad-owning relative die, until I saw he was reading the Wall Street Journal on it. That's when I knew he couldn't have been you. Thank god I didn't embarrass myself by approaching him. Can you imagine me trying to explain what a goof you are?
Did I mention he looked exactly like you if you had made better decisions in life? Exactly.
I mean, minus the obvious success, he could have been your twin. No wait, that's wrong. One twin can be successful and the other a failure. Let me rephrase. He could have been the twin your parents were secretly more proud of.
Maybe one day you'll meet your doppelgänger on the street, and he can give you advice. I would think it'd be inspiring to meet someone who looks and talks just like you yet has somehow thrived in the world.
I guess maybe it could be super depressing too, now that I think about it. I mean, all those paths you didn't choose ... This guys chose the correct one. Maybe there were a lot of correct paths you failed to choose.
Gosh, I wonder if it's too late for you to be as successful as your doppelgänger. You know who might know? You're doppelgänger. He seemed like the kind of guy with answers.
Dog Sweaters
This morning, I stole a sweater off of a weimaraner. It was a mint green cable knit. It was nicer than most of my sweaters, but it wore a little snug in the shoulders. On me it was snug; it seemed fine on the weimaraner.
My morning walk was freezing. I'd misheard the weather report, and I had on only a flannel button-down and my fall jacket. That’s when I passed a weimaraner wearing that fancy sweater. It’s easy to steal from dogs. I just rubbed its belly until it rolled over, and I slipped off the knitwear.
Its owner never noticed. He was on his Blackberry.
Like I said, the weimaraner’s sweater was nice. I thought at the time it was cashmere, but someone later told me it was chenille. (I’m not dumb; I just invert words sometimes.) The sweater wasn’t very warm, though. On my body, it fit more like an open-front vest. So, I stole another dog sweater.
The second one was off a greyhound. It was tan with gray accents. Not the sweater; the dog. Its sweater was purple with a cowl neck and an oversized argyle. I slipped that one and the weimaraner’s sweater over my sleeves as a kind of a makeshift dancer’s shrug. It cut the cold, but by then I had gotten a taste for crime.
I went around the rest of the day stealing dog sweaters, one at a time. I called in sick to work. I think they heard the el train in the background, but I was too busy casing my next mark to worry about it. There was a dachshund hanging around the edges of a dog park near the Natural History Museum. It had on a red Christmas-y wool. I thought it might make a good scarf. I was right.
After that was a borzoi wearing an orange cardigan. Then a boxer with a black crew. A corgi in a turtleneck. You might think I’d feel bad stealing from dumb, defenseless animals. But, like a lot of criminals, I began to resent my victims for being so innocent, so trusting. They’d just sit there. Especially when I said, “Sit.”
It was all so easy. A bit of kibble here, a scratch behind the ear there—like taking candy from a baby. Except the candy was sweaters, and the babies were dogs. Only a poodle/spaniel mix gave me any problems, but I distracted it with peanut butter on the roof of its mouth. I’m wearing its blue V neck over my left pant leg as we speak.
Now, at the end of the day, I stand before you clothed head-to-toe in dog sweaters. All shapes, all sizes. Tiny pom poms jangle at my wrist. Embroidered bones and fire hydrants dot across my waist. Mostly designer labels, and almost all of them the latest styles. I’m sure my outfit right now cost more than my wedding suit.
The back of my knees itch like crazy. I think that damn Scottie had flees. But, it was worth it. I’m warm and content, euphoric in my ill-gotten gains. I feel like I could do anything right now.
Though, for some reason, all I want is to dig under my neighbor’s fence and shut up that goddamn alley cat. I hate that goddamn cat.
Jellyfish Sting
Barbara! Barb, come quick! I'm hurt. I need your help. Oh, thank God you're here. I just stepped on a jellyfish, and it stings like crazy. You need to pee on my foot to stop the pain. Can you do that for me, Hon?
What? Whad'ya mean, “Why?” Because I'm your husband, and I've been stung by a jellyfish; that's why. Please, just hurry up and pee on my foot. It burns like a sonofabitch.
No, this is not some trick to get you to pee on me. I'm serious; I'm in a lot of pain here. You've never heard about jellyfish stings? The only relief is if you tinkle on my foot. It’s the left one. Quick. The acetic acid in human urine helps mitigate the chemical compounds in the nematocysts of the mid-Pacific box jellyfish.
Wikipedia? No, that does not sound like something I memorized off Wikipedia. I just happen to know important facts about Nature. Stop stalling and pee on me. I'm serious. This has nothing to do with all the other times I've tried to get you to pee on me.
First off, I'm not really into that anymore. You said no a dozen times, and I let it go. I even sent back the rubber sheets I got online.
Secondly, have I even mentioned you peeing on me in the shower lately? No, I haven't. I've been very careful not to bring it up for the past three and a half weeks. Which should be plenty of time to forget my former obsession with pee play. (Or "watersports" as it's sometimes called.) This isn't some elaborate ruse to trick you into some sort of sexy golden shower scenario.
I'm telling you, Barbara, I've been stung by a poisonous jellyfish. Now, you've got to pee on your husband! Right now! Here, on my right foot.
Oh shit, did I say left foot earlier? I meant right foot. You know what? You'd better pee on both of them just to be safe.
Barb! Barbara, come back! Where are you going ... Barb?
Missing Stereotypes
I think we all admit that stereotypes are useful shortcuts. How could we make it through our complicated, modern lives without relying upon constant, knee-jerk assumptions? But, I've noticed quite some glaring gaps in ethnic, religious, and political stereotypes. I can't understand how important decision-making tools have been allowed to lapse.
For instance, I have no idea how French people drive. Are they slow, conscientious drivers or listless speed demons? What should I blindly infer about the driving skills of a Frenchman? If anyone knows the stereotype for French drivers, please rate them on a scale between female Asian drivers to male German drivers.
Are Norwegians good at fly fishing? Bad at polo? How are they at playing the harp?
Are Argentinians naturally skilled at calculus?
Are Jews better or worse than Catholics at jigsaw puzzles?
Do people from Laos enjoy onion rings?
These are important questions, people. If I don't get some answers, I'm afraid I'll be paralyzed next time I'm in a social situation with someone different than me. What if I meet an Egyptian? Should I go in for a fist bump, or are Egyptians hand shakers? I NEED TO KNOW!
Sorry. I get nervous without my prejudices. It's as though I'm wrapped in a security blanket of illogical half-thought, and I just discovered it's laden with holes.
Without stereotypes, what would you suggest I do--judge a man on the measure of his character? Do you how much time and small talk that would take? No thank you.
I'll just go back to watching television commercials, thank you very much. Ooh, look, there's a McDonalds commercial with a young black man enjoying jazz. That's nice.
Face Monsters
Earlier this week, I seeded the zeitgeist. I created the term "face monster.” I tweeted it and Facebooked it, and now it has a life of its own. Godspeed, face monster. Be fruitful and multiply.
The definition is simple; Face monster means any oblivious, rich woman whose money and sense of entitlement has transformed her face into that of a monster. That could mean plastic surgery, even the best of which eventually turns lizard-y and monster-like. Or, on a younger face monster, it can simply be a constant expression of annoyance that somebody has heated her 110 degree latte to 115 degrees.
You see face monsters every day. Especially if you work on the Upper East Side of Manhattan. Or, if you serve on the board of an impressive, yet elitist arts organization. Or, if you sell coats for tiny dogs.
[Note: I've focused on women here, but of course there are male face monsters. Think any man wearing Ralph Lauren. Or, men with a tan after November. Also, any Southern politician.]
I don’t want to brag, but I think I think “face monster” amazingly poetic. Succinct and true, it highlights an overlooked detail of experience and shows it to be universal. Words have the power to do that. They can say, “Hey, you may feel isolated and adrift, but at least we can all agree that this lady in the fur coat and yoga pants is a horrible face monster.” You see? You’re not alone.
According to responses to my Facebook status, the term “face monster” is spreading like wildfire. It’s already reached the West Coast. It makes sense. That is the epicenter of face monsterism. But, interestingly, it just as quickly penetrated the heartland. One responder has already begun describing suburban Wisconsinites as face monsters. Interesting, right?
I expect it to reach across the entire globe soon. Especially now that I’ve posted it to this blog. I’ve read The Tipping Point. I know how this shit works.
Soon--maybe as early as tomorrow--some young child in the Luxembourg will look up at his grandmother. He’ll see her Hermes scarf and the tiny lip scab from the morning’s collagen injection. And, at that moment, he will finally have a word for her. “Face monster.”
You’re welcome, little boy … You’re welcome.