Love this. Courting Destiny: The Zine. Forgot to link Bone who went on Friday.
I went to a rally for Darfur today so of course I thought of Jason. Not the rally in Central Park, but due to reasons I won’t get into now, a rally at a Zionist Fair in Riverside Park. At first I couldn’t understand why so many Zionist teens and 20somethings were wearing Darfur tee’s and it was an ancillary rally. Then I realized that they think as I do. People who have faced genocide throughout history and survived have a special responsibility to stop it
if you read Jason’s left sidebar, you know that he understands how nobody understands how intellectual property law, employment law, and other laws apply to blogging, so you cover all bases.
I covet the three bedroom apartment that he gave up. Sorry Jason, but to a New Yorker that’s sacrilegious.
Love the way Jason portrays life in his town, and the things that happened to him, after people discovered that the librarian who doesn’t fit the stereotype is the Zen Information Professional.
In the proud tradition of one week and four bloggers, Jason provides still another side of himself here. Oh, it’s a wonderful David Sedaris type story, though on the straight team, and once again, just read it.
Every guy, over the course of numerous failed relationships and insane flings, develops a set of stock answers for certain questions. Bare minimum, he develops a formula for answering certain questions with enough cryptic mystery to keep lovers guessing.
It was sometime in early Spring 1997, somewhere out in the Wyoming badlands.
â€œMariaâ€ and I were in the bed of my old, broke-down Dodge pick-up, staring at the stars and listening to the cassette deck in the cab play the same mix tape over and over again. A dirty sleeping bag, a few miles of grassland and a few lonely snow fences were all that separated our nakedness from the cars cruising down I-25.
For some reason, Maria decided to ask me why I’d suddenly become quiet.
In my version of reality, I’d grown quiet because I was about to fall asleep â€“ my hands tucked behind my head, a gorgeous Chicana girlfriend snuggled up next to me, lying beneath the stars and full of Dos Equis.
Life was good. It was well past midnight. I needed a nap before driving the hour and a half back to Colorado.
But in Maria’s version of reality, I was deep in thought, contemplating the meaning of our relationship, contemplating the sheer romanticism that went along with abducting one’s girlfriend from work for a surprise road trip. In her mind, I was debating whether or not I was actually in love, debating the necessity of my converting to Catholicism to make her mother happy…
I was just about asleep when I felt Maria’s weight shift. I opened my eyes and there she was, sitting on top of me, lighting a Newport, wrapped up in the sleeping bag like a homeless babushka.
Maria always called me Papi, for some reason.
â€œWhat are you thinking about?â€
I’ve never particularly liked that question. No one ever asks that question in the middle of meaningful conversation, when ideas are as naked as jaybirds, when what you’re thinking is probably just as relevant as what you’re saying. Nobody asks that question when your thoughts are clear and your mind crisp.
No, the only time anyone seems to ask the â€œwhat are you thinking about?â€ question is wen you’re thinking about nothing in particular, when there’s no thought process to explain.
It was then that I developed my stock answer to that question. Maria kept staring, waiting for an answer. I started to panic, afraid I’d say something really stupid. It was then, as my then-girlfriend stared at me, waiting for some Shakespearean soliloquy or something, that I blurted out perhaps the dumbest answer ever to that question.
Maria stared at me like a dog stares at its owner on the toilet, that â€œWhat the Fuck?â€ look etched in her face for what felt like an eternity.
It was the first thing that popped into my head. I couldn’t explain it then; I can’t explain it now. It is perhaps the most cryptic answer I’ve ever given to any question â€“ I don’t even know what it means.
Maria asked me to explain. At first, she thought I was joking. Then, for some reason, she thought I was talking about some old Jimmy Stewart flick, the one about the imaginary rabbit. Then, as I stuttered and stammered from attempted machismo recovery to attempted machismo recovery, we both started laughing uncontrollably.
â€œMariaâ€ never asked me that question again. And to this day, I answer that post-sex question with the same answer.
I’ve never had the same woman ask that question more than once. It’s too painful to laugh that hard more than once.
What am I thinking? Hell if I know…
A guy’s gotta have stock answers to certain questions.