“Never Not Funny has become such a part of my weekly routine that this is, in some weird lame internetty way, like losing a friend.”
And someone replied:
"You know? Nothing weird about it. Someone you care about is lost. Doesn’t matter that you never met. Same thing when Brad died recently. I never met him, but we talked online and he was a small part of my world. It’s worth grieving over.”
I know what I just said about hiding behind fiction but this one is true.
When I was living in San Francisco, I met this guy through an internet thing and we went out a couple times. He got my jokes, I got his. We both seemed willing to overlook certain things about each other, and that was nice. His apartment was basically one room and we had to stumble around the stacks of magazines to get to his futon. We all had futons OK so just stop rolling your eyes. And anyway it gets worse: Afterward we’d smoke and talk about our screenplays.
But whatever, those nights defined that whole phase of my life. I think back on my stint in SF and the bad temp jobs are gone, the bad roommates are gone. It’s just the two of us watching our ideas drift up to the ceiling.
Then he up and moved to New York. Like, desperately. And I certainly understand the impulse to make a clean break, but still, the way he looked at me that last time was like: Really? You seriously care about any of this?
It was your genuine surprise, Nick Douglas. That’s why I ain’t called, you tiny little man.
Do I continue to wait for the people I love and /or hate to die so I can write about them, or capitulate finally to the necessity of fiction? Which, in this context, is more cowardly? Am I just fucked either way? Haha, "fucked either way."
First off, your language is atrocious. My ears are not garbage cans. No one wants to hear that poop mouth, especially your friends and family members who love you despite all the terrible things you’ve done over the years.
Second off, you are so asking the wrong person. I’ve been hiding in fiction’s cold embrace for ages now. About ten years ago I wrote a story called Oh Yeah Bravo that was 100% true and the girl who was in it contacted me and had some issues with it and the experience freaked me out so bad I decided to couch everything in fiction from then on out.
E.g., I once wrote a story about a woman with a biomechanical vagina who broke out of an undersea lab to murder her ex-husband, a CIA ninja who assassinated Robert Kennedy. Nice, right? The movie’s coming out next spring with some Affleck as RFK and Patrick Warburton as the voice of the vagina.
But you know what that story is really about, Victoria? It’s about the time you laughed at me because I cried at the end of Dead Poets Society.
OK finally. Most of the questions I get on this thing are like “What is your favorite kind of ribbon?” or “Can you describe in detail what it’s like to touch your penis to another penis so I can decide if it’s something I want to pursue?” or “THIS IS YOUR MOTHER HOW DO YOU CALL HOTMAIL WITH THIS,” &c.
I was really hoping people’d be all trying to get inside my head, find out what makes me tick. I mean couldn’t this be the title of every blog ever: “Doesn’t anybody out there want to know what makes me tick? Hello? comments (0)”
I have processes. I have methodologies that are sweet as all get-out. And yet only one person here has the courage to anonymously stand up and go for the real meat.
I record the podcasts on my phone, which I stick in my shirt pocket while I drive around.
I'm English, and as we all know, that means I drink my own bodyweight in tea by 9:45 every morning, wear Union Jack underpants, eat nothing but boiled offal and only have three of my own teeth left.
In the spirit of transatlantic camaraderie, I wonder whether you would explain this “Bah di ya yo!!” goodbye you mentioned using on dear katydidsays during your cultural visit to Denver. Also, whether you would use this on a visit to the UK, and if so, in what context.
A related, or possibly unrelated, question. I’m also mixed-race. Does this mean I’d end up on Homeless Island too, or would I just have to be there on weekends and holidays? Or maybe Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays?
And god shave the queen. Or something.
G’day, mate! Did you do a gougle.co.uk search for "bah di ya yo"? What did you see staring back at you? That’s right: ME AND ME ALONE. In my attempt to come up with a phrase that simulated the sound of a post-verbal drunken me saying goodbye, I managed to create a combination of letters that the internet had never seen before.
I get asked a lot: Say, Josh, do you ever get just plain exhausted by your nonstop genius?
The answer is always the same: I THOUGHT I TOLD YOU NO MORE TALKY TALKY MR. WHISKERPANTS now let’s go find this mouse you’ve been so curious about
Anyway, Three-Tooth, I would of course use that phrase in England if I was all slanted out on Daft Footie Aluminium or whatever the local sauce is, and you can visit Homeless Island every Tuesday night this fall on CBS.
Katie was in Denver for a conference and one of the first things she said to me was: “I noticed something about this town” and I interrupted and said: “No black people, right? Don’t worry, they’re all over on Homeless Island.” That’s how I greet people I just met.
Anyway then we started drinking Rusty Nails and this is where the evening totally disappears for me. Seriously I have no memory of saying goodbye or leaving. I have the sinking feeling I said “Bah di ya yo!!” and then peed my pants and stumbled the sixteen blocks to my apartment which was actually just one block away.
Yeah, it’s Calvin Klein. Because we all know the ladies love nothing more than a man who smells like golf course rape.
No, Ryan, my cologne of choice is called God Emperor. Never heard of it? That might be because I make it myself.
Before a hot date, I find out what kind of cologne her father wore (pretty easy these days thanks to Facebook). I mix that (usually Drakkar Noir) with Popov (a known aphrodisiac) and vanilla extract (women love to smell dessert) and KABOOM. I step in the room and my conquest is literally sick with desire.
As a gentleman, I must draw the curtain on what happens next. But if you listen close, you might be able to hear my theme song:
It was all that was left of her, aside from her scent in the pillows. The pillows we bought together, thinking we’d be sleeping side by side forever.
And the memories.
At first, I am angry. I want to take these things of hers and set them on fire, throw them away, cast them from my sight.
But the feeling passes.
I lay on my bedroom floor (so strange to write my instead of our) and place them in front of me.
In my mind, I write a poem. A threnody, if you will.
Then, I say my farewells. The Cheetos taste of bitter tears. The old shoe is redolent of death. The box of tampons goes under the bathroom sink just in case there’s some honey sleeping over who needs one and then I can be all ta-da!
when we goin ta chili's awready for sum UNYIN RINGS???
I think what “Bez” is doing here is hiding a sincere longing for my company — which is not at all cold and judgmental — within a jokey mockery of the fact that I go to Chili’s every goddamn Friday night with my brothers. Seriously what are we doing. There’s no other place to go around there? Some nice restaurant where we could be regulars and everyone would say yay Allens! when we came in and ask about our personal business and then make us listen to their personal business and then raise an eyebrow when we ordered a fifth drink and bleh, never mind, Chili’s it is.