JUST LIKE DAYDREAMING8
My twin brother is a cult heroat least in continental Europe. Here in the states, his goth band King James can rarely even getting a booking. In Europe, he can get fill a two hundred head club. James has been doing this since we graduated from high school. He has never had to hold a real job. Bastard. Of course, he is far from wealthy; in fact, he barely scrapes by. Still, he makes this living, however scant, doing what he loves. I suppose I hold this against him. I mean, Ive been a serious writer for fifteen years but am still working in offices.
James picked me up after I went to visit our grandmother last night. He has a 64 Chevrolet Nova with a six cylinder engine that is in perfect condition. A non-descript beige four door he has had for several years. Cars do not interest him, all he knew was he wanted an old one in mint condition and didnt want to pay more than $3000. Its an automatic: Unlike me, James prefers automatics.
Evening, younger brother.
Evening, older brother.
Weve been greeting each other that way as long as we can remember. If one doesnt fulfill their side of it, the other knows he is angry at them.
So, are you still in trouble for your on-line journal?
Probably. Amy was extremely irate, Im sure the bad feelings are still there.
You need to get laid, Jody, James gestures with his Nat Sherman. You need to have sex with a girl.
This makes me giggle. My brother frowns as he slows to a stop at 19th Street.
Im serious--
I know you are. All I can say is easier said than done.
Ive been keeping up on your diary, he sighs. I know all about your exploits with women.
If you could call them exploits--
Jody, look at me. We are identical twins. Same hair loss, same glasses, same build. I am currently involved with three women, (dont ask). I had sex last night, I can have sex tonight--
Can we switch identities again?
Youre missing the point, older brother, he takes one last deep drag and snubs the butt in the ashtray. The thing is, you are attractive. You are smart, you are funny, you know about holding doors open and all the old-fashioned crap. Your problem is, you think too much. You put too much thought into your relationships with women and you act overly conscious which is like tension which keeps you from getting pussy.
I cant believe you said that.
What?
Pussy, I laugh. What would Mom say if she heard you say that?
See, thats the problem, Jody. You are a red blooded male, you want pussy. But, being an elitist fuck--(and I say that as another elitist fuck)--you hold yourself above the throng, you say Oh, I love every bit of a woman including her mind, and you do, I do too, but we are just animals, see. We need to have sex, we have carnal desires, and you have them, but I think you deny them or cloak them in your sensitive maleness.
Maybe, I sigh. What can I do, James?
Say one thing: Pussy.
You cant be serious, I am laughing but I see that he *is* serious.
James pulls down 17th, comes to a stop, and puts the car in park.
Jody, I am saying this because you are my brother. The reason you are not in a relationship is because he live too much in your head. You have this high opinion of yourself, of your motivations, and it keeps you from moving forward. The first step is saying this one simple word: Five letters, two syllables.
I see your point, James, but--
No, no, no! He fishes another cigaret out and lights it with a book of matches. No politely intercepting my argument, say the word, say pussy.
I just look across the car at him. No, he isnt fucking with me. I can see in his eyes that he has a point. I dont know what that point is, but there clearly is one.
Pussy.
Yes, he beams, throwing the car back into drive and turning around. Thats my boy. Pussy. Ugly word, ghastly word, in fact, but it serves a purpose.
So trailer trash guys can identify a womans anatomy?
There you go again. We arent better than them, Jody. Yeah, you and I were raised to treat women well, but at the end of the day, we want to fuck them. We want to cook them dinner, to massage their feet when they come home from work, but we also want pussy, and your saying that one simple word is the first awkward step on your becoming a happier person.
You think?
No. I *know*.
We end up at the Streets of London. I get us two pints of Newcastle and we go to the back porch where James can smoke.
So, hows your getting pussy going? I smirk.
He cringes and shakes his head.
Okay, weve used that work enough for the entirety of 2003, he takes a sip of his beer. To answer your question, I am, as always, in Dickensonian way with the fairer sex.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times?
Exactly. Anne keeps pushing for a commitment, and I think you know which one I mean
James has been seeing Anne since all of us were 18. Theyve never been monogamous, though. I would have married her years ago, but thats me.
Youre still not into that idea?
He looks off towards the alley, the way he looks into the distance when the walls come up.
And then theres this new girl, this young goth named Chole. Shes only 21--
21? Shit, we havent been 21 since the eighties!
Believe me, I didnt intend for us to be involved, but shes into King James and emailed me.
Where does she live?
The City. She goes to college there. Shes amazing, Jody, or I wouldnt be spending time with her.
I know--
Then theres Jennifer, we keep hooking up despite our best intentions.
Three. Three beautiful women my brother is involved with. We look exactly the same. I have not had a girlfriend for a year and a half. Is saying that little word--(five letters, two syllables)--really the first step on the road to liberation? I dont know, Ill try anything at this point; I really want to be liberated.
Tuesday morning. The existential angst I wrote about in the last chapter was peaking. What would happen if I was just blunt with the girl in question? What if I just said, Hey, I dig you, lets go upstairs.? Ive never done that; Ive been scared, been afraid of coming off like an asshole. The girls Ive wanted to go upstairs with Ive always liked and just didnt want things between us to become ugly. So, I act all shy and then I get resentful when they just want to be friends and things break up. Should I just be blunt? Should I
Mr. Ives is going on and on about installing hard drives, hitching his thumbs in the front pockets of his wretched trousers for the 1000th time in the past 18 weeks.
We had four guyswith forty years experience between us, he smiles slightly as the spotlight warms his bearded face. And we couldnt figure out the problem with this hard drive
One More Night by Phil Collins is insinuating from the other room like a leper seeking a hug. I look down at the red Bic pen on the desk and contemplate driving it through my hand; one bright instant, things becoming clearer, just stabbing through the fucking boredom butmy hands are too important to me. I am very careful with my hands.
Thelma is hawking Girl Scout cookies, mentioning she has a catalog, bringing up she has them for sale every couple of minutes. This interrupts her endless dialogues on food, her complaints of being hungry, but she weathers these interruptions. Thelma is a decent sort, I have decided, she just talks too much. She complains too much. Her ex-husband is a prick, and she goes on and on and on about their legal battles and it gets all stupid and weary. It gets tiresome, but I can relate. My mother got the short end when my parents divorced. She is such a good person, she tries to do the right thing, and didnt pursue my father to the ends of hell. One reason I am angry with my Dad is that he sent my mother shit for child support. She was killing herself as a manager at a department store and he was building a luxury sailboat and bitching about sending along $125 a month. He was not a man, he was being a little bitch and I resent it. Being a man is not about watching football or guffawing with the guys or growing back hair, its about meeting your responsibilities--my Dad was not a man in this instance, he was a little bitch. You know, fuck him. I am not angry as I write this, I am resigned. Thelma needs to say this Fuck him, then she needs to let go of all that anger and go on with life. Id give her the same advice I should give to myself.
I am stuck at the folding table like a bug on a pin. Something huge and sharp bisecting me; it causes me pain but there is no escape. Mr. Ives is still slyly trying to interject his snake oil sales into random conversations. Today its Metaboliteyou know, I am torn on Mr. Ives. He has been around, a right raconteur, but he has this air of Ive been around since dirt was invented and I know everything. If he was a bit more humble, Id buy him a drink or four, get him talking. Hubris. I have it. Its like God knocking your glasses off. You may be walking through interesting times, but you can focus on nothing but yourself.
Wednesday morning. I am still thinking about a girl, still in a bad way. Desperado by the Eagles comes on and its all I can do to not start crying.
Youd better love someone before its too late
Fuck you, Don Henley. Im too weak to be in a room and listen to this right now. Fuck you and your using poker as a metaphor for amorous relationship bollocks. Total clich butsometimes clichs are a perfect device for a rock ballad. I could sing this song right now, I could but Id start crying. Desperado is about isolating yourself from other people, about fearing closeness like my brother James does. It is very simple, has a very predictable arrangement, but I consider it a classic, a beautiful song.
I triedto get a pass to the Superbowl from the NFL, but I am just a freelance photographer
Mr. Ives could drown out the fucking Who with his voice. I guess some people feel the need to fill a room. A remake of Cruising with Huey Lewis and Gweneth Paltrow comes up. Fuck them both. Seriously, Ive had enough of those musical dilatants. Smokey Robinson is a great. He didnt need two singers to stumble through that song, he carried it himself. Instead of spending money on bombs, we should make sure everyone in Robinsons family has insurance, isnt going hungry, has a warm place to stay. Smokey Robinson is a great, and he seems like a nice person. SoHuey Lewis needs to resign himself to a career at Home Depot guiding the forklift and Gweneth needs to stick to acting.
Leigh comes back from lunch. The Bird Lady is carrying a couple of files back towards our part of the room.
Boy, its cold. Is it colder outside or inside?
She walks away and Leigh and I just look at each other. What can you say?
Wasting Away in Margaritaville by Jimmy Buffet is playing. Sometimes I debate that, if I were in some third world country and locked in a dungeon, whether I would choose listening to that tune or having fishing hooks threaded through my testicles as my torture of choice. Jimmy Buffet is the jock itch of music. Hardly life threatening, but unpleasant nonetheless.
Charles Chips arrives and is greeting like a messiah to snacking. Women pull their tops off, men sob, at least one manager wets his pants. Three bags of chips are purchased. A man with a nasty cold fishes in each one for a handful of crisps. People comment on his being contagious, but reach after him a few seconds later.
Wednesday evening. Dinner with grandmother. The traffic across town is wretched. In fact, it is a study in wretchedness. If I were an academic, I could shape my thesis on just how wretched it actually is. Mum has cooked us chicken and dumplings, seems to be in fine fiddle. She has been reworking her living will, working out which songs she wants at her memorial. Memorial? Songs? Fuck that, were black Irish. We should have a wake! Well drink Jamison and reminisce and itll all be good. None of this Protestant memorial shit, you know. But, these are her wishes. We all love Mum and want to abide with her wishes. Nonetheless, I think we may need to slip another song into her memorial. Maybe Mandingo by Sinead O Connor
My twin brother is a cult heroat least in continental Europe. Here in the states, his goth band King James can rarely even getting a booking. In Europe, he can get fill a two hundred head club. James has been doing this since we graduated from high school. He has never had to hold a real job. Bastard. Of course, he is far from wealthy; in fact, he barely scrapes by. Still, he makes this living, however scant, doing what he loves. I suppose I hold this against him. I mean, Ive been a serious writer for fifteen years but am still working in offices.
James picked me up after I went to visit our grandmother last night. He has a 64 Chevrolet Nova with a six cylinder engine that is in perfect condition. A non-descript beige four door he has had for several years. Cars do not interest him, all he knew was he wanted an old one in mint condition and didnt want to pay more than $3000. Its an automatic: Unlike me, James prefers automatics.
Evening, younger brother.
Evening, older brother.
Weve been greeting each other that way as long as we can remember. If one doesnt fulfill their side of it, the other knows he is angry at them.
So, are you still in trouble for your on-line journal?
Probably. Amy was extremely irate, Im sure the bad feelings are still there.
You need to get laid, Jody, James gestures with his Nat Sherman. You need to have sex with a girl.
This makes me giggle. My brother frowns as he slows to a stop at 19th Street.
Im serious--
I know you are. All I can say is easier said than done.
Ive been keeping up on your diary, he sighs. I know all about your exploits with women.
If you could call them exploits--
Jody, look at me. We are identical twins. Same hair loss, same glasses, same build. I am currently involved with three women, (dont ask). I had sex last night, I can have sex tonight--
Can we switch identities again?
Youre missing the point, older brother, he takes one last deep drag and snubs the butt in the ashtray. The thing is, you are attractive. You are smart, you are funny, you know about holding doors open and all the old-fashioned crap. Your problem is, you think too much. You put too much thought into your relationships with women and you act overly conscious which is like tension which keeps you from getting pussy.
I cant believe you said that.
What?
Pussy, I laugh. What would Mom say if she heard you say that?
See, thats the problem, Jody. You are a red blooded male, you want pussy. But, being an elitist fuck--(and I say that as another elitist fuck)--you hold yourself above the throng, you say Oh, I love every bit of a woman including her mind, and you do, I do too, but we are just animals, see. We need to have sex, we have carnal desires, and you have them, but I think you deny them or cloak them in your sensitive maleness.
Maybe, I sigh. What can I do, James?
Say one thing: Pussy.
You cant be serious, I am laughing but I see that he *is* serious.
James pulls down 17th, comes to a stop, and puts the car in park.
Jody, I am saying this because you are my brother. The reason you are not in a relationship is because he live too much in your head. You have this high opinion of yourself, of your motivations, and it keeps you from moving forward. The first step is saying this one simple word: Five letters, two syllables.
I see your point, James, but--
No, no, no! He fishes another cigaret out and lights it with a book of matches. No politely intercepting my argument, say the word, say pussy.
I just look across the car at him. No, he isnt fucking with me. I can see in his eyes that he has a point. I dont know what that point is, but there clearly is one.
Pussy.
Yes, he beams, throwing the car back into drive and turning around. Thats my boy. Pussy. Ugly word, ghastly word, in fact, but it serves a purpose.
So trailer trash guys can identify a womans anatomy?
There you go again. We arent better than them, Jody. Yeah, you and I were raised to treat women well, but at the end of the day, we want to fuck them. We want to cook them dinner, to massage their feet when they come home from work, but we also want pussy, and your saying that one simple word is the first awkward step on your becoming a happier person.
You think?
No. I *know*.
We end up at the Streets of London. I get us two pints of Newcastle and we go to the back porch where James can smoke.
So, hows your getting pussy going? I smirk.
He cringes and shakes his head.
Okay, weve used that work enough for the entirety of 2003, he takes a sip of his beer. To answer your question, I am, as always, in Dickensonian way with the fairer sex.
It was the best of times, it was the worst of times?
Exactly. Anne keeps pushing for a commitment, and I think you know which one I mean
James has been seeing Anne since all of us were 18. Theyve never been monogamous, though. I would have married her years ago, but thats me.
Youre still not into that idea?
He looks off towards the alley, the way he looks into the distance when the walls come up.
And then theres this new girl, this young goth named Chole. Shes only 21--
21? Shit, we havent been 21 since the eighties!
Believe me, I didnt intend for us to be involved, but shes into King James and emailed me.
Where does she live?
The City. She goes to college there. Shes amazing, Jody, or I wouldnt be spending time with her.
I know--
Then theres Jennifer, we keep hooking up despite our best intentions.
Three. Three beautiful women my brother is involved with. We look exactly the same. I have not had a girlfriend for a year and a half. Is saying that little word--(five letters, two syllables)--really the first step on the road to liberation? I dont know, Ill try anything at this point; I really want to be liberated.
Tuesday morning. The existential angst I wrote about in the last chapter was peaking. What would happen if I was just blunt with the girl in question? What if I just said, Hey, I dig you, lets go upstairs.? Ive never done that; Ive been scared, been afraid of coming off like an asshole. The girls Ive wanted to go upstairs with Ive always liked and just didnt want things between us to become ugly. So, I act all shy and then I get resentful when they just want to be friends and things break up. Should I just be blunt? Should I
Mr. Ives is going on and on about installing hard drives, hitching his thumbs in the front pockets of his wretched trousers for the 1000th time in the past 18 weeks.
We had four guyswith forty years experience between us, he smiles slightly as the spotlight warms his bearded face. And we couldnt figure out the problem with this hard drive
One More Night by Phil Collins is insinuating from the other room like a leper seeking a hug. I look down at the red Bic pen on the desk and contemplate driving it through my hand; one bright instant, things becoming clearer, just stabbing through the fucking boredom butmy hands are too important to me. I am very careful with my hands.
Thelma is hawking Girl Scout cookies, mentioning she has a catalog, bringing up she has them for sale every couple of minutes. This interrupts her endless dialogues on food, her complaints of being hungry, but she weathers these interruptions. Thelma is a decent sort, I have decided, she just talks too much. She complains too much. Her ex-husband is a prick, and she goes on and on and on about their legal battles and it gets all stupid and weary. It gets tiresome, but I can relate. My mother got the short end when my parents divorced. She is such a good person, she tries to do the right thing, and didnt pursue my father to the ends of hell. One reason I am angry with my Dad is that he sent my mother shit for child support. She was killing herself as a manager at a department store and he was building a luxury sailboat and bitching about sending along $125 a month. He was not a man, he was being a little bitch and I resent it. Being a man is not about watching football or guffawing with the guys or growing back hair, its about meeting your responsibilities--my Dad was not a man in this instance, he was a little bitch. You know, fuck him. I am not angry as I write this, I am resigned. Thelma needs to say this Fuck him, then she needs to let go of all that anger and go on with life. Id give her the same advice I should give to myself.
I am stuck at the folding table like a bug on a pin. Something huge and sharp bisecting me; it causes me pain but there is no escape. Mr. Ives is still slyly trying to interject his snake oil sales into random conversations. Today its Metaboliteyou know, I am torn on Mr. Ives. He has been around, a right raconteur, but he has this air of Ive been around since dirt was invented and I know everything. If he was a bit more humble, Id buy him a drink or four, get him talking. Hubris. I have it. Its like God knocking your glasses off. You may be walking through interesting times, but you can focus on nothing but yourself.
Wednesday morning. I am still thinking about a girl, still in a bad way. Desperado by the Eagles comes on and its all I can do to not start crying.
Youd better love someone before its too late
Fuck you, Don Henley. Im too weak to be in a room and listen to this right now. Fuck you and your using poker as a metaphor for amorous relationship bollocks. Total clich butsometimes clichs are a perfect device for a rock ballad. I could sing this song right now, I could but Id start crying. Desperado is about isolating yourself from other people, about fearing closeness like my brother James does. It is very simple, has a very predictable arrangement, but I consider it a classic, a beautiful song.
I triedto get a pass to the Superbowl from the NFL, but I am just a freelance photographer
Mr. Ives could drown out the fucking Who with his voice. I guess some people feel the need to fill a room. A remake of Cruising with Huey Lewis and Gweneth Paltrow comes up. Fuck them both. Seriously, Ive had enough of those musical dilatants. Smokey Robinson is a great. He didnt need two singers to stumble through that song, he carried it himself. Instead of spending money on bombs, we should make sure everyone in Robinsons family has insurance, isnt going hungry, has a warm place to stay. Smokey Robinson is a great, and he seems like a nice person. SoHuey Lewis needs to resign himself to a career at Home Depot guiding the forklift and Gweneth needs to stick to acting.
Leigh comes back from lunch. The Bird Lady is carrying a couple of files back towards our part of the room.
Boy, its cold. Is it colder outside or inside?
She walks away and Leigh and I just look at each other. What can you say?
Wasting Away in Margaritaville by Jimmy Buffet is playing. Sometimes I debate that, if I were in some third world country and locked in a dungeon, whether I would choose listening to that tune or having fishing hooks threaded through my testicles as my torture of choice. Jimmy Buffet is the jock itch of music. Hardly life threatening, but unpleasant nonetheless.
Charles Chips arrives and is greeting like a messiah to snacking. Women pull their tops off, men sob, at least one manager wets his pants. Three bags of chips are purchased. A man with a nasty cold fishes in each one for a handful of crisps. People comment on his being contagious, but reach after him a few seconds later.
Wednesday evening. Dinner with grandmother. The traffic across town is wretched. In fact, it is a study in wretchedness. If I were an academic, I could shape my thesis on just how wretched it actually is. Mum has cooked us chicken and dumplings, seems to be in fine fiddle. She has been reworking her living will, working out which songs she wants at her memorial. Memorial? Songs? Fuck that, were black Irish. We should have a wake! Well drink Jamison and reminisce and itll all be good. None of this Protestant memorial shit, you know. But, these are her wishes. We all love Mum and want to abide with her wishes. Nonetheless, I think we may need to slip another song into her memorial. Maybe Mandingo by Sinead O Connor
ninji