A: 10/17/02

Work Diary, 10/17/02

Once, when I was a kid, I followed the sound of piano music into the
empty ballroom of a Swiss hotel. A fellow traveler was with me; when we
entered the room, we found yet another member of our group playing the
grand piano. She was quite good, actually, and unaware of our presence.
I began disco dancing, doing my best to imitate John Travolta's
infamous gyrations from "Saturday Night Fever." I thought I was being
riotously funny, but my companion - who was older than me - grabbed my
arms and hissed, "Knock it off!" I did, though instantly I hated my
companion and that dreamy look on his face as he watched the pianist.
He even went so far as to put his chin in one hand, a posture that will
forever remind me of someone who's pretending to enjoy himself when, in
fact, he's just trying to keep from nodding off.

That time in Switzerland is my first memory of a long line of similar
experiences, experiences I have to this day. I didn't hate the guy
because he embarrassed me; instead, I hated him because I was
embarrassed for him. He was so serious, so willing to abandon his
previously fun side to become some doe-eyed fool caught in the
questionable rapture of the moment - all because he felt that's how he
should be.

Understand, I am no class clown. Even when drunk, I am the last person
leaping from a sofa with a lampshade on my head. I feel safest in Gap
clothing and non-dyed hair, and I believe in the good manners that keep
society running smoothly. Despite this, however, I can never trust
people's motives for behaving the way they do.

This character flaw (because, let's face it, that's exactly what it is)
keeps me grimacing day after day. I've been wanting to try Yoga, for
instance, but every time I see those dirty Birkenstocks lined up
outside the door, I think of patchouli, Guatemalan friendship
bracelets, and dreadlocks. I love patchouli but it just doesn't jibe
with all the late model cars parked out in front of the Yoga place.
Like the narrator in that "Boys of Summer" song, who sees a Deadhead
sticker on a Cadillac, I just keep walking (and simply refuse to look
back).

I have walked out of poetry readings with my tongue in shreds, the
result of trying to hold back tourrettic outbursts as I watched the
serious faces around me. I'm not saying the poetry was bad, just that
all that seriousness sucked any joy out of the occasion. Why bother
sharing your deepest thoughts with a stone-faced audience whose sense
of humor ended in 1982? If anything, poetry readings taught me that
hemp clothing and beads do not an artist make.

In high school, during a microbiology unit in which we were
photographing various items under the microscope, I volunteered the use
of my sperm. Due to my position on the school's hierarchical totem
pole, I was able to get away with it, no questions asked. The next day,
I produced a test tube full of my dirty deed, put some on a slide, and
got to work. At one point, a female classmate walked up to me and said,
"Allen, may I use some of your sperm?" I admired her maturity, but I
admired her even more when she got back to her group and practically
collapsed while braying like a donkey. She wasn't afraid to see the
ridiculousness of being handed a slide smeared with ejaculate in a high
school biology class.

What price irreverence? And is irreverence a boon or a crutch? I don't
burst out laughing while reading newspaper articles about snipers
shooting schoolchildren. I keep away from politicos, those black holes
of fun who canonize their candidates and dare anyone to suggest
alternatives. Likewise, political correctness causes me to have a
visceral reaction, no matter how just and wise the cause.

Sometimes, I hate it. Why can't I take others seriously like they do
themselves? I don't feel like a snob. I'm happily sarcastic but not
cruel. A person could shave his head, live in a dumpster, drive a BMW,
and eat cardboard and I couldn't care less. On the other hand, if he
made a point of filming his experience and making it a multi-national
event, I might have issues.

A couple of years ago, I walked into a friend's apartment, a minimalist
one-room affair that spoke to my friend's young age and lack of money.
For a couple of minutes, I was speechless as I struggled with a strange
emotion that grew stronger the more I looked around the apartment: The
bed with one pillow, the two pairs of shoes in the practically empty
closet, the four simple plates on the kitchen counter. The plates, in
fact, did me in. It was envy I was feeling, a complete and utter desire
to leave everything I have and replace it with what my friend did
not.

Perhaps I am also envious of the people I mock. My past won't allow me
the simplicity of their convictions, even when I agree with them. Is it
any wonder, then, that I have a future filled with lonely Saturday
nights?