Despite Rumors to the Contrary, I am Not a Catch

Not long ago, I was visiting friends in San Francisco when one of them announced, apropos of nothing, that I'm a "catch." Never mind that I'm off the market, she thought it was worth mentioning that I seemed like the kind of guy who anybody would be lucky to date.

"Don't act so surprised," she told me. "I mean that as a compliment. I just have a feeling that you'd make good boyfriend material."

I should be flattered, I suppose. And it isn't the first time I've heard this. But I suspect that I've given her and a few other well-meaning ladies the wrong impression about me. Either that or they haven't really been paying attention. I hate to burst anybody's bubble, but I am not, in any sense of the word, a catch. In fact, if you want to take this a step further, I'm the sort of cold-blooded aquatic creature that any fisherman in his right mind would not only throw back immediately, but might even be disturbed enough to report to the local authorities, if only out of fear that the lake is contaminated.

I'm not trying to be humble. I just want to clear up any confusion. I'll admit, I can be very charming when I want to be. But I'm best in small doses. I'm the sushi of dudes. Try me once in a while and I'll seem exotic, but make me a regular meal and you'll realize that raw squid is kinda gross.

Wow. That sounded a lot dirtier than I intended. Maybe I should quit with the fish metaphors, huh?

KEEP ON READIN'! UNLESS YOU THINK YOU CAN DO BETTER. ACTUALLY, COME TO THINK OF IT, YOU CAN PROBABLY DO BETTER. GET OFF THE COMPUTER AND FINISH THAT NOVEL, GODDAMIT!

Not that there's a long line of female courters standing outside my door on any given day, but I feel like I need to rectify this misunderstanding about my supposed boyfriend-worthiness. Here are a few things you probably didn't know about me, and probably didn't want to know, that should settle the matter once and for all. Maybe now you'll understand, as so many of my closest friends already do, that you've missed out on nothing.

I believe the words you're looking for are, "I dodged a bullet."

* * *

I am a curmudgeon. Maybe not in the classical sense of the word. I don't consider myself crusty or irascible or even particularly cantankerous. But when it comes to a general mistrust of the outside world, I've elevated 'mudgeonry to an art form. I'm not just a writer because I love words. I'm a writer because it infrequently involves interacting with other people. I'll venture outside the house when it's absolutely necessary, but I won't be happy about it. I'm usually the guy at any party standing by himself in the back, muttering rude comments under his breath about the other guests. There are very few social events that don't cause me to think, "I put on pants for this?" But I'm not just stand-offish with strangers. As many can attest, trying to get me on the phone is like trying to have a conversation with a deaf-mute with a CB radio. You're going to be waiting a looooooong time for a response.

I have some frustrating quirks when it comes to clothing. First and perhaps most alarming, I haven't owned a pair of jeans since I was 16 years old. I am not joking. I despise everything about denim, and I refuse to have it anywhere near my body. The same goes for denim jackets. And if you're a woman who wears jean skirts, I will never be your friend. Unless you're in a rodeo or regularly partake in line-dancing, you have no business wearing denim.

I do, however, think that pajama bottoms are a perfectly acceptable item to wear outside the house. Even if I'm wearing a tie. Actually, especially if I'm wearing a tie. Nothing pleases me more than a tux jacket and bowtie up top and pajama bottoms down below. If not pajamas, then at least shorts. I wear shorts everywhere, for any and all occasions. I don't care if I'm walking through a snowstorm at midnight, I'll probably be wearing shorts. Any material whatsoever on my legs makes me edgy - unless, as I've already explained, it falls into the sleepwear genre.

I am always the first person in any social situation to say something inappropriate. I don't care if it's dinner with your parents or a black-tie formal affair; at some point during the evening, you can be reasonably certain that I'll find a way to steer the conversation towards hobo balls. I'm especially amused by introducing young children to new and creative curse words. True story: I once befriended the kid's table at a relative's wedding and taught them how easy it is to get an adult's attention by calling them a "taintlicker". Don't bother saying to me, "Please, just this one time, try not to mention qweefs to my mother." Once I know your boundaries, those forbidden words will just come trickling off my tongue faster than you thought possible. "So nice to meet you, my name is Eric Spiiiii..... qweef, qweef, qweef, qweef, qweef!!" Imagine a dude with tourette's syndrome and an insatiable lust to make strangers laugh at any cost and you've got a pretty good idea of what you're dealing with. Oh, and please don't ever consider taking me to a funeral. You may see a dearly departed loved one in that coffin, but I see a potential straight man.

Although I have a seething hatred for most TV, I am endlessly fascinated with The Simpsons. I've seen every episode many, many times, and with little or no encouragement, I'll gladly share my favorite quotes with you. I can talk for hours about Frank "Grimey" Grimes and each Halloween special (in sequential order) until you're seriously considering stabbing me in the neck with a fork. I even know about obscure characters like Leon Kompowsky and Zirrock The Propirror and Baby Gerald. Do you? Don't worry, I'll be telling you about all of them eventually. It may sound delightful, but trust me, it's not. Need proof? I was once performing cunnilingus on a female friend and thought it'd be funny to look up at her and say, in a falsetto Ralph Wiggum voice, "It tastes like burning." Not so cute anymore, is it?

I am one hairy dude. When I was a teenager, this was something to brag about, as the ability to grow a mustache in less than two days was considered appealing and proof of masculinity. Not so when you reach the age of 21 and beyond. Here's the thing: When you need to shave every few days as a teenager, this number will increase exponentially when you become an adult. I can't leave the house anymore without a razor. I had to shave twice while writing this paragraph. And you wanna hear something that will really give you the willies? I often find it necessary to shave my cheeks. Seriously. If I don't, my vision could become obstructed. Do you remember that Simpsons episode - see, I'm doing the Simpsons trivia thing again. I told you this would happen - where Homer is in the bathroom, singing, "I'm shavin' my shoulders, gonna get it all shaved off?" When you saw that scene, did you think to yourself, "Oh man, that is hot. I wouldn't kick him out of bed?" No? Do I really need to say any more?

Have you noticed how I have no reservations about sharing intimate and personally embarrassing stories on this blog? Not just about myself, but about my immediate family and dearest friends? Yeah, I kinda do that a lot. Not just here, but in everyday conversation. Most people have an innate understanding of what details from their life can and should be shared with the public and what should remain private. But not me. I'll spill everything, even when my loved ones are pinching my elbow or giving me a "will you please shut the fuck up?" glare. The more I know about you, the more the rest of the world will, too. You know that birthmark on your inner thigh that kinda looks like the Shroud of Turin? Give me a chance and I'll write about it. You think I'm kidding? Show it to me and let's see what happens.

Betting Lines for the Upcoming Spitznagel Family Reunion

As we do every year, the entire Spitznagel clan will be reuniting in northern Michigan this summer. And as always, several of us have already placed our bets on the probable outcomes. Here are just four of the most popular betting lines in contention this year, and though you're at an obvious disadvantage (having never actually met my family), I welcome you to join the action and lay down your chips.

It has all the fun of betting on the horsies, but with actual human emotions at stake.

KEEP ON READIN'! MY MORTIFYING FAMILY DYSFUNCTION CAN BE YOUR BRIEF DISTRACTION FROM A MINDLESS DAY JOB!

* * *

Will the Mystery Pooper Strike Again?

Speculation over the identity of the so-called mystery pooper promises to be the hot topic of the summer, despite a five-year respite since the last incident of malapropos number two was reported.

Those familiar with the case will recall that during the summer of 2000, a sizable nugget of feces was discovered in the upstairs bedroom of my parents' cottage, strategically placed in the dead center of an expensive oriental rug. There was initially some conjecture that the offending excrement may have been created by one of the many dogs in attendance, but this theory was soon dismissed after my brother pointed out that the poop was far too large to have originated from the intestines of a canine.

Several suspects were identified - including an 8-year old cousin (who shall remain nameless) who was known to be playing alone upstairs shortly before the crime is believed to have taken place. His mother made a convincing argument for his innocence, assuring the family that he had no prior history of making boom-boom in a shared public area. With no witnesses, we had little choice but to accept his "not guilty" plea.

It didn't take long for the mystery pooper to strike again, this time at my grandmother's summer home. The poop was allegedly left in her toilet at some point between October of 2001 and May of 2002, while the house was empty and my grandmother was at her permanent residence in Florida. The poop was not flushed, as the water supply had been shut off for the winter (to protect the pipes from freezing).

In an unlucky coincidence, I was living at my family cottage at the time, located just a short drive from my grandmother's home, and I alone was in possession of her keys. The family naturally assumed that I was the perpetrator, and openly accused me of pooping misconduct. I remain adamant, however, that I was not responsible for the rogue poop; my defense being that no person in their right mind would willingly evacuate their bowels in an environment with no electricity or central heating. (Besides, as I've already explained at length on this blog, most of my bathroom activity was occurring outdoors.)

Fair enough, they agreed. But if I didn't do it, who did?

Odds: 13 to 2

Although there is no evidence that the two incidents of pooping iniquity are related, the family remains on high alert for a possible third attack. As with the terrorists, we assume that the culprit is luring us into a false sense of security, preparing to strike again when our guard is down. But the oddsmakers know this is unlikely, given the randomness of the pooping and the probability that they were committed by two different parties. The once-prepubescent cousin is now in his early teens, and sources close to his immediate family confirm that he has considerably more control of his bowel movements. As for the unfortunate event at my grandmother's house, it may very well remain unsolved. My best guess is that a homeless vagrant was responsible. I know this makes no sense whatsoever, but it's the only logical hypothesis I can come up with.

Despite some heated conjecture, the smart bet is against a repeat performance.

* * *

Will Uncle Bob Continue Cheating Death?

The excitement had already reached a fever pitch as this odds-defying matchup - my Uncle Bob vs. the icy hands of death- returns for its tenth consecutive year. The initial tournament appeared to be a no brainer, with the point spread predicting an insurmountable lead for death. But as the Vegas bookmakers soon learned, Bob is not to be underestimated. He's proven year after year that he has the "can-do" spirit of a true underdog and shouldn't be counted out until the final buzzer.

Bob's Cinderella run began in the late 90s, when he revealed to the family that he had emphysema. As a three-pack-a-day smoker for most of his life, his condition surprised nobody, and rumors began flying that Bob was not long for this world. More than a few eyebrows were raised, however, when my father - a fit, nonsmoking vegetarian and jogging enthusiast - passed away from a massive heart attack in 1999, while Uncle Bob - who remains a morbidly obese and unapologetic smoker, and regularly backs his car down the driveway to pick up his mail - was still standing. Was it an example of medical irony, we wondered, or further proof that Bob would not go quietly into the night?

As the years passed, Bob developed a veritable "who's who" of chronic illnesses. Bronchitis, diabetes, intestinal infections, and cancer of the throat, pancreas, brain and liver. His lymph nodes swelled up to the size of hockey pucks, and thanks to his love of butter - he eats sticks of it like lollipops - he packed on an additional 100 pounds. His body has occasionally been compared to the Michelin Man Tire Mascot, but slightly more pale.

Every summer, our family makes grim proclamations that this will be Bob's last visit to the annual reunion. "Say your goodbyes to him," they tell each other. "He won't be back next year." But he always returns - maybe a little fatter than before, or unable to get out of his chair without making a guttural moan that sounds like a tortured lab animal, but never showing any signs that he intends to be the next family member to drop.

Odds: 9 to 4

My brother and I are convinced that Bob will outlive us all. On the zoological hierarchy, it's cockroaches, Bob and then everybody else. Not only will Bob and his cockroach friends survive a nuclear war, they also share another biological trait. They can both live for weeks, maybe longer, without their heads. (This last fun fact has yet to be confirmed, but we're reasonably sure it's true.)

Because of his puzzling tenacity, my brother and I now consider it bad luck to even ponder when Bob will succomb to his many diseases. Shortly before he passed away, our father would often remark on Bob's unhealthy eating habits. "That guy better clean up his life," he'd say, "or he'll be dead before 60." The strange coincidence that it was our dad who died at 60 was not lost on us, and we began treating predictions of Bob's imminent demise as a sort of Pharaoh’s curse. When the family discusses his declining health, we'll remain silent and refuse to offer up our opinions. The only thing we'll say on the subject is that Bob will likely bury us all.

"Be nice to Bob," our mom scolds us. "This may be the last time you see him."

We just laugh. "Keep telling yourself that," we say. "But we know better. The last time we'll see Bob is when he's placing the lid on our coffins."

* * *

Will Uncle Jeff Attempt to Leave the Family Again?

My Uncle Jeff is an odd duck. He says little or nothing to the rest of the family, and spends most of his time watching TV, often sitting dangerously close to the screen. We can't really blame him for being so reluctant to participate in our gatherings, especially when they devolve into screaming matches about who was supposed to be watching Uncle Tom's wife so she wouldn't find the liquor in the basement, drink a bottle of scotch and then pass out in the closet, or whether Bob will indeed die this year. When he proposed to my mom's younger sister, he was probably not yet aware that his future in-laws suffered from clinical insanity. By the time he figured it out, it was too late and he was stuck with us. So I feel for the guy, I really do.

But that's no excuse for his blatant attempts to leave the family. Not by divorcing his wife, mind you. But by literally trying to dump us for another family while the rest of us watched in horror.

In the winter of 2003, the Spitznagels agreed to meet in northern Michigan for Thanksgiving. After the meal, we ventured to a nearby farm to pick out Christmas trees (which we'd eventually cart back to our respective cities). While we busied ourselves with finding the perfect tree, Jeff wandered off from the group and began chatting up another family on a tree-buying mission. When we announced that we were ready to leave, Jeff ignored us. He just glared at us like we'd confused him with somebody else. As we waited in the car, we watched him laugh over some shared joke with his new-found friends, inching closer to them and further away from us. My brother was the first to put two and two together.

"Holy hobo balls," he exclaimed. "He's trying to defect!"

There was no other explanation. Jeff, as I mentioned, is not one for chit-chat. In the 20 years I've known him, I don't think I've heard him utter more than a few words. When he has bothered to speak, it's mostly along the lines of "I'm hungry, when we gonna eat?" But watching him now, with his exaggerated laughter and forced enthusiasm, we were seeing a side of him that we never knew existed. This was a man who was trying to make an impression. As far as he was concerned, this wasn't just casual conversation with strangers. It was a job interview.

"He wants to switch teams!" My sister-in-law howled. "He can't do that, can he?"

"He can and he is!" I insisted. "Should we try and stop him?"

We debated who would be most suited to tackle Jeff to the ground and drag him kicking and screaming back to our car. But we decided against it, as it'd only confirm to Jeff - and his new family, who seemed to be seriously considering his adoption offer - that we were a dangerous cult who thought nothing of brainwashing our members.

He soon gave up and came back to us - I think our Aunt made it abundantly clear that escape was futile - but he wasn't happy about it. For the remainder of our time together, he was more mute than usual, managing only a miserable grunt when somebody asked him a direct question. It was impossible not to notice the sadness in his eyes. I don't like to traffic in cliches, but there was something in his expression that reminded me of an old Godfather quote.

"Just when I think I'm out, they drag me back in!"

Odds: 4 to 5

The only thing that stops Jeff from attempting to defect again is a lack of opportunities. My Aunt hasn't resorted to chaining him to the backyard like some misbehaving pet, but the figurative dog collar has been wrapped around his neck so tightly, I'm surprised he can still breathe.

A sample scenario:

RANDOM FAMILY MEMBER: We need more milk.

JEFF: (Makes a lunge for the car keys.) I'll go to the store and get some.

HIS WIFE: (Swats his hand away.) No, we'll send Jeremy (their son).

(Long, uncomfortable pause. Nobody mentions that Jeremy is only 9 years old and doesn't have a driver's license.)

But don't count out Jeff just yet. Like Steve McQueen in The Great Escape, he may soon find a way to foil his captors and tunnel to freedom. Of course, this is assuming that the Spitznagel family, at least in this equation, qualifies as the Gestapo. We're not that bad, are we? Okay, maybe a little.

Will Every Family Dinner Be a Complete Disaster?

My family as a whole has a tenuous grasp on the concept of expiration dates. My mother is probably the worst repeat offender. I've learned from experience that when she offers me a glass of wine, I need to politely but firmly ask her when the bottle was opened. Because invariably, the answer will be, “Last summer.” There was a time when I might have howled in protest, loudly proclaiming that when wine is left open for an entire year, it tends to take on the same chemical consistency of hemlock. But after one too many sour experiences, I’ve learned to keep my trap shut, accept her foul wine, and then dump it into the nearest sink when nobody is looking.

If it was the wine alone, I could ignore my family's strange indifference to the passage of time. But they also have an unwavering belief in the regenerative properties of food. I'm not sure who decided that it would be a good idea, but our dinners have always consisted of a potluck of dishes, each contributed by a different member of the family. This would be tolerable if it wasn't for the fact that not a single item of food has been prepared within the same week. They bring Tupperware containers filled with leftovers, and though I've asked repeatedly, nobody can tell me where these meals might have originated. So the food is not so much cooked as it is heated up, and it all has the same grayish hue that makes it impossible to know with any certainty what it is you might be consuming.

Only one person bothers to bring a dish that could in any way be described as fresh, and that’s my Uncle Tom. Each year, he volunteers to bring the meat, and each year, he shows up with a ball of turkey roughly the size of a child's fist. I don't know where he finds these freakishly small turkeys, but I can only imagine that he breeds them himself, ingesting them with a genetically altered feed designed to stunt their growth. When I've foolishly challenged his naive belief that a turkey weighing just short of two pounds might reasonably feed twenty people, he's become surly and despondent, refusing to speak with me for the rest of the weekend. So I've learned my lesson. I just smile and gladly accept my share of turkey, cut so thin you'd think you were eating wax paper.

"It's better this way," he insists. "There's no leftovers."

An odd bit of reasoning for a man who has based his life philosophy on Ziplock products. Seriously, when your refrigerator is filled with nothing but leftovers, is an extra bag or two of turkey really going to make a difference? But you can't argue with him. He refuses to see the flaw in his logic. Never mind that he's been stockpiling canned goods in his basement since 9/11. Never mind that his freezer is packed to capacity with old food that hasn't seen the light of day since the Carter administration. Even one extra slice of turkey might ruin him, and our hunger pangs be damned, he won't stand for it.

Odds: 2 to 1

This, as they say in Vegas, is a guaranteed bust, especially if you bet against the family. Do you hear that gurgling sound? That's my stomach, which is already eating its own lining in anticipation of the general lack of sustenance. Well, even if I starve, at least I'll have some entertainment to keep me amused. Have you ever seen a 300-pound man with emphysema try to wrestle away a tiny piece of turkey from his considerably younger nephews, while his brother-in-law watches quietly from a distance and imagines a better life with a different family, and some as-yet-unidentified relative, who has been carrying the burden of his secret shame for too many years, seizes the opportunity to slip away during the chaos, sneak upstairs and take a big, steamy crap on the rug, only to blame it later on the dog?

Yes, my friends, it's going to be that kind of summer.

Martin Freeman: The Vonnegut's Asshole Interview (part two)

(To read the first half of this interview, go here.)

VONNEGUT'S ASSHOLE: When you're shopping for vinyl, how do you decide what to buy? Do you walk straight to a certain section, or do you just wander around the store and wait for something to jump out at you?

MARTIN FREEMAN: If I'm visiting a record shop in a new town, I'll usually go looking for the 60s and 70s soul. But that's not all I buy, by any means. It's just a good place to start. It's like with anything; the more you know about something, the more you want to follow the connections and explore the musical labyrinth. When I was much younger, I would've looked at a record and thought, "That guy on the cover has a great afro. This is probably fucking amazing." But these days, it's more about the details. You look for certain labels or producers or studio musicians or stuff like that. Sometimes I go to a record shop knowing exactly what I want, and sometimes I don't have any idea at all. And then I see something and I'll just know. I'll think, "Well of course I wanted that."

VA: Are you more interested in something that's rare and difficult to find on vinyl, or only with what sounds good?

MF: I mostly want what sounds good. But of course, it's doubly, triply nice if you find something that's rare that you really, really want. That's the ultimate joy for me. There’s a record called "To Know You Is To Love You," which Syreeta recorded with Stevie Wonder back in the early 70s. I owned a copy of it on one of those old Motown hits compilations, but I really wanted it on a 7-inch. About ten years ago, I was up in Yorkshire working at a theater, and I went to a local record shop. They had it on 7-inch for two pounds fifty! I was like, "Fuuucking hell!" I was literally emitting high-pitched squeaks as I was leaving the shop, just out of excitement. I was almost crying. An original Syreeta 7-inch and it's only two pound fifty? It's not like it's a super rare record, but I'd been looking for that 7-inch for quite some time.


KEEP ON READIN'

VA: Hasn't anybody ever told you about eBay?

MF: (Laughs.) Yeah, I know. But I can't get my head around eBay. A friend of mine uses it all the time and he swears by it. He buys stuff mainly from America, because he's a fucking soul-and-blues-and-jazz head. Every day, he gets these lovely little packages delivered to him through the post, and he's found some incredible records for just eight quid or something. I prefer to spend all my time in record shops. And when you eventually find what you want, it's a joy. It's an absolute joy.

VA: Do you have a metaphorical white whale, a record that you've been searching for all your life but still haven't been able to find?

MF: Oh, yes. It's the first solo album by Syreeta, which was produced and co-written by Stevie. It came out in 1972 and it's self-titled. I have the second one from '74, called "Stevie Wonder Presents Syreeta," which is a very good record. But I still haven't been able to find the first one. It's got a version of the Beatles' "She's Leaving Home" and various other things. It's that early 70s, Stevie on the fucking moogs, acoustic-symphonic-soul business, you know? I go to record shops all the time and they'll say, "Oh, that's quite easy to find." Yeah, but I've never ever fucking seen one in a record shop. A friend of mine has a copy and he brought it 'round for me to listen to a little while ago. It's not even that great a record, but I still want it. I'm determined not to be beaten. But I want to find it myself. It'll be like Christmas.



VA: I know a lot of vinyl collectors who wrap their records in hermetically-sealed plastic and then put them on the shelf and never listen to them again. Does that make sense to you, or is it wrong to treat a record like a museum artifact?

MF: I can't do that. That's like buying a record for the catalog number. A record exists to be played. If you've got Shakespeare on the shelf, then give it a fucking read. Records are sacred, but they still need to be taken out and appreciated.

VA: You once said that you have a "Catholic taste in music." What does that mean exactly?

MF: Catholic in the literal sense, meaning broad or universal. You don’t want to say you like everything, because that means you like a lot of shit. But as far as genres are concerned, I don't want to limit myself. I don't want to be one of those people who say, "I don't like any fucking folk records." In this country, a lot of people have a casual dislike of jazz. Not specific performers but as an entire fucking concept. "Jazz? Oh ugggh, it's just fucking dreadful." To me, that'd be like saying, "I don't like any classical music.” I understand that some jazz is difficult to take. Not everyone wants to hear endless, tuneless fucking parping for ten minutes on a scale of C. But that's not all fucking jazz. I had a conversation with Ricky Gervais about it, and he said I must be pretending to like jazz. Well no, really, really not. But that doesn't mean you like all jazz any more than you like all rock n' roll.

VA: We haven't talked about rock n' roll yet. Do you like rock music as much as soul and R&B?

MF: When I was younger, I would have limited myself. I would have said, "I don't like any bands with too many white people playing guitars." That couldn't be further from the truth, y'know. But having said that, if you asked me, "What contemporary fucking American rock music do you like?", I'd maybe be able to name four. Queens of the Stone Age, and that's about it. There are a few British bands that I like. America is a big fucking place with a lot of people making records, and I feel like I'm 25 years too old to appreciate most of it. But of course, most of the people making these records are 25 years too old for it, too. They're pretending to be 18. It's all about, "Yeah! Fuck you, Bush!" Oh, grow up! You're not fucking Joe Strummer! Fuck off! Stop it, just stop it! Stop dying your fucking hair!

VA: What about contemporary soul? Do you enjoy it as much as the old stuff?

MF: You already know the answer to that. I hate being so predictable, but I don’t even need to answer that question. The last contemporary soul album I bought was from the middle to late 90s. I like D'Angelo and Erykah Badu and Adriana Evans, everything that was horribly called "New Soul." I don't much care for R. Kelly and all of that "Let me lick you up and down" nonsense. When you get to my age, you reach a point where you think, "It's okay if I don't like that, I don't have to like it, I'm not supposed to like it, it's fine." It was the same thing with hip-hop. For a lot of people in my generation, hip-hop ended around 1992. I remember hearing that first NWA record and thinking, "Fucking hell, this is brilliant!" It was so naughty. It was like sneaking out of Public Enemy school to listen to some bad boys. But when that became the status quo, when people like Chuck D were seen as passe, it was all a bit depressing for me. I was like, "Hang on, he's actually fucking saying something." Let's face it, I'm not a gangster. There's no reason on earth why I should like modern hip-hop. It's not meant for me, any more than Nick Drake is saying something for 50 Cent. De La Soul was for me, and the Jungle Brothers were for me. I liked that. But as soon as the music was all about "fo shizzle my nizzle" and the fucking white limos...

VA: It's difficult for most of us to relate to that.

MF: Exactly! And what people do to start relating to that is so dreadful. It's not about encouraging thought or encouraging debate. It's about encouraging getting money at all costs. I'm not a fan of that, whatever color people are. I think that's always fucking bullshit.

VA: How do you judge a song when you hear it for the first time? Is it all head or all heart, or a combination of the two?

MF: I suppose your head's in their somewhere, but I've tried to get rid of my head in the last fifteen years. I've realized that it's not to be trusted. I don't like cerebral music, I have to say. I can understand it. It's fine. I was never as much of a Morrissey fan as most of the other people at my school. It's not just about, "Does it make me want to shake my butt?" It's more, "Does it make me want to stay in and listen to this record all night?" I think the brain is about the most dangerous fucking organ you can bring to art, be it theater or film or music or anything else. Being smart helps, and you don't want to read a book by a complete moron. But without heart and some semblance of what we would understand as soul, it's fucking pointless. And I don't mean that in a musical sense. Mozart had fucking soul. The Beatles had soul, as far as I'm concerned. I don't mean the color of your skin. I just want to know, "Do you mean it?" You know what I'm talking about? "Are you serious?" Does the music get under your skin and make your stomach lurch?

VA: It's like what you were saying earlier. Music is a very subjective thing.

MF: Exactly! It doesn't matter what you know or what you think you know, there's always going to be somebody who listens to a song you love and says, "That's shit." And what can you say? You can't say anything! I can’t talk to somebody who loves Bono and convince them that he's a prick. They think he's great. Good for them. That's brilliant. It's not my business to fucking tell them any differently. When people try to bully me or tell me that my favorite artists are crap, I'm just like, "Leave me the fuck alone. Let me like that fucking record. How is it hurting you?" Some of my best friends love records that I hate, and I'm sure I like records that they hate. It doesn't mean that I don't like them.

VA: They just can't bring their records to your house.

MF: (Laughs.) That's right. They're welcome to come over any time. But those fucking records are not allowed in my fucking house.

Martin Freeman: The Vonnegut's Asshole Interview (part one)

Martin Freeman is probably best known, at least in this country, for appearing on a TV show called The Office. Perhaps you've heard of it. It aired in the U.K. in 2001 before making its U.S. debut on BBC America a few years later. Freeman played a sales rep named Tim who worked at the Wernham Hogg paper company (where "life is stationary") and pined for a receptionist who was tragically engaged to another man.

He's starred in many movies since then, including the mildly successful Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. He's also quietly established himself as a connoisseur of classic R&B and soul music. Motown Records asked him to pick twenty of his favorite tracks for the "Made to Measure" compilation series, and he hosts a semi-regular show on BBC Radio 2 called "The Great Unknown", where he spins records by artists he considers "undervalued and underplayed".

I spoke with Freeman by phone. I was in Los Angeles and he was in some unspecified town in England. I discovered many surprising things about the one-time Office heartthrob, the least of which being that when he's excited about something, he'll say "fuck" more times in a single sentence that Samuel L. Jackson.


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VONNEGUT'S ASSHOLE: You have an impressive collection of records. Are you one of those people who gravitated back to vinyl from CDs, or did you never give up on records?

MARTIN FREEMAN: I never gave up. I started buying records when I was nine or ten. That's when I spent all of my pocket money on singles and stuff. CDs came out in my early teens, and it wasn't like I thought digital wasn't as good as analog. I was just poor, and CDs were too expensive. It was a matter of necessity that I carried on buying records. The aesthetic thing happened later on, when I had some money and decided to stick with records anyway. For me, there has never been any joy in buying a CD. I don't feel I own a record if I have it on CD. And it's even worse if I download it. You don't really own music until it's on a piece of plastic. It doesn't count if it's this digital thing, out it in the ether. I know that probably sounds mental, but that's how I feel. It's my own psychosis.

VA: Maybe it's just sentimentality, but I feel the same way. There's just something about the hiss and crackle of a vinyl record that sounds so much better to my ears.

MF: Yeah, yeah, exactly. And that's especially true for me, because 70% of the music I enjoy came out originally on analog. If you get a good copy, that's how it should be heard. Obviously, if you're listening to a really scratchy record, then of course a CD will sound better. But it'll never compare with a pressing on vinyl. As I've gotten older and have a bit more money, I can afford to be more anal about that kinda stuff. I know I'm entering into mental territory, but I like it. I like thinking, "Well, I've got that record already, but I only have the reissue, and it's not great and I'd like to find the original." An original is usually heavier, and it's got a cleaner, crisper sound. You can listen to a song by Aretha Franklin and it's going to sound beautiful in any format, digital or otherwise. But there's something about hearing that fucking needle hit. It just has so much more resonance, at least for me. You can feel the fucking weight of a record in your hands, and you look down and see that red-and-plum colored circle, the Atlantic label, just spinning around and around. That is... (Laughs.) Jesus Christ, that is my favorite fucking thing. I'm in heaven if I’ve got a great new record.

VA: What was the last record you listened to?

MF: Well, at the moment my record player is broken, and it's really pissing me off. I've got loads of records that I've bought recently and haven't fucking heard. It's actually quite depressing. I've got CDs and iPods in the house and all that, so there's still music. But it's not the same ritual. I miss that private ritual of sitting upstairs alone and playing records all night, one after the other.

VA: When you were growing up, did you make a lot of mix tapes for friends or girlfriends?

MF: I did, I did, yeah. I still do, though they're not necessarily tapes. I was making mix tapes up until very recently, but I've moved on to CDs like everybody else. But I do enjoy making compilations for people. It's one of the first things you do with a woman, kind of like a test. "Let's see how she responds to this." I was quite fetishistic about forcing my tastes onto people. You're basically finding out if she's going to be a runner or not. "If you like these songs then we've got hope, but if you don't then it might be a short-lived thing."

VA: Do you enjoy receiving mix tapes from friends, or do you feel like they're forcing their musical tastes on you?

MF: When people have made mixes for me, it's actually been quite a hard thing to listen to sometimes. You're under a certain amount of duress. It's like when somebody says, "You've got to read this book." Well, no, actually I don't. "You've got to hear this song." Again, no. Music is such a personal thing, such a lucky thing. When a song hits you, if it catches you, the stars have to be aligned. If you hear it at the wrong time or at the wrong age, you're never going to fucking get it.

VA: I completely agree. I didn't appreciate Van Morrison until I was in my 30s. For most of my life, I thought his music was just baby boomer crap. But now I own everything he's ever put out.

MF: Yeah, yeah, exactly. I don't much care for Leonard Cohen, but it could be that when I'm 45, I'll listen to a Leonard Cohen record and go, "Oh man, that's fucking brilliant." You need to be ready to hear a record. I know Leonard Cohen isn't shit, but it doesn't do anything for me. It's subjective, and that's what's so beautiful about music.

VA: Let's try an experiment. I'll name a theme and you come up with a song or two that might work for the mix tape.

MF: Okay, I'll give it a shot.

VA: "I am sleeping with somebody else and I'm not sure how to tell you."

MF: Uh... wow, it’s been such a long time since I've been sleeping with somebody I shouldn't have. I've done it, but thank god those days are over. (Long pause.) I'm a bit stumped. What's the next one?

VA: "I may or may not be your father."

MF: (Laughs.) Well, there's a song called "Barbara's Boy" by the Four Tops, which is about exactly that. "Barbara's Boy is Barbara's boy/ If he's mine, I don't know/ How could any man ever really know?" That’s quite a good one. That immediately leaps out.



VA: "I'm considering another four years of grad school. Will you support me financially?"

MF: Uh, let's see. Well, my first thought is one of those lady singers from 80s. Either Gwen Guthrie or Janet Jackson. Any of those finger-clicking, neck-moving, "pull your own weight or I'll kick you to the curb" records. It isn't about grad school, but Guthrie's "Ain't Nothing Going On But the Rent" comes to mind.

VA: "I was on a hit show in the UK for a few years, and while I've done quite a few acting projects since then, people still refer to me as 'Tim from The Office' and I'd really rather they stop."

MF: (Laughs.) I'd like to write that song, actually. And that would be the full title. If I don't do it, somebody needs to write it. And write it angrily.

(To read part two of the interview, go here.)

Walden Pond is for Suckers!

Every year around this time, my mother begins calling and asking if I intend to visit the family cottage for the summer. Without fail, she uses the exact same argument to entice me.

"You can get some writing done while you're here," she tells me. "Maybe you can even work on your novel."

To her credit, it's a compelling argument. Our cottage - which my mother designed and built herself using the wood from an old barn - is located on an isolated peninsula in northern Michigan - smack dab in the middle of a forest that's about as far away from civilization as you can get. It's tempting to sneak away to the woods for a few months and devote myself entirely to writing. In fact, it's so tempting that one might easily be coaxed into staying indefinitely. The cottage has no TV or phones or internet connection or anything else that might distract me from the daunting task of finishing my next book.

KEEP ON READIN'



Like many writers and college students pursuing a useless degree in literature, I was once enamored by Henry David Thoreau. When I first read "Walden Pond", I was convinced that he had discovered some universal truth about creativity and the secrets to a happy existence. "I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately," Thoreau wrote. "To front only the essential facts of life and see if I could not learn what they had to teach."

Yes, I thought, he's got the right idea. I'd like to live in a cabin, too. I want to cast off the shackles of the modern world and spend my days eating foliage, reading by candlelight and writing, writing, writing. Oh, what bliss that would be!

Every time my mother calls, dangling the proverbial carrot of a much-needed writing sabbatical, I'm briefly transfixed by the fantasy yet again. But then I remember that I've already attempted this particular experiment, and it didn't end well.

It happened many years ago, when I was still young and naive enough to believe in such things. I had been living in Chicago, and learning the hard way that supporting myself financially was difficult on a freelancer's salary. My mom offered up the cottage as a place to live rent-free while I figured out my next step, but I had other plots in mind. I decided to move there permanently - or at least for a year - and recreate myself in Thoreau's image. I would become the quiessential loner author, cut off from society and fully immersed in my own art. I knew it'd be difficult, but such selfless devotion to my craft would surely result in at least one book destined to join the canon of great American literature.

It didn't work out quite as I'd planned. Here are my notes from the year I learned that Thoreau was a lying bitch.



During the first few weeks, I'm staggeringly productive. It's not uncommon for me to write 60 pages in a single afternoon. I'm convinced that I've discovered an idyllic paradise - a Garden of Eden but without the pesky snake or Original Sin. Of course, it doesn't hurt that the weather is gorgeous, and the autumn leaves have provided a stunning backdrop. But winter is just around the corner, and the tourists are already boarding up their cottages and leaving for the city.

Before long, I'm the only one left on the peninsula. Without any social interaction to distract me, I finish a draft of my first book and I'm well into my second. Also, I've developed a fondness for the local wine, which tastes awful but has enough sugar to keep me going for days at a stretch.

I've stopped looking at the clock. Time has no meaning here. I eat when I'm hungry, and sleep when I'm tired. I feel like a creative machine, and the only thing that gives me pause is the somewhat disturbing idea that should I die, it might take weeks, even months, before somebody discovers my body. Best not to think about it too much. Just keep typing, and enjoy the isolation while it lasts.



When you've taken on the lifestyle of a hermit, personal hygiene becomes an afterthought. I can't remember the last time I shaved, and my beard has grown long enough to require constant grooming. But I've chosen to ignore it, allowing my facial hair to become a tangled mess of knots. I try to avoid mirrors, but when I catch a glimpse of myself, it's a little frightening. I could pass for King Lear - the act three Lear, when he's become a raving lunatic, wandering through a thunderstorm and muttering to mice.

What's more, I haven't bathed in weeks, and my stench is starting to offend even me. But I've been too industrious to care about such petty concerns. I think I'm on the verge of finishing the Great American Novel - possibly several of them.

Upon reviewing some of my latest work, however, I realize that most of my writing is gibberish. I've written at least seventeen pages about how a cardinal I've seen hovering just outside the window near my desk is actually speaking to me in code.

Have I gone mad? "Naw," I tell myself. "I'm just more attuned to nature because of the lack of urban distractions."

A few more swigs of the sugary-sweet Michigan wine and all self-doubt disappears.



Winter has come, and come hard. I seem to recall that I had a car at some point, but I can't locate it under the heavy layers of snow. No matter. Even if I found it, it's not like I have anywhere to go. The nearest town is 30 miles away, and there's nothing I could possibly need from that mass of men, with their lives of quiet desperation, that I can't provide for myself.

Other than wood. I need wood for the stove, to stay warm and cook the rations I've stored in the basement.



My attempts to use an axe are clumsy at best, and I'm scared of the chainsaw. So I journey by foot to a nearby farmer, who sells firewood by the rick. Apparently I've been craving human contact, because I try to make our transaction last much longer than should be necessary.

"Sounds good," I tell him, shaking a piece of wood and holding it up to my ear. "Not too hollow. Is it fresh? It sounds fresh."

The farmer just stares at me, perplexed. "Yeah, it's... fresh."

"I'm hearing an echo in this one. Is that normal? You're not trying to sell me skunk wood, are you?"

"S-skunk wood?" The farmer asks. "What do you-?"

I laugh just a little too hard. "I'm kidding. I'll take everything you've got. Do you have a truck? My car kinda disappeared. Long story." I shake the wood again, pressing it against my ear and listening intently. "Yeah, this is good stuff. Very ripe. It'll burn reaaaaaaaal nice."



When you haven't uttered more than a few words with another human being in weeks, it can take a toll. I've started talking to myself. Not just quiet mumbling, but full-blown arguments. Sometimes I have to put myself in my place, especially when I've had too much wine and I get uppity. On the bright side, I almost always win.

When I'm annoyed by the sound of my own voice, I waste hours trying to find music on the radio (no luck) or coming up with strange concoctions involving chicken broth and foods that don't belong in broth.

The luxuries of the city are now distant memories to me. My idea of takeout involves buying venison by the pound from local hunters, and the only newspaper I've read are the yellowing pages (the most recent being from 1984) left next to the stove for kindling.

I still write occasionally, but not nearly as often as I should. The few pages I've finished are disturbing even to me, as it could easily be confused with a manifesto.

The biggest chunk of my day is spent marking my territory. Because of all the snow, I'm acutely aware that animals - I suspect those conniving raccoons - have been urinating on my front lawn. Convinced that my land ownership is being challenged, I've taken to peeing outdoors. I pee on the intruder's pee, and for good measure, reestablish my property lines by peeing at strategic locations around the perimeter of the cottage, within twelve yards in every direction.

I've forgotten what it means to flush, and it appears that my genitals are developing frostbite, but I don't see that I have any other choice.



Spring is here and the tourists are finally coming back, not that I've noticed. I prefer being alone, and the sight of other human beings alarms me. Fortunately, my presence seems to alarm them, as well.

The only neighbors who bother to stop by and say hello happen to catch me while I'm standing out on the lawn, shirtless and barefoot, shooting bats out of the sky with a garden hose. I try to be friendly, but not being accustomed to speaking out loud, I manage only a few grunts.

I don't hear from them again.

The idiom "Kill what you eat and eat what you kill" has become my personal philosophy, despite the fact that I don't hunt and most of my food comes out of a can.

Without snow to indicate where trespassing forest creatures might be leaving their scent, I'm now peeing everywhere. I drink as much water as possible just for the urine. I haven't written anything in months, which is just as well. It's a waste of precious energy, and eats into my peeing time.

My mother shows up towards the end of the summer, and sensing that I've had a complete nervous collapse, she suggests that I move back to Chicago immediately. I think she might be right. I hear they've made some spectacular advances in non-log-burning heat. And to the best of my knowledge, their leases are more legally binding than piss.

Other Careers I Briefly Considered Before Coming To My Senses

VETRINARIAN

I grew up surrounded by animals. Nothing exotic like horses or monkeys. I wasn't raised on a farm or in a petting zoo. But my family always had at least two dogs and a small gaggle of cats. When one of them died, we'd pile into the car and drive down to the local pound to pick up another. It was an unspoken family rule that the number of animals in our house should always outnumber the humans. Being in the company of so many animals during my formative years had a profound effect on me, and I became convinced that I wanted to be a veterinarian someday.

When I was 15, I got a job at a veterinary clinic in the south suburbs of Chicago. It wasn't quite as romantic as I'd hoped; the job mostly involved cleaning cages and feeding the animals (or "tenants," as we were instructed to call them). But occasionally the doctors would let me sit in during their appointments and help them make a diagnosis. And they always encouraged me to ask questions and even loaned me veterinary books from their personal library. I tried to live up to the expectations that came with being their star pupil, but a teenage boy can only read so much about canine hypothyroidism and intestinal parasites before his eyes start to glaze over.

KEEP ON READIN'

The doctors must've thought I was mature beyond my age, because they soon promoted me to the grim task of euthanization. It involved assisting them as they injected an animal with a pentobarbital - which we sometimes referred to as "the blue stuff," because it resembled a clear blue liquid - that caused a dog or cat to experience a massive cardiac arrest within a few seconds. I tried to be a trooper about it, but it was horrifying to hold down a dog as the veterinarian jabbed a needle into its hind-end and then - oh sweet Jesus, this memory is still burned into my subconscious - feeling its heartbeat disappear while I was still cradling it in my arms. And then I carried the dead dog to the freezer in the back, where we stored the canine corpses until they could be delivered to their final resting place (usually a nearby incinerator). On some days, we euthanized dozens of dogs, and I always hoped it would get easier. I wanted to have the emotional indifference of the doctors, but I just couldn't do it. Each dead dog was another traumatizing ordeal, and I felt like I was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

I eventually mustered the courage to talk to the head veterinarian and tell him that I just couldn't do it anymore.

"I know it's difficult," he assured me. "But putting animals to sleep is a big part of what we do."

"I guess so," I said. "But I feel like I'm working at Auschwitz."

They agreed to take me off euthanasia duty and let me assist in the surgeries instead. I held their instruments as they performed procedures like an ovariohysterectomy, which I soon learned was the technical term for spaying.

"Okay," they explained, as they began hacking at a dog's privates with their scalpels. "What we're doing here is making a ventral midline incision into the abdomen."

"Great," I said, forcing a smile. "Now if you'll excuse me, I think I'm going to throw up in my hands."

I quit the job shortly after the second surgery, much to the disappointment of my self-appointed tutors. Despite my humbling admission of defeat, I wasn't ready just yet to abandon my dream of being a veterinarian. In college, I took a zoology class or two during my first year. But the charm of dissecting a frog and removing its organs never sparked my imagination like it did with the other students. I finally gave up after receiving my first failing grade, and I had a moment of self-realization that, if I had truly been paying attention, would've occurred to me long before I knew what it felt like to have a dog go limp in my arms.

I don't want to be a veterinarian. I want to rub a dog's belly and pat its heads and be its best friend. I do not, under any circumstance, want to cut into them, or inject blue stuff into their veins and then drop their lifeless bodies into a freezer.

I would have made a lousy veterinarian. But I also would have made a lousy Nazi.

PLAYWRIGHT

After graduating from college, I moved to Chicago with dreams of becoming the next Christopher Durang, although not quite as gay or Catholic. Within just a few months, I was invited to become a resident playwright at a small theater company on the north side called The Playwright's Center. It was located on Wilson Avenue, in what was probably the worst neighborhood in all of Chicago. The streets were lined with wrinkled hookers and tattooed junkies, who lurked in dark alleyways and offered blowjobs and smack (and sometimes both) to anybody who happened to wander by. What's worse, I was told that my first play would be given a late night time slot - every Friday and Saturday night at midnight. It’s difficult enough getting an audience to attend a play written by some guy they've never heard of, but when they showed up at the theater and noticed a wino passed out in a pool of his own urine next to the front door, most of them just turned around and kept walking.

The theater's manager was a creepy old guy with skin so white he almost looked transparent. He could've passed for an albino were it not for his eyebrows, which were a deep, severe black. He was like a faceless mannequin that had been defiled with a sharpie marker. And for some reason, he wanted to my best friend. When I first met him, he shook my hand a little too vigorously and said, "It sure is nice to have some young meat around here." And then he tried to massage my shoulders. I left the theater feeling like I needed a shower.

I was given only a few weeks to finish my play before opening night, and I managed to write something that, even at the time but especially in hindsight, was terrible. For some reason, the main character was a guy in a banana costume, although I'm still not sure why or what it had to do with the plot. It was a musical, if only because some of the actors were singing. But the songs were not, by any definition, good. One of them involved a lonely bachelor serenading his blowup doll. Another featured a former NBA superstar who, according to the flimsy premise, had retired after contracting dozens of STDs. The chorus required him and his backup singers to perform a choreographed dance number (which incorporated jazz-hands) while harmonizing on such painfully unfunny lines as, "Why oh why does it hurt when I pee/ I've been spending all my time in the clinic that's free."

The critics were brutal, with good reason. One of them wrote that my humor was so tasteless, the "audience's collective heads spin." I held on to that review for months, just trying to understand what it meant. There was something about the "collective heads" part that gave me a strange sense of pride. Was my writing really capable of inspiring a synchronized double-take? I'm sure it was meant as an insult, but it left me feeling oddly flattered.

Of course, the creatively negative reviews didn't make up for the paltry crowds. On a good night, we had anywhere from two to three people in the audience. And roughly half of them were vagrants just looking for a warm place to sleep. My friends promised to show up, but they almost always came up with a lame excuse for blowing it off, like "there's not enough parking" or "some guy outside the theater just tried to stab me with a hypodermic needle."

After a pathetic six-week run, in which my play generated enough revenue for the theater to purchase a single ream of paper, we decided to end the production. It was partly because I had just broken up with the lead actress, who had only recently realized that sleeping with me would do absolutely nothing to advance her career. But the main reason, which I wasn't able to properly express until just minutes after the curtain had dropped, was the theater manager with the translucent skin.

"So what are you doing after the show?" He asked me, as I dodged his latest attempt to "work out" that knot in my shoulder.

"Probably going home," I said. "It's 2am and I'm pretty exhausted."

The ghoulish manager just laughed. "What are you talking about?" He sniffed. "When I was your age, I could fuck with the best of them. And when I wasn’t fucking, I was beating my meat.”

And that's when I knew I didn't want to be a playwright.

ADVERTISING

Freelance journalists - even freelance journalists who write regularly for big glossy magazines - don't make anything that could be called a steady income. In the late 90s, I was finally selling enough of my writing to scrape by, but not enough for luxuries like health insurance. This was mildly disconcerting to me, but to my mother, it was downright agonizing.

"Would you at least consider doing something that pays a little better?" She suggested. "What about advertising? You're so clever, I'm sure any advertising agency would jump at the chance to hire you."

I didn't immediately dismiss the idea. As much as I loved writing for magazines, I was growing weary of the financial Russian Roulette that came with being a freelancer. But at the same time, I didn't have a clue how someone went about getting a career in advertising. I read a few books on the subject, but technical terms like "lifestyle segmentation" and "fixed-sum-per-unit method" just left me feeling confused and frustrated.

To sublimate my income, I was teaching comedy writing workshops at The Second City. Most of my students were just like me - full of plucky enthusiasm for writing, but with absolutely no plan B if everything went to shit. During one of my classes, I met a student named Scott who stuck out like a sore thumb. He wore expensive suits and shoes that cost more than what I spent on an entire year of rent. Unlike his peers, who mostly worked at minimum wage jobs until their inevitable (or so they hoped) promotion to Saturday Night Live staff writer, Scott had the stink of upwardly mobile corporate success.

After our third class, he invited me out for a few drinks to "discuss a business proposition." He told me that he worked as a copy-editor for a major advertising company in Chicago, and although his talents for cooking up lucrative ad campaigns had made him a small fortune, his real passion was sketchwriting. He asked if I might consider working with him as a writing tutor, for which he would pay me handsomely. Sensing an opportunity, I agreed on the condition that he return the favor and help me get my foot in the door at his agency.

Over the next several weeks, we met at his high-rise apartment for private lessons. Scott was painfully unfunny, but I wasn't about to tell him that. At least not until he taught me what the hell a "portfolio" was and how I could make one that would allow me the financial freedom to live in a high-rise apartment. To his credit, he was always very patient with me, calmly answering my many questions without making me feel like an idiot. Over time, I started to believe I might actually have a future in advertising.

But then something changed. Scott's behavior became increasingly erratic, and his cracks began to show. His skits were almost always dark - involving snipers and torture and ritualistic murder - and because he had absolutely no talent for comedy, they usually read like a Marquis de Sade fever dream. Though I tried to encourage him, I think he could see through my facade. He knew that he had no future as a comedy writer, and this growing realization made him hostile.

During one of my visits to his apartment, I noticed that Scott had been drinking. He was huddled in a corner, staring listlessly at the walls as he cradled an empty bottle. His confidence was gone, replaced with a paranoia that was almost palatable.

"I need to tell you something," he whispered.

"O-okay," I said nervously.

He exhaled with a deep and mournful sigh. "I think I may've killed someone."

A few years ago, he told me, he and some of his advertising friends had visited Thailand for a whoring expedition. There had apparently been a disagreement with one of the pimps, and in the ensuing scuffle, he may or may not have "accidentally" killed the pimp by smashing his face repeatedly with a rock.

"Wow," he said, a smile returning to his face. "It feels so good to finally get that off my chest. Thanks for listening, it really means a lot."

"Uh, yeah, glad I could help," I said. I was still standing next to the front door, waiting for an excuse to make a hasty retreat.

"Now you know my deepest, darkest secret," he said, laughing a little too hard. "I guess that means we'll be friends forever, right? BFF? Right? Hahahahahaha!"

The next morning, I called Scott and told him I was moving to Los Angeles. I explained that I'd been offered a staff position at a big glossy magazine - until the ink was dry on the contract, I couldn't actually tell him which one - so at least for the time being, I'd have to put my advertising ambitions on hold. And because of my new editorial duties, I wouldn't have the time to tutor him anymore.

None of it was true, of course. Except for the moving to LA part. I was still a freelancer, and still making just enough money to pay the bare minimum of my bills. But at least a freelancer never finds himself in a position where he might be called upon to beat a pimp to death with a blunt object.

It's the End of the World As We Know It... and I Don't Have Nearly Enough Canned Goods

"You're sending your kid to space camp? Isn't he a little young for that?"

My brother corrected me. It wasn't space camp, he insisted. It was astronaut training.

"What's the difference?" I asked.

"He's not bunking in the woods and playing Star Trek role-playing games with a bunch of sci-fi nerds," he said. "This is the real deal."

As my brother explained it to me, his son - who has only been alive for just over a year - is enrolled in an intensive training program designed for actual NASA astronauts. Except, of course, that all the students are infants (and with parents, I can only assume, who are rich enough to afford the hefty price tag). I can't say I see the logic in a child learning how to survive in zero gravity before he's even old enough to walk or talk, but my brother seems convinced that it makes sense.

"What's the rush?" I asked him. "Do you honestly think he's going to be taking a shuttle to the moon anytime soon?"

My brother just shrugged. "You never know. What with global warming and nuclear proliferation, the planet may be uninhabitable in another few years. He might not have a choice. I just want him to be ready if there's a mass exodus."

That is... what's the word I'm looking for here?... bonkers! But given my brother's history, it's not completely surprising. This is a man who has gone to sometimes absurd lengths to have an exit strategy for every possible emergency. When he first moved to LA, he considered living on a houseboat. Not because he liked the seafaring lifestyle, but because a boat would allow him and his wife to make a quick getaway during a natural or man-made disaster. If an earthquake hit, or a tsunami, or if terrorists started blowing up buildings in downtown LA, he could be thirty miles off shore before the city devolved into chaos.

KEEP ON READIN'... OR DON'T, NOBODY'S HOLDING A GUN TO YOUR HEAD

I've never seen the point in anticipating the worse, or preparing for a post-apocalyptic tragedy requiring "Escape From New York" survival skills. Maybe it's because the worst natural disaster I've ever been directly involved in was a tornado warning in Chicago during the late 80s, which ended after just a few hours of huddling in the basement. Like most people, I watched the news coverage of 9/11 and Katrina and the Indian Ocean tsunami and was horrified by it. But I never seriously considered how it might affect me. And I never thought, 'Well, that settles it! Honey, put the kids in the car. It's time to get the family fitted for space suits.'

After talking with my brother, I began thinking about all the other people I knew who shared his belief that a population-thinning catastrophe was imminent. There's Emily and Rob, who purchased a mobile home so they could be on the road with most of their earthly belongings at the first sign of danger. And then there's Bret, a good friend who also lives in LA and, like my brother, thinks it's only a matter of time before California sinks into the sea. When I ran into him and his girlfriend Marjie last January at Sundance, he told me that he'd recently purchased a gun.

"What on earth for?" I asked.

"Well, when the big earthquake hits, there's going to be widespread panic. And when there's panic, there'll be looters. I don't want anybody trying to break into our house and steal our supplies."

"You have supplies?" I said, stunned. "Like what?"

"Oh, you know, the usual. Canned food, water, matches, wood; enough to get us through at least a month. You can't trust the federal government to save you. I'm sure you've got a few emergency supplies, right?"

I didn't want to admit it to him, but no, I don't have anything of the kind. Other than a few cans of beans and salsa, I have enough food to last me through a weekend. And only if I really, really like nachos. I've often thought about stocking up on emergency provisions, but it just seems to be asking for trouble. You know how they say that owning a gun isn't necessarily a good thing, because an intruder might wrestle it away from you and shoot you with it? Well, I think the same theory applies to canned goods. If (or when) an earthquake happens and the looters come out in force, I don't want any of them to say, "Hey, I know this guy who lives down the block and he has an entire garage filled with SpaghettiOs! Let's go kick down his door!" When they come calling, I want to be able to say, "Sorry, guys, I've got nothing. Just a corkscrew and a few Sweet N' Low packets. But I hear the house next door is stocked like a CostCo."

As for getting a gun, well, that's just not going to happen. And it's not because I'm afraid of a burglar using it against me, or accidentally shooting a relative. (Believe me, if that happens, I've probably done it on purpose.) I don't want a gun because I know I'd never use it. It'd just be another tchotchke gathering dust, and I've got enough useless crap already. It might be kinda cool when people came over to say, "Hey, you wanna see my gun?" But after they left, it'd go right back on the mantel next to the Six Million Dollar Man action figure and that decorative vase I got from god-knows-who last Christmas.

But even though I felt justified in not having an arsenal of weapons and a food cache, I was beginning to have second thoughts about my utter lack of disaster preparedness. At the very least, I should have some sort of emergency game plan. I called the Dame and demanded that we decide on a rendezvous point.

"What the hell are you talking about?" She asked.

"What if there's an earthquake or a tsunami or the sherpas finally take over? If all the phone lines are down and we can't contact each other, where are we going to meet?"

"I don't know," she said. "How about that bakery downtown? They've got those great banana-nut muffins."

"Yeah, but there's always a line," I said. "And their coffee is just bleh."

"Okay, then maybe the wine shop next door?"

"Are you kidding me?" I spat. "Have you seen how much they charge for a bottle of Gundlach Bundschu Zin? I'm not giving them any more of my money."

"Well I'm out of ideas. You think of something."

"How about the duck pond in the park?" I suggested. "It's isolated, and we can eat the duck corpses until the Red Cross arrives."

"That is disgusting. There's no way I'm eating a dead duck."

"Excellent," I said. "It's settled."

I was on a roll. I ran to the supermarket and picked up a six-pack of bottled water, some Insta-Burn logs, and a few dozen Jesus candles (even during a catastrophe, you need a healthy sense of irony.) And then I visited the nearest bookstore and bought every novel I'd ever claimed to have read or intended to read someday. It cost me well over $300, but it seemed like a worthwhile expense. When the power goes out and I'm stranded on my roof, waiting for the unmarked helicopters to start picking up survivors, I'm going to need some literary distractions to keep me occupied, if only to take my mind off the hunger pangs. I suppose it might've been a better idea to spend some of that money on medical necessities, like aspirin or a first aid kit. Well, whatever. Lethem's new book looks pretty thick. I can probably sop up most of the blood with that.

As I lay in my bed last night and surveyed my emergency provisions - candles, books, logs, and what amounts to a bucket of fresh drinking water - I wasn't sure if I should feel smugly secure or more vulnerable than ever. I tried to convince myself that I was fine. Sure, I'd cut out most of the frills - like food, firearms, transportation, medicine, and pretty much all means of making contact with the outside world - but I had enough to survive comfortably during any impending crisis. Well, maybe not "comfortably," but at least in conditions roughly equivalent to colonial times.

I wondered, if anything terrible did happen, would I ever hear from my family again? While the rest of us were still recovering from the first tremor or learning that a North Korean missile was on its way towards American soil, my nephew would likely already be on his escape pod, orbiting the earth at a safe distance. He might save a seat for his father - if only to repay the tuition of his astronaut training. And knowing my brother, he's ready for even the worst outcome. I'm sure he's considered that he might be stuck in rush-hour traffic when the mushroom cloud consumes LA, so it wouldn't surprise me if he's already made arrangements to have his brain preserved in a jar of formaldehyde (just like Walt Disney). But when they're both out of harm's way, will either of them stop to consider what's happened to me? Will I get so much as a phone call, if only to find out if I'm among the mass casualties?

"Oh, I'm okay," I'd probably tell my nephew. "I've got my candles and books. As long as the flesh-eating zombies created by all this radiation poisoning don't find me, I should be able to survive for two, three hours. Hey, what are your plans for Thanksgiving? You feel like visiting me in Sonoma?"

"Uh, maybe," my nephew will say, as he unpacks his bags in his new apartment on the Mars colony. "I'll check my schedule and get back to you. Listen, I've got a call on my other line. Can I talk to you later?"

"Sure," I'll say. "Hey, I've got these weird green splotches all over my body. Do you have any idea what that might be? Hello? Teddy? Hello?"

Fine. Leave your beloved uncle for dead, you ungrateful ass. Enjoy your comfy pollution-free atmopshere and your fancy-pants Tang. I didn't want your help anyway. If you'll excuse me, I'm going to lick the strainer from my kitchen sink for any traces of food. Bet you didn't think of that trick, did you?

Now, if I could only find a match...

Slightly More Interesting Things To Do Before You Die

A friend recently sent me a link to one of those "100 Things You Need To Do Before You Die" lists. I tried to read it with an open mind, but I found the whole thing entirely boring. Their advice included "learn to speak a foreign language", "grow a garden", "make love on a train", and "raft through the Grand Canyon". Seriously? This is the best they could come up with? The only thing on their list that made me crack a smile was "fart in a crowded space," and that's only because I have the sense of humor of a teenage boy. But as for the rest of it, I could scarcely muster the enthusiasm to yawn.

I'm not suggesting that all of their tips were worthless. Sure, I'd like to take an exotic vacation or learn a new skill as much as the next guy. But in terms of achieving something notable with your life, would any of this even make the top three? Most of it was about as original as saying you enjoy pizza. After you die, do you really want your tombstone to read, "He once visited Walden Pond and enjoyed ballroom dancing?" Well, good for you. You had the same general interests as three million other people.

If you ask me, the only way to leave a lasting impression is to do something truly unique, something that sets you apart from the pack, something that makes other people stare at you with slack-jawed horror and mutter, "You did what?!" Do you want to look back on your life someday and be one of those schmucks who says, "I wrote an unpublished novel" or "I took a trip in a hot-air balloon?" Or do you want to be somebody who says, "I once touched a monkey that belonged to a homeless child?" I think the answer is obvious.

KEEP ON READIN'! CONSIDER IT ANOTHER DISTRACTION FROM THE INEVITABILITY OF YOUR OWN MORTALITY!

Here are just a few things I can whole-heartedly recommend, from personal experience, that you definitely need to do before you die.

Get Mugged In Paris

If you want to be a cliche, take a trip to Paris and visit the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower and the Arc de Triomphe. But if you want to experience something a bit more memorable than a Discovery Channel special, wander alone after dark through the infamous Seine-Saint-Denis neighborhood.

If you've never been held up at gunpoint by a Frenchman, you don't know what you're missing. It's actually quite surprising. See, here's the thing: In their everyday life, most Parisians are openly hostile towards Americans. I've had French waiters and hotel clerks and even bookstore owners mutter obscenities at me like "Mange d'la merde" or "Me faut retourner a la pute qui m'a accouchee." (I'm still not sure exactly what they meant, but I think it has something to do with eating excrement and my mother being a whore.) But as I discovered, they're far more polite and even charming when they're mugging you.

When I was cornered on a Paris street by a very large man brandishing a firearm, he didn't just stick the gun in my gut and demand my wallet. He said, in a calm and reassuring voice, "Excusez-moi, monsieur. Je serais reconnaissant avec vous si vous decidiez de me donner votre argent." When he realized that I didn't speak his language, he repeated himself in sloppy English that was nothing short of adorable. "If it would not be too much of a bother, it would please me to take possession of your belongings, thank you very much, sir."

I immediately handed over all of my monnaie, and it wasn't out of fear of getting shot in the face. It was just nice to know that he appreciated my business. And it didn't hurt that he was wearing a beret. I mean, how cute is that? I half-expected him to pinch his mustache and offer me a souffle if I would only help him find his little red balloon.

See Steve Landesberg Naked

I should clarify. I don't mean you need to specifically see Steve Landesberg in the buff. Any random celebrity whom you never expected to see nude is enough. And - this is very important - it needs to be in a non-sexual context. If you're involved in a romantic relationship with a famous person, it's no surprise that you'd see their naughty bits eventually. But getting a good look at their junk when you've only just met them and they barely know your name, well, that's something special.

Back when I was 16 and still thought I might want to be an actor, I did an internship at a small summer-stock theater in northern Michigan called the Cherry County Playhouse. They produced plays with C-list stars like Florence Henderson and Don Knotts and, of course, Steve Landesberg, the red-headed cop from the 70s sitcom Barney Miller. He was cast as the lead in Neil Simon's "Same Time Next Year" and I was assigned to be his dresser, which I assumed would mostly involve making sure he had enough clean towels and getting him to the stage for his cue. (I even had a small part in the play, which explains why I'm wearing a ridiculous "old dude in Florida" costume in this picture. It doesn't, however, explain my terrible haircut.)

But on my first day on the job, I walked into his dressing room and blammo, there's Steve Landesberg... naked.

There's really no way to brace yourself for something like that. Later in the season, I also worked as a dresser for Pat Paulsen and Gavin MacLeod, and at no point did I ever see their respective meat-and-veg. And that's when I realized what a rare honor it was to get a glimpse of Steve Landesberg's penis. Other than the women he's slept with and his mom, how many people can say that?

And if you're curious, yes, the carpet does match the drapes.

Drive a Car Into a Swamp

Everybody I know has gotten into at least one car accident. But I could count on one hand the number of people who have driven a car into a swamp.

For me, it happened while driving back to Chicago from my parents' cottage in northern Michigan. I must've hit a rock in the road, because the last thing I remember was swerving out of control and plummeting into a ravine. I passed out at some point, and when I finally regained consciousness, I was sitting on the side of a highway, covered in swamp water, trying to assure an ambulance driver that I was okay. According to the police report, witnesses claimed that my car had flipped seven times, head over end, before finally landing in a swamp.

I somehow got out with just a few nicks and scratches, but the car was demolished. What was left of it was roughly the size and consistency of a crumpled tin can. I'm still not entirely sure why I wasn't killed, but strangely, my only regret is that I didn't let loose with a Dukes of Hazzard-style "yee-haaaaaw" as my car flew into the air and took a nose-drive into the swamp.

Ever since, when somebody tells me, "Oh my god, I was in the worst car accident ever," I can only scoff. Really? How many times did your car flip over? Two? Three? Oh, you just skidded off the road? Well, whatever. So did anybody have to break your passenger side window and drag you out of a fucking swamp? No? That's not a car accident, my friend, it's a goddamn bumper car ride.

Get Bitten During a Fight

I've been in only two fights in my life, and they both happened before the age of 8. I never grew up to become one of those douchebags who thinks a bar brawl is a swell way to spend an evening, thank god. But I am happy that I got to experience at least a few bloody rounds of hand-to-hand-combat. And what's more, one of the fights ended with the other guy biting me.

A fight, in-and-of-itself, isn't anything to brag about. If you've ever been involved in one, you know that it's usually just a lot of flailing arms and sweaty panting and the occasional punch that lands on its target. It's really just about two guys walking that fine line between "I fucking hate you" and "Your skin is so soft. I want to touch you but without being too gay about it."

But what makes a fight something that you'll continue talking about and recounting with your friends for years is when something totally unexpected happens. Like, say, when you're in the school playground and you start tussling with this guy named Chip, whose a real asshole and you just want him to shut up already and leave you alone, and after a few minutes of wrassling across the grass, he grabs your hand and wraps his mouth around it and bites down hard.

After that happens, you pretty much win. Not only is he disqualified for fighting dirty, but you get to walk around for days and say, "Did you see it? That dude totally bit me! What the fuck?!" And that's something that'll stay with you for the rest of your life. Every time somebody notices the scar on your hand, which still sorta looks like a tooth mark, you can tell the story of that crazy white trash kid who went all Hannibal Lecter on you.

Touch a Monkey

Like anybody, I've always suspected that it'd be cool to touch a monkey. But I resisted the urge for many years, mostly because I knew if I told anybody, it might be misconstrued as an invitation to do a Dieter impersonation. "Would you like to touch my monkey?" They'd probably ask me in a faux Mike Myers German accent. "Touch it! Lieben meine Affe-monkey!" That was only funny the first thousand times I heard it. Leave it to an annoying Saturday Night Live catch phrase to take all the fun out of what could be a genuinely enriching and gloriously weird life experience.

A few years ago, I finally had an opportunity to touch my very first monkey. It happened during a family trip to the Caribbean, on the island of St. Maarten. My brother-in-law and I were walking through the island's poverty-stricken district, which had been accurately described to us as a "shanty town", on an expedition for cheap Cuban cigars. We never found the cigars, but we did meet a pair of friendly homeless kids. I assume they were homeless because they had no shirts or shoes, and their pants resembled potato sacks.

But it wasn't their sad orphan eyes that caught our attention. It was their pet monkey.

The monkey was being led around on a leash made out of old twine, and a cardboard sign had been draped around its neck, which contained the tempting offer, "Touch a Monkey for Just One Dollar!" As depressing as it was that this poor primate had been dragged through the streets to be fondled by tourists for pocket change, we still forked over our cash for the chance to pet it.

And let me tell you, it was totally worth it. Even an army of Dieters couldn't tarnish the memory for me. When your hand is stroking the forehead of a monkey that, to the best of your knowledge, lives in a shack with children who can't afford to buy proper footwear, it gives you a surge of adrenaline unlike anything you've ever felt before.

When we told the rest of our family about it, they were horrified. They said things like, "You touched a dirty, homeless monkey? Are you out of your mind?" and "Don't come crying to me when you find out you have monkey pox." But we're pretty sure it's just because they were jealous.

Fly On a Plane With Somebody Who Just Got Their Pilot's License Two Days Ago

I'm not ashamed to admit that I'm terrified of flying. Whenever I get on a commercial airline, I'll whimper and moan and sometimes even tremble uncontrollably. And during liftoff, I've been known to start screaming things like, "We're mocking the laws of nature! We're all going to die! Aiiiieeeee!!" But whatever, my outbursts are mostly harmless, and if the sight of a grown man bursting into tears doesn't make you cringe, you might even think it's charming.

In my more sober moments, I know that I'm not really facing down the icy glare of death whenever I get on a plane. It's a little different, however, when you get on a plane that's being operated by somebody who you know a little too intimately. Somebody like, say, your younger brother, who just logged enough hours to earn his pilot's license and insists that you accompany him during his inaugural flight.

At first, you think, 'This is adorable. My baby brother is all growns up.' But then you realize that you're well over 1000 feet in the air, and you glance over at the pilot, hoping to see somebody who appears to be qualified and confident, and instead you're staring at the same kid who, just twenty years earlier, used to practice for his French Horn recital in the basement and played with Star Wars action figures out in the back lawn. And that's when you start thinking, "Whether I live or die depends on the nautical skills of a guy who I have seen get spanked after calling his dad a 'big jerk-face'. I am not making it through this in one piece."

It doesn't help matters when your brother looks at the plane's control panel and says, "Wow, I really wish I was paying more attention when the instructor talked about the difference between a longitudinal and vertical axis." So you close your eyes and try not to emit a high-pitched yelp and even if you don't actually shit your pants, it feels like you could.

When the plane finally lands, you jump out and literally kiss the ground. Your brother laughs at you and you say, "You're a fucking asshole, man," but deep down, you know that you're never going to feel panic and dread like this ever again, and in a weird way, you almost miss it already.

Get Arrested For a DUI While Riding a Bicycle

It's only fair to tell you that I've never been arrested for a DUI, much less a DUI while riding a bicycle. But I know somebody who has. On both counts.

Automobile DUIs are much more common, for obvious reasons. Up until recently, I didn't even know it was possible to get pulled over for operating a bike while intoxicated. But apparently it is. And that is one DUI that I really, really, really want on my driving record. Because there's no way of explaining it to anybody without laughing. I'm not even sure how the cops do it with a straight face.

"Do you know how fast you were going? We clocked you at almost nine miles an hour. You were swerving all over the bike path. Please step out of the... bike and show me your... okay, so you don't have a driver's license. Just try to touch your nose, okay? This is kinda embarrassing for both of us."

I know that driving drunk is no laughing matter. But when you're operating a vehicle that has pedals and a handlebar, what sort of damage could you possibly do? I've been involved in some pretty harrowing bike accidents, and the worst of them usually ended with somebody saying, "Watch where you're going, moron!"

I've talked with guys who've been slapped with a DUI for riding a bike while sloppy drunk, and I envy them, I really do. All I want is the chance to go to one of those AA meetings and stand up in front of the entire group and say, "My name is Eric Spitznagel, and I'm an alcoholic... bicyclist." And then I want to get irate when people roll their eyes and say things like, "You have no idea how close I came to killing somebody. Or skinning my knees, whatever. Either way, I thank god every day that I finally got caught."

That would be sweet.