Jetstream of Consciousness II: Midterms
I'm trying to figure out exactly what the funny part is. First I thought, the funny part was that by the time I got around to writing the column where I ended the suspense and announced that I did not take the LA job I spoke so fondly of, I did take it, six months after the fact. Or perhaps the funny part was that after making a promise to myself to get with it, and start taking various bulls by various horns, and then promising to you that I was finally going to keep up my end of the bargain and keep a regular humor column going, I virtually quit writing, as well as everything else, after the first month. That's pretty funny.

What was also funny was how I ended up seeing that TV ad for Paxil so many times that I had convinced myself that my main problem was Social Anxiety Disorder (TM), and thank god that they finally put a name to it so I could champion a cause and get all the best drugs. Funnier still when I signed up for a SAD mailing list, saw how messed up these people were, and immediately became five times more outgoing and less anxious than I'd ever been before. When you see skeletons at the bottom, you swim for the top.

Bordering on hilarious, then, is the fact that this evangelist of simplicity, who espoused for years the virtues of ascetic living, whose apartments were rarely furnished by more than a folding table and something to put the TV on, has now been possessed by a raging drive towards home decorating, and who can be found lazily strolling the Ikea aisles more than once a week, trying to match up the beech veneer of this dinette set with the cool navy blue of that sofa, and wherever will the philodendrons fit into this theme? Quick, hand me some porno so I can make sure I still like girls.

Also humorous, but in a more cerebral, subtle fashion, is my sudden embrace of warm, tropical climates. I spent most of my youth planning to move to Canada, to tough it out like a real man in the harsh tundra (or whatever it is) up there. Now when I leave my apartment and it's under 80 degrees, or there's a cloud in the sky, I sigh disappointedly and go on my way, eyes melancholy on the pavement.

But no, the funniest part is that I'm writing this from work. Some habits never change.

The truth is that a month ago, I would not have written this midterm, because it would have been too damn depressing. I had fallen way behind. I had no job. I had escaped from my horribly mistreated apartment in the middle of the night, embarrassed once again by my seeming inability to take care of myself the way even a ten year old is capable of. But I couldn't take care of myself at ten, either, so this is no surprise. My only possessions - my car, and whatever I could fit in it on the trip out - were either beat up, trashed, burning oil, or so covered with two-year-old cat hair that to get near them was to eagerly invite some sort of allergic reaction leaving you gasping for breath and a can of Lysol.

This was not my finest hour. In fact, this sucked. But with my decision to take the new job, and settle down in southern California, came an opportunity for a new beginning.

Let me tell you about new beginnings. The first apartment I had, I moved into on my 17th birthday. A studio apartment in Rosslyn, VA. I destroyed that place. I had dreams of waking up and being able to take a shower without a foot of standing water and without an inch of mold and mildew on every surface. I had nightmares about waking up in my own apartment, and then I'd wake up. It took me three years to escape from that place. To a new beginning.

So I did. But it happened again--

NEWSFLASH, dateline 10/11/2000 -- We interrupt this regularly scheduled Jetstream to announce that something even funnier has happened, that being that I stopped writing this column after I wrote the above words ("...it happened again") two entire weeks ago, and am now just getting back to it and trying to figure out what I was talking about when I stopped. Due to this fact, do not expect the second half of this column to feature any sort of cohesion with the first half.
I like eggs! I like 'em a lot! All sorts of eggs! Scrambled, fried, or in a frittata! It doesn't matter! They're the food with the ultimate flexibility! Well, except for salt! I like salt, too! Salt and eggs, baby! Also, what you can do is whip up some raw eggs, and put some salt in them (salt and eggs!) and then throw some sliced onions or potatoes in, and then deep-fry them, and you got nice brown crisp yummy onion rings or french fries! Salt, eggs, and onions and potatoes! That's good eating! Eggs are fun to do tricks with! Or to race while holding them in a spoon at a summer-camp activity which you wouldn't even be in except your parents forced you to go to summer-camp, even though you would have much rather been sitting in your room playing video games or experimenting with certain body parts which I won't mention, except to say that it sure would have been fun, except your parents were only interested in getting rid of you for a few weeks during the summer so they could stay home and experiment with their own body parts, those selfish bastards! Eggs!

Now, as I was saying, I keep having these new beginnings, about once a year. I move into a place, trash it, trash myself, and then move on to a New Beginning. But these are not really new beginnings, they are unending repetitions and recycling of the original beginning. And...

No, you know what, this is boring now, and supremely self-serving, and I've already served myself several times since I began writing this particular column, so I'll just sum up what I was going to say, which was that, as I had written over a half-year earlier, this move was to be the Real New Beginning, which would spark a new dawn in my life, change me for the better, and for good, and would finally straighten your boy out a little. Then I was going to say that, although it's only been a couple of months, I appear to have been absolutely correct.

Absolutely correct, except for the part about banging cocktail waitresses two at a time, which brings me to my next topic, which is, "Why can't Ben get laid?" Surely you've asked yourself this several times, and have always come up with several reasonable answers which are probably correct, but unfortunately, very wrong. But I have the answer. I figured it out yesterday after browsing the internet personals for the seven billionth time. The answer is, because women are liars. Here's why:

Every single personal ad that has ever been written by a woman features the following line, verbatim:

"Looking for a guy with a great sense of humor."
Bullshit. And if not a straight-out lie, it's at least a serious bending of the truth. Because I have figured out what women really mean when they say they're looking for a "guy with a great sense of humor". What they really mean is that they're looking for a guy with a good sense of humor. The distinction is monumentally significant, and the primary reason that Ben can't get laid. Self-deprecation is my thing, you know that, but I'm going to dispense with that charming characteristic long enough to tell you that I think a lot of people have good senses of humor. However, I have a great sense of humor, and therefore, I can't get laid.

Here's an example:

Girl: "Have a good evening!"

Good Sense of Humor Guy #1: "I'll try my best!"
Good Sense of Humor Guy #2: "And you have a gooder one!"
Great Sense of Humor Guy: "No."

By the time Great Sense of Humor Guy even opens his mouth, though, Girl has already banged both of the Good Sense of Humor Guys, one with anal, and has already decided that Great Sense of Humor Guy is a really good friend who she'll see if she knows anyone who she might want to set him up with, except she doesn't. Ever.

So that's pretty funny, too.

Alright, well, I've completely screwed up this column, which was going to be very meaningful and soulful and heartfelt. It's still all of those things, but in addition, it's also stupid, which sort of ruins the whole thematic integrity. Fortunately, there's one thing that can save it...

Eggs!

(And salt.)

-- Me, cube 3004A, 1:05 PM, 10/11/2000