Actually, my only fan, but that is neither here nor there.
Monday night, I stopped at Borders on the way home from work, as is my bi-weekly custom. This time, however, it was very different--The joy just wasn't there anymore. It felt almost as if I were visiting a dying relative. Very subdued. Almost desolate. But I will eulogize Borders later.
I had a solitary purpose going in--find Ulysses, buy Ulysses, read Ulysses. Anyone who knows me knows how much I despise this book, but burning hatred never stopped me from trying to love something. But, as always, I fell into the Literature section and got stuck there for nearly an hour. I picked up Ulysses, but eventually drifted back to the B section where I alighted in front of a selection of titles by Charles Bukowski. I had been meaning to read Bukowski for a while now and simply never got around to it, because I've been too busy reading... whatever the crap it is that I have been reading. Probably something about fruit flies.
I wasn't there a picosecond before this random guy approached me in the aisle, almost as if he was from THE FUTURE and he knew I would be there even before I did.
This is how our conversation began:
"If you want to laugh your tits off, you should read that book."
I had to think about that for a minute.
I looked at the copy of Post Office I was holding.
Then I looked down at my tits.
"What about Ulysses?" I wondered aloud to myself.
"Fuck Ulysses." He responded. "Why are you reading Ulysses anyway?"
Omg. Who are you, and is this love? Queue the fog machines:
Okay, shut it down.
"Look dude--not that I need to explain myself to a total stranger," I said, "but this book eluded me once a long time ago, and I want revenge. And I never shy away from an intellectual challenge, or a means to hurt myself." I had hoped that this statement would be awkward enough to kill any further conversation. It wasn't that the guy was unattractive, but flirting takes concerted effort--effort that I could be putting towards other things, like hating stuff. You have to contort your face into that unnatural "I am so deeply involved in what you are saying right now" expression and punctuate every sentence with a forced girl-giggle. All I wanted to do was buy my book, go home, put on sweatpants and eat something dipped in chocolate. Like an oreo. Or a piece of steak.
Alas.
"Wait--So you don't like the book, but you are going to read it again, just so you can discover a more intellectual reason to hate the book?"
"Bingo."
Really, dude, are we done now? Because I smell like work, and work smells like ancient, musty, stuffed animals.
"You don't find that to be a little twisted?"
"No," I said pointing to a haggard transvestite reading girly manga in the section adjacent to ours. "That is twisted. I'm just a stubborn asshole with masochistic tendencies."
Anyway, after a few more minutes of trying in vain to repel this man with cutting remarks, I caved and decided to buy Post Office because ultimately, I did want to laugh my tits off. The man came and waited with me in line and we made some more small talk before he gave me his phone number.
I know, right?
His name was Rudy, which was very unfortunate. I’ll never call him even though he was good looking, because everybody knows that I’ll only consider dating an orphan or a man who can best me in mortal combat. Plus, his name was RUDY.
Jax wins.
It gets weirder though, like spooky weird--On the train ride home, ANOTHER guy started talking to me, using Bukowski as a topic of departure.
THE VERY NEXT DAY, on the train into work, it happened again. Different guy.
It was like some freakish, Twilight Zone-ish occurrence. Men don't just start talking to me. That doesn't ever happen ever in the history of, well, ever. I've always assumed that was because I have an expression that says: "I can emasculate you with a few carefully chosen words." It's one of those things I just can't help, like being 5'4", or peeing sitting down. I give a lot of bitchface when I'm out in public. But then I realized something--it had nothing to do with me. IT WAS THE BOOK. I mean, it's fairly common knowledge that other people judge you based on the books you read. Hitchhikers Guide: nerd. Twilight Saga: sad, 13, or if male, gay. The Da Vinci Code: boring. Slaughter House Five: rebel with a pirate radio station? Naked Lunch: stoner. Anything Neitzsche: pretentious, or taking Intro Philosophy, or both. Apparently, a lady reading Post Office: ready to be fucked in any available orifice. The book was actually trumping my bitchface. And what's weirder is that, with the book in my hand, I could be a sarcastic demon troll beast to the person talking to me, and they found it amusing and perhaps even a little endearing. I didn't even have to fake girl-giggle. Or even smell good, for that matter. It was all relatively painless. And a little magical.
Needless to say, I'm rather enjoying Bukowski now. I think I'll read a few more of his books, and maybe get laid for once.
And I still have my tits, in case anyone was worried.
Not that anyone was worried.
