Don't Try and Tell ME That My Backpack's Open, Buddy
Some news: I’m going to be in Tucson this weekend for the Tucson Festival of Books. Come by and see me if you’re in town! I’ll be on a panel about storytelling at 11:30am on Saturday the 15th, and another on writing about women at the same time on Sunday the 16th.
You had better believe I am prepared to talk for precisely my allotted time as “the only guy on the panel about women,” and not a second longer. I know what I’m about! You won’t catch me going over time!
I’ll also be at the L.A. Festival of Books next month, and will drop in more details as the date approaches.
This Yahoo! interview with Richard Kind about guest starring is laser-tailored to my interests, and possibly to yours:
Tell me, what’s going on with Sy Hoffman in this episode of Night Court?
You have to speak a little louder.
What is it? Can you hear me?
I can hear you. It’s me. I’m driving through Palm Springs, and it’s windy outside.
Earlier today a guy on the street told me an objectively helpful thing I didn’t know about myself, only he got my attention in a way I considered so offensive that I refused to take his advice, to my own detriment.
In his defense, I had my headphones in, and moreover I was actively ignoring him. It’s difficult to get someone’s attention politely when they have their headphones in, and even more so when they’re tuning you out on purpose. But he had opened with “Hey. Hey, guy,” which has never once in my life served as the preliminary to a pleasant conversation, so I ignored him. He tried a few more “Hey, guys” before he started waving his hand in my peripheral vision.
In retrospect this is where I should have answered him. “Hey, guy” isn’t the warmest of greetings, but it’s perfectly neutral, and I am not a marquis, that I can expect perfect strangers to approach me with reverence and solicitude. It was beneath both of our dignities to pretend not to notice he was waving at me. But I wanted him to give up!
What I had failed to take into account was that someone who tries to get your attention with “Hey, guy” and then waves their hand around your temples is not someone who can be put off by chilly reserve. Chilly reserve and frozen hauteur are all well and good in their place, and are very effective against the right sort of person, but they were the wrong tools for this job,1 because he only started whistling at me. The kind of two-toned, high-low whistle you use to get a dog’s attention, at which point I recognized that he was willing to go much further than I was in this game of chicken, and took my earbuds out.
“Your backpack is open,” he said to me.
Now, he was perfectly right to say this. My backpack was open. I had not realized this when I left the house. But this awoke a spirit of perversity in me, because I did not want to accept help from someone I thought was rude, and I did not want to “give him the satisfaction” of admitting my backpack was open, or that it might have been an oversight on my part not to close it. I merely looked at him with what I hoped was an expression of untroubled placidity, but which almost certainly looked like remarkable stupidity, because he added, “Wide open,” in a tone of real concern.
What could I do? I had already committed to playing a petty, stonewalling part in our little tableaux. I said to him, “That’s fine. That’s no problem.” I suppose the effect I was going for was one of aristocratic unconcern: Why should I concern myself with the zippers of a backpack? If someone steals my things out of it, I shall simply call Grandmama and have her replace them. At this he looked at me with something less than annoyance but stronger than pity before giving up and walking away.
And of course when he was safely out of sight I did zip up my backpack. He was perfectly right to tell me about it, because it was also raining, and my books were getting soaked. But I wasn’t about to let that son of a bitch have the satisfaction of seeing me do it.
I always like when people are writing about Greek and Roman mythology, and they try to break through the tyranny of familiarity by throwing a few extra ks back into the mix.
Hercules: Ah, my old friend and little buddy! Hercules and his big chores, yes sir, I know everything there is to know about him, all right. I could draw him as a cartoon in my sleep!
Herakles: We are standing in the presence of a mighty, nameless tomb…we must speak in hushed tones, lest we disturb the sleep of our alien, soi-distant forebears…the past is a different country, and they do things differently here…
The baby is at a really terrific age just at present. If you have a baby who is big enough to sit up in a high chair, but little enough to still be entertained by merely being handed new objects every time minutes, I recommend taking the skin off of a mango and handing the whole thing to the baby (be sure to put down a tray first and either divest the baby of its clothes or put a big rubber smock over him, so you don’t have to spend ten minutes cleaning him properly afterwards). It’s too soft to run any risk of choking him, but also crucially too big for him to drop below the tray without serious effort. You don’t want to do this every day, of course. You’re not made of money, and whole mangos aren’t free. But it’s a lot of fun every once in a while.
A year or so ago I was at a client’s house while New York One was on in the background, and they teased an upcoming segment on proposed updates to the NYPD facial hair policy with the following line: “New York’s FINEST may soon become New York’s…SMOOTHEST?” I still think about it all the time.
Similarly, I think most people nowadays can be roughly slotted into one of two categories: people who would be more offended by being called “deeply unserious,” or by being called “a fucking bitch” during an argument on the internet. Those are the two predominating types of online name-calling, I think, and while I don’t think most people like being called either, you tend to know right away which one would bother you more.
I am both deeply unserious, AND a fucking bitch, and am proud to be referred to as both. What kind of snowflake has the temerity to have their apple cart upturned by either turn of phrase? What a time to be alive. Yes, this is most certainly a time.
Reading about the stubborn pettiness in your backpack story is exactly what I needed today. Your feelings are valid and it was your only option.