At the buzzer

I'm going to squeeze in a couple of quick resolutions before this year skids away like a garbage truck on an icy cul-de-sac. I've already made a few public resolutions (learn to swim, lower my sugar intake, curb my enthusiasm, etc.) that basically pay lip service to that hackneyed idea of self improvement. But that's not what resolutions are about. They're about damming the floodgates; a new year's resolution that works Slams On The Brakes more than it Gently Accelerates to a better you.

What I really want to accomplish this year:

• Stop (that is, cease) fucking 20 year olds, if only for the dearth of post-coital conversation.
• Abandon the idea of becoming a modern (pronounced in that fey, British way) renaissance man. Pick a lane and drive in it.
• Make the effort to let people know that my air of callous indifference is the product of laziness and not malevolence.
• Stop scowling. It does not make me look (that) sexy.
• Stop complaining and start com-play-ning! (I don't know what this means.)
• Seriously, for the last time: lose the parentheses.

And what I quietly resolve every year: turn down some road not yet taken, with eyes wide open, and make it though the bumps and slapping of splintering branches with my wits and spirit intact.

Maybe that last one is a bit of the old gas pedal. Sue me.

My conversation with God (already in progress)

Harvey: Look, I get it. But don't you want us all to be happy?
God: That's not --
Harvey: Just answer the fucking question, dude.
God: I will not be interrupted.
Harvey:
God:
Harvey: OK, sorry about that. What were you saying?
God: It doesn't matter anymore.
Harvey: No, come on, I'm sorry. I'll let you talk. Please go on.
God: I was going to say: that's not important to true happiness. You must realise Harvey, that there is more to your existence than pleasuring women, and having money, and Dance Dance Revolution.
Harvey: Really?
God: Yes.
Harvey: Yeah, right. Like what?
God: You must try to find peace amidst the chaos--
Harvey: Bullshit dude you-- oh, shit. Sorry about that.
God:
Harvey: Dude. Please go on.
God: You have closed your mind to understanding.
Harvey: Look, clearly this conversation is just stressing us both out. Can we change the subject?
God: Fine.
Harvey: Are you mad? Look, I'm sorry.
God: I am not angry.
Harvey: Are you sure? You seem angry at me.
God: The creations of this world are holy and blameless in my sight.
Harvey: Right, so we're good. Sweet. So what are you up to later?
God: I am a timeless being, Harvey. I cannot experience the passage of time.
Harvey: Oh, here we go. I'm just making small talk! Why do you have to pull this omnipotent being shit all the time?
God:
Harvey: Are you still mad because I interrupted you? Christ -- uh, I mean... Criminy...?
God:
Harvey: You're still mad, aren't you?
God:
Harvey: You know what? Fuck this, I'm outta here!

I slammed the door to my dreams and sat up with a start. I was at my parents’ place, on a thin mattress laid out on the living floor. "Dude?" I asked out loud, but only the click of the furnace answered me.

But wait: he's dead, I realised, my thoughts beginning to focus. He's dead and we're alone in the universe.

I went back to sleep, tired and feverish. I get this way sometimes. This is what happens when you snort NeoCitran.

It's the thought that counts

No, I did not rip this off from MAD magazine c. 1963. Blecch, as if. Anyway, in the spirit of Gift-o-Rama 2007 (a.k.a. X-mas, a.k.a. Santa's Birthday), here's a piece on gift-giving I like to call: Gifts Gone Wild: Live from Miami Beach (a.k.a. Don't look-mouth a gift in the horse.)

On sex for free:

Jane: Wow! Diamonds! John, you really shouldn't have.
John: It was no trouble. With all the sex we've been having, it would have cost me much more to pay a prostitute.

On fucking your neighbour's husband:

Myrna: This one's for you and your husband.
Ethel: A gift certificate for an adult store? How risqué! Do you think Barry will be up for it?
Myrna: Definitely. He's a sex-starved man, Ethel. I can just... tell.

On the in-laws:

Husband: I know you thought you weren't going to be able to see your folks this holiday, so I got you a first class ticket home!
Wife: Oh, thank you! But this is a one-way ticket. And there's just one...
Husband: Yep.

On not-being-a-failure-in-spite-of-what-your-fucking-father-thinks (whoa, breathe):

Billy: Yay! A Night Soldier Combat Kit! Thanks Daddy, you're the best!
Father: OK, son. You're welcome. Just don't turn out gay, OK?

On the job:

Boss: James, because you've been doing a great job this year, I'm giving you a $5000 Christmas bonus.
James: Oh, Mr. Freeley, thank you! That's so generous!
Boss: Well, considering you're not going to get that promotion you were after, it's the least I could do.

On friends that care:

Frank: A... gun?
Kurt: Yep. You can do whatever you want with it. It's your life. Take it wi-- I mean, in your own hands.

On bundles of joy:

Dr. Lambert: There you are Mrs. Mahoney. You have a healthy baby girl.
Mrs. Mahoney: Oh, she's beautiful!
Dr. Lambert: Let's not get carried away.

On public schools:

Mr. Plass: Janine, you're my brightest student in my fifth grade class. I asked you to stay after school so I could give you this present. The other kids wouldn't understand what it is.
Janine: Thank you Mr. Plass. Um, what is this? It looks like a fat pen.
Mr. Plass: It's called a 'vibrator'. Let's show you how to use it.

On relationships:

Craig: A Chia pet? I -- I don't get it. Is this a gag gift or something?
Cheryl: Craig, I want a divorce.

On "selfless" gifts:

Kara: So, instead of getting each of you something you don't need this year, I've decided to give a gift to everyone, by making a donation in each of your names to the Earth Fund. They help preserve the rainforests in Belize -- which makes the World a better place to live! So you should thank yourselves for giving the Earth the gift of a healthy rainforest!
Friends and family: (Confused mumbling, muttering, and scattered utterances of "stupid cunt".)

On intimate gifts:

Brad: A blowjob? That's exactly what I wanted! How did you know?
Susan: A mother always knows.

On being forced to question your boyfriends sexuality:

Belinda: Jim, I just didn't know what to get you, so I got you a gift certificate to that electronics store that you really like.
Jim: Oh, well, thank you. Boy, I'm so glad I put so much effort decoupaging this picture frame for you. But I guess a gift certificate is just as good.

On weird aliens from outer-space:

Alien 1: I brought you a silicone-plated skull of our sworn galactic enemy.
Alien 2: You know, I was kind of hoping for a mango pitter.

On racism:

Occidental: I got you a gift certificate for that Chinese food place you like so much.
Oriental: But I don't really like Chinese food.
Occidental: Well, fuck! How was I supposed to know that?

On re-gifting:

Linda: Didn't we get you and Maggie this serving tray last year?
Desmond: Oh, no. It does look similar but it's not the same one.
Linda: I'm pretty sure it is. See here on the back, where we had it engraved "For Desmond and Margaret on their 25th Wedding Anniversary?"
Desmond. Huh. What are the odds of that.

Mayday

Craig leans over the armrest and looks deep into Meg's eyes.

"So, you know how when planes are going down, people start having, you know, last-minute sex, and blowing each other and stuff?"

Meg glares back intensely.

"No, they don't. They usually just think quietly to themselves and pray."

"Right," and Craig leans further, lowering his voice, "But I was just thinking --"

"No!" Shoots back Meg. "I'm not going to have sex with someone I've only known for four hours. And isn't that your girlfriend right beside you?"

Rejected, Craig leans over to the arm rest on the other side.

"Hey, Jen--" he starts to a pair of crossed arms, but she doesn't let him finish.

"Don't even talk to me."

Bilaterally rebuked, Craig slumps back in his chair. Through the tiny window, he gazes at the turbine-in-flames dangling from the plane's wing, and ponders the steep angle of the horizon as the plane continues it's steady and speedy descent.

He thought quietly to himself and prayed, but it was in vain. Craig would die a virgin of high-altitude love-making.

Meta melee or: an overdue why

A confidential letter to my audience of one,

Hey.

Since you are reading this, my diary of my personal ramblings and partially-digested creative concoctions, I can safely assert that you are on some level, a creepy lurker. Of course by the same token, the fact that I know that you are here probably makes me just as creepy (and lurky). Considering all this, it's a wonder we're not better friends.

Writing something this overt is somewhat cringe inducing for me -- especially considering this blog's narrative conceit. And I apologize for the face-warming sense of embarrassment that reading such a missive may cause; laundry lists about things I hate are far more palatable, I know.

But at least this post is unique; for what may be the first time in my writing I am trying to make a point. But I'm not sure what that point is.

The fact is, the moment our relationship crumbled from an virtual epistolary into meta e-lurking extravaganza, things have not been the same. And those short but sweet moments of contact in the Real World, though awkward, were actually -- OK, they were awkward. Let's leave it at that.

But oddly, after all this time -- here you are. Pondering that, I realise that maybe I'm not trying to make a point at all, but rather trying to clarify one.

You are (still) here, and reading this jumble of half-truths, bizarre belles-lettres and bulk incongruity, and I don't mind at all. I just don't know why. For the witty dialogues and poetry about soap? Surely not.

So I am left bemused, and possibly writing to a spectre, and asking the long overdue "why"? It really is my favourite question, but it's the hardest for me to ask. (I'm easily stunned by contradictions.) By the time I get around to it, the end credits are rolling skyward and the audience has begun its slow shuffle into the aisles.

So why are you here, my gentle reader? And to close with an opener: how have you been?

Yours truly,

Harvey


P.S. Those were clearly rhetorical questions. This letter is obviously about God.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Miranda: Sir, two dollars will not buy you toothpaste around here.
Harvey: I don't buy that for a second. Here's two dollars.
Miranda: I'm sorry: it's actually a function of both government regulation and market forces.
Harvey: You're just out to screw me aren't you?
Miranda: That's the price. We don't set prices here.
Harvey: But that's so steep. $2.99 for toothpaste?
Miranda: It's $2.99, dude.
Harvey: But that's so steep. $2.99 for toothpaste?
Miranda: That's the price. We don't set prices here.
Harvey: You're just out to screw me aren't you?
Miranda: I'm sorry: it's actually a function of both government regulation and market forces.
Harvey: I don't buy that for a second. Here's two dollars.
Miranda: Sir, two dollars will not buy you toothpaste around here.

Another strange interaction between Harvey and the portly store owner

Harvey: What would you do if you got pregnant?
Miranda: Honestly, I don't know.
Harvey: (exasperated) Well, you should know.
Miranda: Fuck you, pal. I don't know. And I'll never be able to say until I am in that position; until I am confronted with the entire situation. No woman can. Anyone who tells you otherwise is lying to you and herself.
Harvey:
Miranda:
Harvey: Fine. Just this box of facial tissues.