Less

People say that less is more.  But not always.  Not with, like, diamonds.  Or chips and salsa.  But less is more with, say, pants sizes.  And perhaps fingernails:

[Lee Redmond's fingernails are 28 ft 4.5 in]

This kook has been in the Guinness Book of World Records for having the longest fingernails since 1979.  That's nice.  You can tell from her wild eyes and her witchy hair that she's proud of her achievements in the fingernails department and that she pretty much sits around all day watching her fingernails grow.  But then, I can't help but point out that she can't use her hands.  I look at this fuckwit and I think, "Doesn't anyone love you enough to cut your fingernails off while you sleep?"  In this specific instance, let's all agree that less is more. 

But again, not always.

I find that I always want more Oreos.  I can't conceive of an instance when I've thought, "I can't possibly eat another Oreo."  Even after I have finished an entire package in one sitting (I have actually done this), there is always room for another one.

Other things I want more of:

Vonnegut novels
Michael Jackson songs
Analysis of the JFK assassination/possible conspiracy
Seinfeld
Hair on my head
Ketchup
The Onion headlines
new batteries
pictures of my grandma when she was in her 20s

I once dated a guy who thought it was funny the kinds of things I didn't need.... and I'm not claiming any holier-than-thou shit here.  It's not like I don't own a TV or I spend all my evenings reading novels in the original French by candle-light while having no carbon footprint.  That's not what I'm talking about.  It was dumb things, like, generally, I don't drink coffee.  I do this because when I DO drink coffee every once in a blue moon, it really causes some HAVOC.  It's super effective.  I can get shit DONE when I drink a little coffee.

So this guy said to me, "Jules.  You should demand MORE!"  I laughed.  I thought, "If I demand more, I'll demand you right out of my life, dickhead."  And that's eventually what happened.  He wanted me to demand more for myself, but where it concerned him, it was very clearly his preference that I demand less.  (If you haven't caught on yet, all of my relationships are sort of like an Alanis Morissette song, but less catchy.)  I find that it's simpler to demand less and then get surprised once in awhile.

I'm feeling curious lately about what I can do without.  I feel like I want to eliminate as much as possible.  I've made a bit of a start:

I don't own a table.  For years I had one, but I still ate hunched over my coffee table every night.  So I got rid of the kitchen table and chairs, but all I really got rid of was a place to store my unopened mail and the ironing I wasn't doing.  I will take clothes to the Salvation Army before I will iron them.

I don't have a maid.  For years I did, but now it seems silly to hire someone to dust the table I don't own.

I don't have any sex toys.  These are just substitutes for hands and mouths, and I already have two hands and a mouth and I know other people who have hands and mouths too.

I don't have any cats.  These are just substitutes for dogs but without the having to take care of them.  I had cats for a long time and I don't even remember feeding them.  I think they ate carpet.

I don't have any pictures hanging in my house.  These are just substitutes for memories, and I am so much better-looking in my imagination than in photographs.

I also seem to get along without the right hemisphere of my brain.

I don't have any backup shampoo.  When I run out, I use a bar of soap.  When I run out of soap, I use laundry detergent (which may be why I have hair problems).  When I run out of detergent, I use left over mayonnaise packets from Jimmy John's because I read an article in Cosmo once that said you can condition your hair with mayonnaise.  I suspect that I read it wrong, but I kind of have a system (and I ran out of things to try after the laundry detergent ran out).

I don't have any underwear.  I'm wearing pants -- what's the point of the middle man?  And before you say, "What if you get into an accident and have to go to the hospital?" I will tell you that I have been in just such an accident, and instead of thinking, "I wish my mother and this hot fireman didn't have to see this happening to me" or "Why can't I modulate the tone, length, and volume of these bovine noises I am involuntarily making?" I was thinking, "AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!"  When you are in a great deal of pain, the last thing you're worried about is the deficiency of your underwear.

I don't have any eyebrows.  I don't know why.  I was born that way and as it turns out, eyebrows require maintenance, so it's cheaper this way.

I've just rented an apartment that doesn't have a bedroom. This is what is known as a "studio" because only starving artists live in them. I am experimenting with becoming a starving artist, but I will fail because: I will never starve (because of the aforementioned Oreo addiction), nor will I be an artist (because I can't draw that turtle wearing a turtleneck).

But I still think it will be fun to live in a ridiculously small room and pretend that I am roughing it (artistically so!), even though what I am really doing is giving myself an excuse not to own plates or tables.

"I did exercises"

[August 1-4, 1985]

Things old people say out loud to each other at hipster concerts and then realize they sound like old people

I love going to concerts. Or, I should say, I loved going to concerts. When I wasn't so fucking old. Last night I went to see MGMT with a guy who is either 30 or 40. Or maybe he's 50. Or 20. I don't know. Anyway, we show up an hour before the show to get some sushi. (For the record, since I never agree to real sushi dates, I should admit that it’s a "contemporary sushi" place, meaning it’s "sushi" rather than sushi). We’re early (even fake sushi doesn't take that long to cook) and we see that there's a line around the block with people trying to be first into the show. Then I become aware that instead of wanting to get in line, we're both eyeing the giant Borders next door to the venue.

He says, "Let's go buy books!" and I feel an overwhelming wave of adoration towards him. This is when I begin to get an inkling that we are in some ways too old to be going to see a hipster band. Or that maybe he's actually 60. We don’t actually go buy books. We take our time walking over to the Riv. While standing in line I offer him some York Peppermint Patties. I don’t know why I have them. I've never in my life carried an entire pouch of York Peppermint Patties on my person, but before he picked me up, I ran into the store to grab some gum. They didn't have the kind I like, so I grabbed Peppermint Patties instead. I regret this choice, about the having them, and about the offering them. It's a third date, and I'm making a variety of bold statements about myself bringing a whole bag of Peppermint Patties to see MGMT in a really tight venue.

He declines. I eat one. I regret it immediately. The peppermint and sugar blow the ginger and crab through my brain and out my ears.

Tame Impala opens and they are truly awesome. The members of Tame Impala appear to be 13, and they, all four of them, have hair covering their eyes and faces, which they slowly, sensitively brush away in between songs, in the way of tortured musicians who totally feel life. They sound like Led Zeppelin, but they look like Australian Hanson. They are dressed like the cast of "What's Happenin'?"

And for that matter, so is everyone else in the theater.

HIM: What do these people do in their lives when they're not at The Riviera dressed liked it's 1977?

ME: I think this is where the baristas and Borders employees come to spend all their disposable income.

HIM: That's an interesting assessment. Do you think we're the only doctor and lawyer here?

ME: I'm sure I'm not the only lawyer here, but you're probably the only doctor. Unless you have tat sleeves and a faux-hawk that I don't know about.

HIM: I don't think that girl wearing a hula skirt and eating a slice of cheese is a lawyer.

ME: .... Yowza! It's really hot in here!

I am sweating so profusely that there is no graceful way to hide it. Unless he likes to date Slip ‘n’ Slides, he will never ask me out again. Here's a tip that I wish someone had given to me: If you are prone to overheating, as I am, then don't go on a date to a sold-out show at The Riv with someone who you want to find you attractive. By the time Tame Impala finishes, I am a puddle. He claims not to mind, but there is no possible way that he is not alarmed. To make matters worse, the girl standing on top of me has this tremendous mane of hair, and it is sticking to my sweaty arm. Blech. Ick. Yuck. I keep gagging a little bit, and there's the Peppermint Patties again, and the "sushi."

ME: Can I rub my face on your shirt?

HIM: Sure.

ME: I'm just kidding.

But I am not kidding. I’m wearing a sleeveless top and I don’t have anything to blot my face. The sweat is pouring off my head into my eyes. I want so badly to wipe off my dripping face on his soft shirt, it starts to look like a chamois. Kind of like how when Bugs Bunny is hungry, all of his friends look like giant drumsticks, my date's body turns into a Swiffer in my head.

Two underage girls in front of us fall on the ground. One is rolling around, and the other one is trying to climb up the back of some guy’s leg.

ME: What's that girl doing?

HIM: Puking.

ME: Are you gonna help her?

HIM: Nah.

The bodyguards arrive and carry her off.

ME: I wonder if anyone has died yet.

I’m really, like, out-of-control overheated now. The insides of my skinny jeans are sticking to my legs. My hair has sweat all the way through.

ME: I get that the venue is old, but this place is a giant roaster. Why don't they at least have a FAN? It's SO HOT!

HIM: Yeah.

ME: Do you think the band is hot?

HIM: Do you think they have a fan?

***   ***   ***

HIM: [looking up at the ceiling] They should fix that crown molding.

***   ***   ***

I wish I had more beer, but only so I could roll the can all over my head, face, neck, chest, arms, back and ankles. I wonder if the beer vendor would notice if I dunked my head in the ice tub. Just two seconds.

***   ***   ***

HIM: Someday the record companies will invent a screen that prevents people from taking pictures and video with their cell phones at concerts.

ME: YOU should invent that!.... and be the guy who ruins concerts for everyone.

***   ***   ***

HIM: I wish I were wearing shorts.

ME: I wish I weren't wearing 3-inch heels.

HIM: Why am I wearing a long-sleeved shirt?

ME: I wish I had a fan.

***   ***   ***

ME: If this girl in front of me hadn't put so much effort into her hair, I would have a much better view.

***   ***   ***

ME: I am not satisfied with the amount of personal space allotted to me.

HIM: This is like India.

ME: I guess you’re used to this because you’re Indian. Does it make me a bad person that I need more personal space than the people of India?

HIM: No. It makes you American.

ME: Let's never go to India.

***   ***   ***

ME: I wish you had a dragon on your shirt.

HIM: I don’t know you very well, but I think you’re kidding.

ME: I think you know me very well.

***   ***   ***

ME: I want to stand by the railing.

HIM: The railing is a douche-magnet. Everyone thinks they want the railing, but once you get it, you have to stay there. You can never leave to get more beer or go to the bathroom. Where we are, we're free. We can leave and we can come back and we don't have to come back to the same spot.

ME: I want to stand by the railing.

***   ***   ***

ME: I wish I hadn't brought a purse.

HIM: I'm glad I didn't bring my rain jacket.

ME: I could have put your rain jacket in my purse.

HIM: Do you want me to hold your purse?

ME: No. I would never do that to you.

HIM: Good. I don't want to hold your purse. But I had to ask.

ME: I know you don't want to hold my purse. For the same reason I don't want to hold my purse.

Then MGMT comes out.*

[Although when he got the tickets I claimed to LOVE

MGMT ("Yes!! I'd LOVE to go. I LOVE MGMT!!"),

as it turns out, "I love three MGMT songs!!"]

HIM: (singing along to one word of a song) "ARIZONA."  I just wanted to prove to you that I've heard this song before.

ME: Because you know one of the words?

HIM: Just the one.

ME: Do you think it would be weird if I took off my jeans?

***   ***   ***

HIM: (turning around to the 13-year-old standing behind us with his dad, neither of whom can see anything because my date is 6'1" and I'm 5'11" with these heels) Is this song off their new album?

KID: (shrugs shoulders)

DAD: (glaring)

HIM: (to me) I thought a 13-year-old at a concert with his dad would know all the songs!

ME: I guess he isn't into the deep cuts.

HIM: Should I have offered him some candy?

ME: I have some York Peppermint Patties in my purse.

***   ***   ***

MGMT plays "Electric Feel" and "Kids" and some mellow songs from their second album. Then my date gets paged and we have to leave (although I suspect that this is a made-up exit strategy). We are both all right about leaving because we heard all three songs we knew and we are both really fucking sweat-drenched. Outside, Chicago is in the midst of some kind of flash-Armageddon. The 70 mph winds dry us off instantaneously.

HIM: Are you upset that we have to leave?

ME: Not at all. That was fun!

HIM: Do you want to go home?

ME: No. I'm gonna go to Borders.

*REQUIRED LISTENING: "Time to Pretend," MGMT

I'm feeling rough, I'm feeling raw, I'm in the prime of my life.

Let's make some music, make some money, find some models for wives.

I'll move to Paris, shoot some heroine, and fuck with the stars.

You man the island and the cocaine and the elegant cars.

This is our decision, to live fast and die young.

We've got the vision, now let's have some fun.

Yeah, it's overwhelming, but what else can we do?

Get jobs in offices, and wake up for the morning commute.

Forget about our mothers and our friends

We're fated to pretend

To pretend

We're fated to pretend

To pretend

I'll miss the playgrounds and the animals and digging up worms

I'll miss the comfort of my mother and the weight of the world

I'll miss my sister, miss my father, miss my dog, and my home

Yeah, I'll miss the boredom and the freedom and the time spent alone.

But there is really nothing, nothing we can do

Love must be forgotten, life can always start up anew.

The models will have children, we'll get a divorce

We'll find some more models, everything must run its course.

We'll choke on our vomit and that will be the end

We were fated to pretend

To pretend

We're fated to pretend

To pretend

Yeah, yeah, yeah

Yeah, yeah, yeah

Yeah, yeah, yeah

Yeah, yeah, yeah