Excerpt from My First Novel Yellow Socks Confessions of a Non Don Juan

June 4, 2012

An Excerpt from my 2010 novel Yellow Socks- Confessions of a Non Don Juan


Skeleton Woman or Things Like Me Don’t Happen To You


Christ it happened again. Another notch in my “girls that want to be my friend” belt. It made sense. We were perfect friends and she was real cute too. I kept thinking that I was ok with it. I’d be happy just being a friend again. I keep turning to God for strength to accept my fate as “Friend to all women” that I’m attracted to. My acceptance level seems to be ok. I go to my happy place. I go to my cave. I say the serenity prayer over and over I am sure that I will be ok with this. Yes I will. (no I won’t)


Cut to a scene from Fight Club



Stop it! This is your pain — this is your burning hand. It’s right here! Look at it.



I’m going to my cave. I’m going to my cave to find my power animal!



No, don’t deal with this the way those dead people do. Come on



I get the point, ok, please!



No, what you’re feeling is premature enlightenment.


Ok. I get the idea. Feel the pain. Feel the hurt. Feel the rejection saturating my heart until I bleed more than just these words all over the place and finger my open sore of a brain as it wants to dwell on her over and over again. Screaming and roaring her name with anger and grief and sometimes a slight relief that it’s done and I know that she will not reject me again unless I go back for more and more or less or a little bite of her cheeseburger and a sip of her Pepsi to tide me over until the next one comes along with better food and spirits for my, for me for. Four scores of seven years itch as I scratch the weathered tired out mongrel of an ego that was left stray years ago in a pound for wayward hearts and letches that can only love and never be loved.


The pain of being a friend. A friend. I’ve heard that “Let’s just be friends” millions of times in my life as I gargle a new mouthwash and toothpaste hoping my breath will be the answer to my problem. My problem is as follows: me, myself and I. We altogether are the problem. We want to be loved so bad that we give off the vibe that scares the shit out of women so they just want to be friends. Friends. Friends. I think to myself that will be fine. Friends is ok. It’ll do. I can accept that. Bullshit! Feel the pain I tell myself. Embrace it. the pain is your friend. To hurt is to be alive. I’ve never been so alive. I’m alive. So alive.


“Did you ever hear about the skeleton woman?” Morton asked.


“Was that a Glam rock band from the seventies?” I ask.


“Ha. Ha. Nah. It’s an ancient Indian story. This guy was fishing in the middle of a lake. He was totally into it. He was relaxed. Not a care in the world except catching the next fish. All of a sudden he feels a tug on his line and he yanks it up. A skeleton appears on his line. He doesn’t realize that it’s attached to his line and he gets scared. He starts paddling his boat away from it but it follows him. He still doesn’t realize that it’s attached to his line. He gets out of his boat and runs into the village and he is carrying his fishing rod and the skeleton is still right behind him. He jumps into his Tee Pee and it follows him in. He lies down and tries to hide not looking at it for a while. When he finally turns to look at the skeleton it has changed into the most beautiful woman he has ever seen. She is his. The moral of the story is that he was minding his own business doing something he enjoyed and that’s when the right woman came along. In other words when you are not looking for love is when it will find you. ”


“I know that but it’s so fucking hard to stay focused on other things without thinking about how much I want to be loved. Fall in love. Ya know?” I responded.


“I know. I know.” Morton said.


“We’re a generation of men raised by women. I’m wondering if another woman is really the answer we need.” Tyler Durden


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Stalking Cameron Diaz – Excerpt from my novel Yellow Socks

October 13, 2010

Stalking Cameron Diaz


My cigarette fell out of my left hand into the open cement ash can outside the front of the Philadelphia Museum of Art. I was facing the city. It was only 3:24 pm. A little over an hour and a half till I was finished working. I stopped in the special exhibition store for the Manet exhibit to say a quick hello to Sam and Linda. As I walked in the store on the first floor, Sam greeted me immediately.


“Yo, Cameron Diaz is in the Impressionists Exhibit.” Sam said.


“Really?” I asked.


“Yeah. She’s over there right now.”


“How do you know?”


“Larry from Visitor Services told me.”


Larry was usually well informed of the celebrities that show up at the Art Museum. He once gave John Landis a sample copy of one of his short films. He led me to Landis then and now it’s Cameron Diaz. It wasn’t hard to believe because she was in the museum this past summer when Justin Timberlake was in town performing or whatever he does. I don’t watch sports. Cameron was there filming scenes for an upcoming movie called “In Her Shoes” at the Museum the week before. I knew she was in town.


“Should I go over there?” I asked.


“Yeah go stalk her.” Sam said.


A stalking I went. As I walked into the hall of the impressionists another employee was on his way out.


“She’s in the Cy Twombly room.” He said.


“Cool. Thanks.” I said.


I headed toward Cy Twombly. Cy Twombly is an American abstract expressionist. Twombly‘s painting combines elements of gestural abstraction, drawing, and writing in a very personal expression. The room at Philadelphia Museum of Art has a room full of eight to ten foot paintings based on Homer’s Iliad. I heard that when Cameron Diaz was here last time she bought a book about Cy Twombly. I was impressed with her taste in the semi-obscure.


I made a pit stop to compose myself and take a piss in the men’s room. I felt really stupid. What was the point of this mission? I’m not a big fan of hers. She was in There’s Something About Mary which I rate as one of the funniest movies I’ve ever seen. She was in Being John Malkovich which was written by one of my favorite screenwriters, Charlie Kaufman. I could name a dozen more movies she was in that I liked but I wasn’t all goo goo eyed for her. Yeah she’s hot but she’s just another decent actress. I didn’t feel star struck. I was just curious. I was curious to see a big movie star in person. Wow. I have nothing to say to her. I don’t care about her autograph or anything. Oh well. I had nothing better to do except maybe work.


I walked out of the bathroom and back to the path to meet the “celebrity”. I see more and more Museum employees wandering around. I turned the corner and I hear laughter. Carrie and Ken were standing near the elevator pointing and laughing at me. They knew I was up to the same thing that every other employees in the modern art hall were up to. Stalking Cameron Diaz. Any way we justify it, we were still stalking the “celebrity”.


I pushed forward and got near the Cy Twombly room. I saw the security guard in his place at the entrance to the exhibit. As I walk in I see her. Ccameron Diaz in person. In the flesh. Right up close. She was tall. She was probably five foot ten inches or so. Skinny. She’s looked good. She wasn’t just another hot chick that I’ve seen in the Museum. She’s even prettier than on screen. I was expecting her to be shorter and less attractive.


I look at her briefly and then walk into the room filled with these giant paint splashed scribbles that I’ve heard many say “My two year old could paint that.” about. They didn’t though. I am the only one in this room besides her. I was momentarily convinced that she doesn’t suspect that I am stalking her. I thought I was pretty smooth for about ten seconds. I knew she knew I was in there to gaze at the celebrity like one gazes at an accident on the side of the highway with morbid curiosity. I could feel her look at me and then look at the painting that I am looking at. I try to focus on the art and not let her know that I am focusing on her. Why was I doing this? It was stupid. I felt so dumb. I had no desire to talk to her or meet her. I felt like all of the other stalkers. I was like all the other stalkers. I imagined that she didn’t want to be bothered while she was looking at art. I wondered what it felt like to be that recognizable and have people following you around. Nobody talked to her from what I heard. She must have known. Is it worse to acknowledge you know her or better to pretend when you know she knows? She walked out without a word or a smile between us.


I waited a few minutes and then left. I didn’t want to have to get caught behind her so I went into the Duchamp section to avoid her. She was there with a couple of friends. I looked at a couple of my favorite pieces and left.


I was embarrassed. I felt stupid. Wow. I saw Cameron Diaz. I can’t wait to tell my friends about it. Isn’t it great? Aren’t you impressed? What’s that? No, I didn’t talk to her but I saw her. Yippy. I stalked down and saw a real life “celebrity” at work. Don’t you think I am great? Aren’t you impressed with me? Don’t you think I am a lot cooler now?


I was actually more impressed with Cy Twombly.


Read more stories like this and click here to buy Yellow Socks: Confessions of a Non-Don Juan.

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