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

 

TYLER

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

 

JACK

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

 

TYLER

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

!

JACK

I get the point, ok, please!

 

TYLER

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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Ezra POUNDed My Head

February 9, 2012

Ezra POUNDed my head today

I woke up in the (William) BURROUGHS of my mind

Unable to NEAL like Cassady and pray

I write like I am an ARTHUR (Rimbaud) of many poems but

I am really a HUNTER (S. Thompson) of words

A Patti wordSMITH

 

I am hungry for an Allan GINSBERGer with cheese

Flap JACK Kerouac rhymes touch my soul

I search as (Henry David) THOREOUly as I can for the

Right (Edgar Allan) POEm to come along and

It all seems so (William) BLeAkE like

Tasting rotten (Walt) WHITMAN chocolates

My creativity takes it (Gregory) CORSO

As I ponder on about Emily needing DICKenson

I have to make my MARK like TWAIN

And do as I WILLiam and say FAULKner you

 

I WILLiam SHAKEspeare this feeling

I want to have my (Robert) FROSTed cake

And (William Butler) yEATs it too

Mark my (William) WORDSworth


Shit. Piss. Fuck. Blah blah blah . . .

August 24, 2011

 

Shit. Fuck. Piss. Etc. Man this new way of life is making my new way of living extremely difficult. Blah. Blah. Blah.

 

My bills exceed my income every month. Ever since I moved in this house of hell in October 2010 with my good friend and now moody, secretive passive aggressive roommate. My  landlord is also a friend and an aggressive no bullshit type landlord who gets upset when money is late for the rent and the electric and water bills he pays for this house. Blaah bla blah.

 

Piss. Shit. Fuck. I’ve been out of work since May 2010. I was living with my adopted mom. I had a lot of money in the bank and little rent to pay. It was a great deal and I wanted to get my creative projects finished despite my little unemployment checks. I published my first novel a few days after I was fired for example. I wanted to carry the unemployment and my savings as long as I could. I picked up a little labor work with my uncle here and there. Life was good. Not for my Mom. I could tell she wanted me out. Blah. Blah Blah.

 

Fuck. Piss. Shit. An opportunity arose that I couldn’t resist. My friend owned the house next door to his and was renting it out cheap. It’s a 2 bedroom house and I knew a friend that I had talked about getting a place together for years. It was all set for October 1st 2010. I had plenty of money to last me 3 months or so. I figured I’d get a job at that point. I know I’ve written about this shit so many times but I need to update it for me and possibly you. Blah. Blah. Blah.

 

Shit. Fuck. Piss. When all other options were dwindling I tried to work. A good friend of mine at the time hooked me up with a phone collections job where he worked. It was straight commission. I have 10 years experience doing phone sales and I had high hopes for this job. I was excited. The guy hiring me interviewed me and hired me pretty fast but kept putting off the training date. A week before I was to start my Trigeminal Neuralgia (TN) came out of a 2-year remission. It affected me pretty badly and my Bipolar disorder and anxiety were back in full force. I over slept on my second day of training. I tried calling several times to save my job to no avail. My friend that got me the job told me to just come in person. I was in pain and depression and fear. I lost the job. It was then that I realized that maybe I am unable to work.  Blah blah blah.

 

Piss. Shit. Fuck. It was around this time my adopted mom suggested I pursue the wonderful world of Social Security Disability. She was the last person I know that would support me going on SSD. She has never thought that I was incapable of working. She saw the change. She even read up on Trigeminal Neuralgia and Bipolar disorder. Several acquaintances also suggested I try to apply for SSD. On even had an agency that handles everything for you for a percentage of the retro disability reimbursement called Allsup. I called and started the process back in February 2011. It’s now nearing the end of August and I’m still getting letters and now doctors appointments with their doctors. Blah blah blah. Shit

 

This shit. This piss. This fucking piss shit waiting period could last forever. I have another appointment with a neurologist and then I’m told it will take another month to process and make a decision. I’m kind of happy I get to see the doctors and they can see for themselves what a mess I can be. Blah. After a month my SSD case can go several ways. The best scenario is I get accepted, Allsup takes their cut of my retro pay and I get a check just big enough to pay back the people I borrowed money from, catch up on my immediate bills and then get my barely comfortable monthly check. Blah blah. Or I get rejected and Allsup will fight the rejection and it starts all over again and can take another 3 -6 months or more. Shit. Blah.

 

Fuck, shit piss. The other option is that my case will be moved into another level of evaluation whatever the fuck that means and it will be a few more months of waiting. Then there may be another level of waiting. Waiting. Blah. Fucking blah… My unemployment may be running out in November and if there is no decision by then I am more fucked then I feel like I am now. Blah. Blah blah.

 

Shit. Piss. Fuck. I have had enough. I have never been so broke. I have never had to ask friends and family and friends like this before. My depression, anxiety and face pain are at the extreme. Despite this fact I go numb with denial and escape and want to run, hide (if I could move) or take some deluded yet creative and possibly successful drastic moves. Blahhhhh

 

Bills piling. Shit. If something doesn’t change I could be carless, homeless and broke in even more major debt than ever. Piss. Helpless? Hopeless. I’m not sure. All I know is that I had enough. Enough.

 

Not sure where I will go from here to deal with this shit. All I know is that something has to be done soon before my life is complete udder piss. I have to fuck things up somehow in a different direction. Fly my own . ..blah blah blah… etc…

 

Must win or die trying.

 

 


Livin’ the Dre .a . . uh . . . Cliche

June 21, 2011

I sit once again in the comforts of the coffee shop in Collingswood, NJ. I’ve always liked this place. The décor and the music. The owners are great. The workers are great. There’s always an interesting mix of customers. Some I know and most I don’t know. This may become a new hobby of mine: hanging at the Groove Ground in Collingswood. Writing. Drinking coffee.  Living the dream. Living the cliché.

 

I always thought that the people sitting on their computers typing away at a coffee shop were douche bags. Hey look at me. I’m a writer.

 

Yesterday it was slow and casual in here and I had odd conversations with truly weird people. The good kind. The ones that aren’t phony or pretentious just off the wall naturally. I like misfits that are real. In a progressive town like Collingswood it’s hard to separate real people from posers. Down to earth interesting people versus fake pretentious “hipsters”. They do what they think is cool because their little crowd are into it. They are usually the ones that see me reading John Fantte and know who he is. They make comments on my John Waters or William S Burroughs T-shirts. They fool me at first.

 

I assume because they like what I like then they might be cool. Unfortunately I am into a lot the “hipster” culture. I like the things I like because I like it, ya know? I get into a movie or a writer from someone I know that says “Hey Rich. Check out this (fill in the blank) if you like (fill in the blank). I usually end up liking it. I used to dream about hanging out with people with common interests. It was always the hipsters. I tried and saw how annoying and fake these people are. The more I immersed myself in the culture the more I disliked the people and could spot one a mile away.

 

I guess I’m judgmental but who gives a fuck?

So today the Groove Ground was crowded and loud when I walked in and nowhere to sit. I was ok with that because there were seats outside and I could smoke and drink coffee and write at the same time. I bought my drink and found a seat and settled in. The crowd dispersed. As some of then left I noticed their styles were similar to mine. Same glasses. Same hat that I wore yesterday. When I looked at each one I thought “douche!”.  At least I’m not wearing leather sandals like this “douche” “hipster” standing next to me right now.

 

Fuck it. I’m over it already. Just wanted to write about it.

 

My life is still moving along with or without them.

 

I might be living the cliché but I’m also living the dream. My dream, my thoughts, my life. Me.

 

Maybe I’m the cliché douche judgmental pretentious self righteous hipster. Ya know what? Right now I don’t care. It gave me something to write about for the day, right?

EDITOR’S (that’s me) NOTE: I got a better look at the guy with the hat and realized I knew him and he is a pretty cool guy and not a hipster. I guess my Hipstdar isn’t on all of the time. My Gaydar still works for what it’s worth.


I Lost a Day

February 3, 2011

I lost a day. An entire day went by and I missed it. I slept 24 hour straight. I don’t remember the last time I did this if ever. It makes sense because the past few weeks I’ve been having days and nights of no sleep at all. My body is changing and changing. My mind is sharp at times and then dull as a board as they say. Whoever they are. I went to bed Tuesday night. Actually it was Wednesday morning at 4:30 am, which used to be the average time to go to bed. I woke up 3 time between then and 4:30 am today, Thursday. Each time I woke up I couldn’t stay awake. I feel ok now. I am not going to fret over missing a day of life but I acknowledge that it happened.

I’m adjusting to life in my new mental and physical condition. Sometimes I am able to fight it and other times I have to surrender to it. I never know when the depression, mania, anxiety or my face pain from the Trigeminal Neuralgia (TN) is going to act up. It seems I’ve been suffering from one or another every single day for months. Some of my conditions worsen with age and I am getting older. Nothing I have has a cure. All I can do is band-aid it and try to move on. I move on.

There are some things I should be doing and hopefully I’ll get to them. I know should quit smoking, cut my caffeine, exercise and eat better. I need to see the doctor more often. In time I’m sure these things are going to happen for health or financial reasons.

I’m over the fact that I missed a day but it kind of blew my mind at first. The concept of losing a day is baffling. I’m a short term Rip Van Winkle. My beard and hair is growing and I am a little unbalanced about what day it is sometimes. I’ll get over it or used to it. Maybe it will go away.

I have to wake up, whatever time that is, and accept what I am for the day whether that is. What I mean is accept the downs and the ups and the pain or whatever the above-mentioned disorders I have for the day. So far I’m doing an ok job accepting myself as is and changing what I can for the day. For today.


Excerpt From the Novel Yellow Socks- Elvis, Hazel & Me

November 2, 2010

Click the pic to buy the novel or click here.

Elvis, Hazel and Me

 

The sign out front said Therapy. Therapy. Yeah. That’s exactly what I needed. I had to ring a bell at the second door. It was locked. I heard the woman’s broken English say ” Hode on, hunee.”. There was a peephole so she could see me. As the door opened my heart was racing. You never know what’s on the other side of the door. Especially at a place like this. I’ve only heard rumors about what goes on here. Now I was ready to find out. Even if I wasn’t ready I was about to find out.

 

The door opened and this cute little Korean girl with glasses stood there smiling. She had a slim but round face and the glasses magnified her pretty skewed charcoal eyes. She was about five foot two inches or so and wore tan shorts and a loose fitting top. Nothing real sexy or revealing. She grabbed me by my arm. I only knew she was Korean because I was told later. I have trouble differentiating some Asians based on looks. I can tell a Japanese or Chinese usually but not always. A Vietnamese girl I once worked with told me that it’s hard for Asians to tell each other because a lot of them are mixed. The girl with the glasses made me follow her down a long hallway and to a room. The room was dimly lit and had a twin bed with a blue and pink floral design on the comforter. There was a nightstand next to it with a lamp, body lotion and a radio. The walls were empty except for a giant mirror next to the bed. No paintings or anything. There were three hooks on the wall to hang a coat.

 

“Take offa you close. Sum one be back.” she said and left me there alone.

 

I sat on the edge of the bed and took off my shirt first. I hung it up on the hook. It was my favorite Misfits tee shirt. Next I took off my pants. Hung them up. I stuffed my socks in my sneakers and left them on the floor under the hooks. I looked at my fat belly in the mirror then I shifted focus onto my new tattoo. It was a picture of Elvis and it said “The King” underneath of it. It was on my right arm just above my 4″ scar that wraps around my bicep.

 

I was hoping that the girl with the glasses would be coming back. I was still a little nervous. I’d been to one of these places once before. I was drinking back then so I didn’t remember anything except that I was there. The alcohol took the edge off of me back then.

 

The door opened. I was startled. It wasn’t the girl with the glasses. It was an older Korean woman in her mid forties. She stood a little taller than the other girl. Her face wasn’t the prettiest I’ve ever seen but she wasn’t ugly. Her somber eyes were possessed with sadness despite the forced smile she wore more out of habit then sincerity. Her cheeks were round and her eyes were wrinkled. Long black hair found its way to the middle of her back. Her tits looked healthy through her tacky Fredericks of Hollywood sheer lace camisole that went down to cover her pudgy belly just touching her matching black lace panties. Her legs were chubby but still nice to look at. She wore black heels that she could barely walk on. Well, she was better looking than any Therapist I’ve ever seen.

 

“What you name? My name is Hee- Jung. You call me Hazel.” she said.

 

“My name is Pete.”

 

“Pete?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You been heel befo? ”

 

“No.”

 

“Okay. You give $60.00 for masharge and showerr. Pay now. Then we go.”

 

I gave her the money. She left the room. I waited again staring at myself in the mirror. I always look at myself in the mirror. If I am in a good mood I like looking in the mirror. If I am in a bad mood I tear myself apart looking for everything wrong with my body and face. I was in a good mood. Hazel, huh?

 

She came back and handed me a white towel to wear. It smelled fresh and clean. I wrapped it around my waist and followed her into another room. It was a huge shower. The floor was covered in white tiles with a drain in the middle of the floor. There was a table that looked like the one at my doctor’s office but without the incline option. It was flat and had a vinyl cover. There was a large container filled with water. It had a hose inside it to fill it up like a little kids swimming pool. Hazel took the towel off of me and motioned for me to lie down on my stomach. She placed a small soft plastic pillow under my head. I positioned my head towards her so I could see what she was doing and also to check her out.

 

Hazel took a plastic bowel and scooped out some of the water in the large vat like container and poured hot water on my body. My body stiffened to shock of the heat.

 

“Too hot?” she asked.

 

“It’s ok.” I said.

 

I got used to it. Hazel took a soapy sponge and washed me down like you would give a dog a bath or like a nurse when you are in the hospital. She was very stiff and methodic at first. She scrubbed my back. My arms. My legs. Then she spread my legs and washed my legs and balls. I’ve never had my asshole washed before. I’ve felt nothing in my life to compare it to. I think I liked it. I got a little excited so I must have.

 

“Turn over.” She told me.

 

I lay on my back and she was less clinical with her approach. Her touch felt good even though it was with a sponge. As she washed my arm she noticed my tattoo.

 

“That Ervis Plesrey?”

 

“Yes. The King.”

 

“You Rook Rike Ervis.”

 

“Thang you. Thang you very mudge” I did my best Elvis impersonation.

 

She grabbed my dick and washed it. It was getting a hard on.

“You Rung rike Ervis Too.” she said.

 

She finished up washing my feet and it tickled. I cringed and laughed.

 

“You tickrish?”

 

I nodded and she told me to stand up. As she dried me off she started talking a little more.

 

“You got wife?”

 

“No. I just got divorced.”

 

A melancholy look took over her face when she heard me say this.

 

“Me too. I just get divolced. He no good. He reft me.”

 

“I’m sorry.” I said.

 

Hazel led me into another room. It was the steam room. It was wall-to-wall oak in this little room. There was a wooden table about three feet wide and maybe six feet long long. I barely fit on it. She left me alone for about seven minutes. There were magazines to read. Mostly porno and chick magazines like Cosmo and Vogue. I looked through an issue of Vogue and a copy of Jugs. It put me in the mood for a massage. I thought about jerking off right there but decided it best if I didn’t.

 

Hazel popped her head in and grabbed my hand to pull me out of the steam room. She held my arm like I was her man as we headed back to the room I started in. I wondered if she went through my wallet or stole my money. She took the towel off of me when we got to the room. She put more towels down on the bed and told me to lie down on my stomach. I did. I always do what women tell me especially the ones who are about to give me a massage.

 

“You want dlink befole I stalt?” she asked.

 

“Uhh. No thanks.”

 

“It ok if I dlink a rittle bit?”

 

“Sure.”

 

She reached under the nightstand and pulled out a bottle of Jim Beam and poured herself a glass. She took a big gulp and put the glass down. She turned on the radio. It played some mellow shit I recognized but didn’t know who it was.

 

“You leady?” she asked.

 

“Yeah.”

 

She started a regular back massage. She started at my neck and worked every muscle down to my toes. I never knew how good a foot massage could be. I’ve given so many foot massages but rarely received them.

 

“You want me tly a new massage I just reln?” Hazel aked me.

 

“Sure. Yes I do.”

 

She stood on my back and walked up and down cracking my bones. I thought of Lucy Lui in the Charlie’s Angels movie walking on the bad guy Tim Curry. I thought about how sexy Lucy Lui’s feet were. Especially compared to Hazel’s chubby toes. It was painful and relaxing at the same time. I didn’t know whether to scream or moan. I moaned.

 

“Ok. Tuln over. I do the flont now. ” she told me.

 

Luckily she just massaged my front with her hands. Her touch was comforting and relaxing. I wanted her to massage everything. Everything. But good things come to those who wait, right? I waited. She took a few breaks to drink some more whiskey. My body felt like it was going to sink into the bed I was so relaxed.

 

“Ok. Arr done.” she said.

 

Finished? What do you mean finished? I didn’t get my happy ending. I was uncomfortable about asking but I did anyway.

 

“You forgot to massage my ..” I said and pointed to my dick.

 

“Ohh. That extra. ” she smiled.

 

“Fine. Whatever.”

 

She reached over to the night stand and pulled out some lotion. She pumped the lotion in her hand and then took a firm hold of me. This was the happy ending I’ve heard so much about. I must say I was happy. Then she stopped and got more lotion. She put more than enough and worked it around her finger. What was she up to? Oh fuck.

 

“OWW!!” I screamed as she poked her finger up my ass deep. Too deep at first.

 

“You no Rike?”

 

“No.”

 

“Give it a minute.”

 

She was right. After about a minute it wasn’t so bad. It was good. I was happy again. All’s well that ends well. I finished. Hazel poured another drink.

 

“Can I ray down with you?”

 

She turned the radio off and cuddled up next to me.

 

“I so ronery.” she said.

 

She started singing I Can’t Help Falling In Love With You.

 

“You sing with me, Ervis, ok?”

 

We sang together. We cried together. I looked into her wet brown eyes as she sang to me.

 

“… only furs lush in. I can’t herp farring in rove with you.”

 

Loneliness brought me to her. Loneliness brought her to this job. Loneliness kept us bonded as we lay there together crying from our lost loves.

 

After another half hour Hazel helped me get dressed. As she was finishing tying my sneakers she looked up at me like she was really sad for me to go.

 

“Do you want to get married?” I asked her with semi sincerity.

 

“No, I wan you to reave and nevel come back.” she said as she opened the front door.

 

She stood on her toes to kiss me. I gave her my lips.

 

“I Rove you. Don’t come back.”

 

I walked out of there feeling so much better and so much worse.

 


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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