This book is not concerned with the psychodynamics of the American nuclear family. It is neither a coming-of-age novel nor a love story. It is a self-portrait given over to a single subject and splintered into fifty-two pieces: I'm reading my life as if it were an allegory, an allegory about remoteness, and finding evidence wherever I can.
All the time I think about how I want Remote to be such a big hit that I'm invited onto talk shows to offer scintillating disquisitions upon that very camera which is now pointed directly at me …
“The attraction of inappropriate attention, aspiration, and affection to a shimmer spins out, in its operation, a little mist of energy which is rather like love, but trivial, rather like a sense of home, but apt to disappear. In this mist,” says George W.S. Trow, “exists the Aesthetic of the Hit.”
“My parents didn't preach against these things themselves but against wanting these things,” I hear a famous author say. “I didn't know how to get these things without wanting them.”
“I'm no longer just a person,” the famous author says on another occasion, feigning disgruntlement. “I'm a personality.”
I love all forms of taxonomy—lists, categories, compartments, containers, boundaries. When I went to the famous Amsterdam sex shops, I was struck mainly by the arrangement of movies and magazines into exceedingly minute subdivisions of pleasure and pain. I love doing errands, and what I especially love about doing errands is crossing things off my errand list. When making phone calls, running errands, or performing ablutions, I always begin with what seems to me the least personal item and conclude with what seems to me the most personal item.
I much prefer this new system whereby a computerized voice rather than the operator gives you the number you want. The sound of long-distance interference on the phone, or static on the car radio, is, to me, reassuring, sensuous, even beautiful. I'm happy to play phone-tag for weeks on end in order to avoid actually talking, let alone meeting, with someone. And yet if I walk past a ringing pay phone, I answer it; if I walk past a pay phone that's off the hook, I put the phone back on the receiver. I sometimes get so convinced that an answer I'm looking for—the answer to what I never know—can be found somewhere in the phone book that I'll spend the better portion of the afternoon flipping through the Yellow Pages.
The moment I walk in the house I turn on the TV, which I turn off when I go to sleep. The worst drunk I know—twelve-ounce tumblers of scotch at eight in the morning—leaves CNN on all night downstairs as a sort of lifeline in his sleep. (He's always talking about "black": black air is considered the ultimate sin; he can't tolerate black; "they went to black"; the famous six minutes of black—he's obsessed with black, afraid of it, secretly thrilled by its suggestion of depth.) I don't ordinarily drink coffee, but once, in order to stay up all night, I drank twelve cups in eight hours; the next morning, I walked into a Chec Medical Center and said, “Please, you've got to do something to turn my brain off.” When I'm nervous and need to calm down, I chew blank 3 x 5 cards like a woodchuck.
I once ate a half-gallon box of ice cream in a single sitting. Ditto a bag of sixty-four cookies. I know no purer joy than residence in the throes of sugar shock: the exact moment, just before you crash, when your brain turns off and you leave the planet. Before seeing friends I haven't seen for a long time, I go on a diet because I want people to think: he doesn't seem to seek solace in overeating; he must be happy and focused.
I know no purer joy than finding misplaced possessions. Once, immediately after the breakup of a relationship, I managed to lose my wallet, checkbook, and address book within the space of a week. I find that if I'm having trouble remembering something—the name of a movie, say, or a friend's phone number—I often inadvertently trigger memory by holding the item (such as a video guide or my address book) housing the information.
I prefer previews to the movie, the "about the author" notes in the back of literary magazines to the contents of the magazine, pre-game hype to the game. I strongly prefer reading newspapers or magazines I purchase at the newsstand to newspapers or magazines I subscribe to. If I'm reading a book and it seems truly interesting, I tend to start reading back to front in order not to be too deeply under the sway of forward progress.
Once, a movie marquee's misspelling of the word "nominations" irritated me so much that when the punkette in the booth outside expressed zero interest in my correction I bought a ticket for the movie, which I'd already seen, in order to be able to go inside and urge someone to do something about the error. On the other hand, in sixth grade I "liked" a girl named Connie Cummings; classmates wrote, in chalk on the playground, "DS + CC=Dog Shit + Cow Crap," which, to their surprise and perhaps Connie's as well, didn't bother me in the least: it seemed, simply, clever.
I have never seen my mother, whose maiden name was Hannah Bloom, happier than when she noticed that the New York Times crossword puzzle clue for 5-across was "Hard-hearted girl" and the clue for 7-across was "Claire of films." But my parents hoped so strongly that my sister and I would never "become part of the system" that they were honestly chagrined when, at age fifteen, I received my Social Security number, whereas my main response when I recently got audited by the IRS or saw my TRW credit report was a kind of relief that my existence could be confirmed by outside sources.
When I'm intending to jog and being watched, I pick up my pace and really run, but when no longer being watched, I go back to jogging. In conversation I feel little compunction about asking people extremely intimate questions but tend to balk when asked even the most moderately personal question myself. In social situations in which it would be to my disadvantage to appear heterosexual, I attempt to give the impression that it's not beyond my ken to be bisexual. At a Halloween party a few years ago, costumed as a pirate, I was flirting with a woman dressed as a lioness until she told me to take off my sunglasses, then said, “Oh, you're Jewish!”; my eyes were Jewish.
If a new song grabs my heart, I'll typically play it over and over again until it's completely robbed of all significance, beauty, and power. At a museum bookstore I bought dozens of postcards, none of which had any human figures on them, and the cashier said, “You know, you might be saying something here about yourself.” I was: I'm drawn to affectless people whose emptiness is a kind of frozen pond on which I excitedly skate.
I have a persistent yearning that I don't have to live, exactly, anywhere. When I lived for a couple of years in New York, I'd go out every night at eleven and come back with the next day's Times and a pint of ice cream, then eat the whole carton while reading the paper, which had the odd but, I suppose, desired effect of blotting out tomorrow before it had even happened. All my nightmares—an endless network of honeycombs, a thousand cracks in a desiccated lake, a set of rotten teeth—are specifically about uncontrolled proliferation. Two questions constantly occur to me: what would this look like filmed? what would the soundtrack be? I grew up on a very busy intersection, and to me aesthetic bliss was hearing the sound of brakes screeching, then waiting for the sound of the crash.
I've read every bumper sticker I've ever seen.
First things first.
You're only young once, but you can be immature forever. I may grow old, but I'll never grow up. Too fast to live, too young to die. Life's a beach.
Not all men are fools; some are single. 100% Single. I'm not playing hard to get; I am hard to get. I love being exactly who I am.
Heaven doesn't want me and Hell's afraid I'll take over. I'm the person your mother warned you about. Ex-girlfriend in trunk. Don't laugh; your girlfriend might be in here.
Girls wanted, all positions, will train. Playgirl on board. Party girl on board. Sexy blonde on board. Not all dumbs are blonde. Never underestimate the power of redheads. Yes, I am a movie star. 2QT4U. A4NQT. No ugly chicks. No fat chicks. I may be fat, but you're ugly and I can diet. Nobody is ugly after 2 a.m.
Party on board. Mass confusion on board. I brake for bong water. Jerk off and smoke up. Elvis died for your sins. Screw guilt. I'm Elvis; kiss me.
Ten-and-a-half inches on board. Built to last. You can't take it with you, but I'll let you hold it for awhile.
Be kind to animals--kiss a rugby player. Ballroom dancers do it with rhythm. Railroaders love to couple up. Roofers are always on top. Pilots slip it in.
Love sucks and then you die. Gravity's a lie; life sucks. Life's a bitch; you marry one, then you die. Life's a bitch and so am I. Beyond bitch.
Down on your knees, bitch. Sex is only dirty when you do it right. Liquor up front--poker in the rear. Smile; it's the second best thing you can do with your lips. I haven't had sex for so long I forget who gets tied up. I'm looking for love but will settle for sex. Bad boys have bad toys. Sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me. Live fast; love hard; die with your mask on.
So many men, so little time. Expensive but worth it. If you're rich, I'm single. Richer is better. Shopaholic on board. Born to shop. I'd rather be shopping at Nordstrom. Born to be pampered. A woman's place is the mall. When the going gets tough, the tough go shopping. Consume and die. He who dies with the most toys wins. She who dies with the most jewels wins. Die, yuppie scum.
This vehicle not purchased with drug money. Hugs are better than drugs.
You are loved.
Expectant mother on board. Baby on board. Family on board. I love my kids. Precious cargo on board. Are we having fun yet? Baby on fire. No child in car. Grandchild in back.
I fight poverty; I work. I owe, I owe, it's off to work I go. It sure makes the day long when you get to work on time. Money talks; mine only knows how to say goodbye. What do you mean I can't pay off my Visa with my Mastercard?
How's my driving? Call 1-800-545-8601. If this vehicle is being driven recklessly, please call 1-800-EAT-SHIT. Don't drink and drive—you might hit a bump and spill your drink.
My other car is a horse. Thoroughbreds always get there first. Horse lovers are stable people. My other car is a boat. My other car is a Rolls-Royce. My Mercedes is in the shop today. Unemployed? Hungry? Eat your foreign car. My other car is a 747. My ex-wife's car is a broom. My other car is a piece of shit, too. Do not wash--this car is undergoing a scientific dirt test. Don't laugh; it's paid for. If this car were a horse, I'd have to shoot it. If I go any faster, I'll burn out my hamsters. I may be slow, but I'm ahead of you. I also drive a Titleist. Pedal downhill.
Shit happens. I love your wife. Megashit happens. I'm single again. Wife and dog missing—reward for dog. The more people I meet, the more I like my cat. Nobody on board. Sober 'n' crazy. Do it sober. Drive smart; drive sober.
No more Mr. Nice Guy. Lost your cat? Try looking under my tires. I love my German shepherd. Never mind the dog—beware of owner. Don't fence me in. Don't tell me what kind of day to have. Don't tailgate or I'll flush. Eat shit and die. My kid beat up your honor student. Abort your inner child. I don't care who you are, what you're driving, who's on board, who you love, where you'd rather be, or what you'd rather be doing.
Not so close—I hardly know you. Watch my rear end, not hers. You hit it—you buy it. Hands off. No radio. No Condo/No MBA/No BMW. Don't steal; the government loves competition. You toucha my car—I breaka your face. Protected by Smith and Wesson. Warning: This car is protected by a large sheet of cardboard.
Luv2Hnt. Gun control is being able to hit your target. Hunters make better lovers—they go deeper into the bush—they shoot more often—and they eat what they shoot.
Yes, as a matter of fact, I do own the whole damn road. Get in, sit down, shut up, and hold on. I don't drive fast; I just fly low. If you don't like the way I drive, stay off the sidewalk. I'm polluting the atmosphere. Can't do 55.
I may be growing old, but I refuse to grow up. Get even: live long enough to become a problem to your kids. We're out spending our children's inheritance.
Life is pretty dry without a boat. I'd rather be sailing. A man's place is on his boat. Everyone must believe in something; I believe I'll go canoeing. Who cares!
Eat dessert first; life is uncertain. Why be normal?
Don't follow me; I'm lost, too. Wherever you are, be there. No matter where you go, there you are. Bloom where you are planted.
Easy does it. Keep it simple, stupid. I'm 4/Clean Air. Go fly a kite. No matter—never mind. UFOs are real. Of all the things I've lost, I miss my mind the most. I brake for unicorns.
Choose death.