Commentary
Self-pitying the Muse
by David Ortmann
Tonight is a cold and lonely autumn in San Francisco. I am twenty-eight years old and feel like I'm going on five thousand and four. At least my existential misery can demand, and love, the company.
It's Friday night after one of those days when I wonder what the fuck I am doing on this earth. At least on the way home tonight, some guy smiled at me, which I consider a miracle because my hair is long and I look like a cross between Leonardo Di Caprio in Titanic just before he sinks into the bloody Atlantic and Animal from The Muppet Show.
I just made my own dinner-boiled fish with boiled vegetables. I could say it's macrobiotic, but it's just poverty. and laziness. Isn't that pathetic? I should have just eaten Cold Spaghettios out of a can, like the primate I am. The apartment is empty. My roommate Katy just took off wearing the hippest outfit ever garnered from a thrift store with her boyfriend Jonas on her arm. Jonas is so handsome it should seriously be considered a crime. Next to him, I look like an old garden hose. Old Hosy, that's me.
The other roommate, Nabeel, is driving out to Modesto tonight and all I can think is that I hope the terrorists don't blow up whatever bridge leads to wherever the hell Modesto is. Seriously, even our pet turtle has plans tonight. He's drinking a Martini on the back porch as I write this. Meanwhile, I haven't had a date since Monica Lewinsky blew the president. Actually, that's not true, but I am feeling self-indulgent so the hell with the truth.
I know could go out and find some temporary affection tonight, and it might actually be good. Sex is easier to get in San Francisco than MUNI. But, the last time I went out in search of sex, I came home with crabs. I remember being so grateful for their company that I named them. Fred, Michael, Harry, T-bone and Shiquita.
It doesn't help, of course, that the man I love lives in Boston, which is as far away from California as you can get and still be in the same goddamned country. My therapist would say I am getting involved with someone unavailable because it's safe. He would say that, except he probably knows I'd bitch-slap him from here to Kabul.
God forbid I fall in love! God forbid I am feeling a tad self-indulgent! God forbid I am getting too Jewish for words. I am not Jewish, which is a continual source of rancor for me, but I aspire, damn it!
The phone just rang. It was "Latisha" from American Express offering me a disability insurance plan worth 1.5 million dollars if I become disabled within the next year. I asked her if the policy covers mental health disability, which I think I am fast on my way to. She put me on hold to talk to her supervisor. She came back on and told me that no, in fact, a mental disability is not covered unless the result of an accident. Since I was born this fucked up, I asked her if birth was considered an accident and she actually put me on hold to talk to her supervisor again!
"No, sir." She said returning. "Birth is not considered a viable accident by American Express; but would you like to hear about the policy's other benefits?
I told her no, and said I was very busy with my writing. She asked me what I was writing.
"My will." I said.
"Well good luck with it honey." She chipped merrily and hung up. I thought at least American Express would react to my self-created drama. I owe them more money than I'll ever see this year. If I kill myself, they're fucked and in some sick way, this pleases me.
I may go out with my friend Danny tonight. He's on the verge of jumping off the Trans-America Pyramid too, so maybe we'll be good for each other. Danny's almost as big a loser as I am. He's in some two-year dysfunctional relationship with some Paleolithic closet case from Ohio or Idaho or somewhere flat. Evidently old Flatly made more money than God during the dot.com boom, but just can't seem to admit he's gay. You've got to see this guy to wonder just who he thinks he's kidding. He walks like Carol fucking Channing, which is not a bad thing at all, as long as you can own it. (And do it well).
So Danny and I might be the perfect company for each other tonight, late-twenty-something geezers going on ninety, wandering down Castro Street, complaining that the fog looks better in London. not that we'll be getting there anytime soon in this economy. We'll grumble, stumble, whack happy-looking people with our canes, and marvel at the process wherein genuine heartbreaking misery can transform into something other, something, almost, camp.
Good Lord. Have we no standards left?