What would Fatboy do?

Fat Jesus: Turns water into chocolate shake

Fatboy is always telling me to go easy on myself. And cigarettes. And coke. He's also the only person in the world who has consistently and blindly held onto the notion that there is some amount- however small- of goodness in me. Anyway, because Fatboy is always chanting self-help platitudes around my person - "you gotta learn to forgive yourself, man" or "dude, if you must cut yourself, at least use a blade that's not all rusty!"- I'm always looking for ways to prove him wrong. I mean I've managed to wriggle free of 29 years-worth of pent up expectations of everyone that matters- family, friends, lovers- burnt every bridge possible and walked away in spectacular slow-mo with the flames licking the sky behind me, only to find that my best friend still has faith in me. Clearly, I haven't done a very good job of the only thing I've been repeatedly assured I have a natural talent for.

So when Fatboy came over the other day, out of sorts and clearly in need of bro-time, I decided to put a little theory of mine to test. My theory is a vague conviction that Fatboy only thinks I can forgive myself because he can. Other than not showing up to a movie on time (or forgetting about it altogether), Fatboy and I have had few occasions to disagree. We're both self-loathing, egoistic, lonely man-children; we're so good together it amazes me that we haven't given it a shot in bed (we've certainly been fucked up often enough to not know an arsehole from a nail clipper). So if I were to do something that Fatboy couldn't forgive, went my line of reasoning, it'd be unlikely he'd keep insisting that I learn to love myself or pleasure myself to the psychedelic sounds of the Humpback Whale or whatever.

I started as soon as Fatboy sat down with his beer.
"Coaster dude," I said.
"Kosher?"
"No,use a coaster," I said, "What is this, a hotel?"
Fatboy shrugged and deposited his beer on a copy of RSJ magazine he found under the sofa. My heart nearly broke. This must be what Abraham felt like, I thought. "So what's up," I said.
"It's just Kristy, man," he said, "she has me all confused."
Kristy was Fatboy's new girlfriend and his longest relationship to date, clocking in at a solid three and a half weeks and several hours of sexting.
"Oh it's the ex again, isn't it?" I said.

Kristy had a clingy ex. He was only clingy to the extent that Kristy seemed to cling right back at whatever sordid little relationship they were in for many many more years than either Fatboy or I were in any position to offer any woman, but we unanimously agreed that it was his fault. Usually.

"What is it with you and exes, dude?" I found myself saying, "you're a hypocrite, you know that? You want 'em to dress and talk like Courtney Love but if they're anything more than a Zooey Deschanel in bed, you panic. And you immediately assume it makes the ex some kind of sex-God."
"Ok first of all," said Fatboy, "that's you. Secondly, you're way too old for that many pop culture references in the space of nineteen-odd words. And thirdly, it's not the ex."
"I've said this before," I replied, "and I'll say it again: There's NO such thing as nineteen-odd. Nineteen is odd."
"Ok fine," he said, "it is the ex. But it's not what you think."
"See, if you had said twenty-odd, that would have made sense."
"You know I'm always stalking him on Facebook. And Twitter. The dude has a Pinterest, but that was too low, even for me," he paused, "Anyway, I see all these pictures of them when they were together, you know, hosting parties and traveling and having conversations and watching fucking dolphins somewhere, and it's clear I can never be that guy."
"And you rightly feel intimidated," I nodded, "well, he is rich."
"Well no," he said, "I was thinking to myself that I'd really like to have all that stuff they had, you know? And it's clear none of those things are really in my skill set, so I asked myself: well, how can I have that? Anyway, long story short, I think I'm kind of attracted to him."

"OK what?" I said, "Dude, I was kidding. He's a douchebag. I've seen him put people in a coma deeper in a coma. He drains the life out of every single conversation he's involved in. They call him the coma patient-whisperer."
"I just think maybe I'd rather be shown a good time than be pressurized to put one on for somebody."
"That's great, but you're NOT gay!"
"I could be gay."
"Look, no, you're gay if you're gay. You can't just switch sides because your girlfriend can drink you under the table and doesn't cry watching the Golden Globes."
"Hey, Michael Douglas is an inspiration," he started, "anyway, I just think I should give it a shot."

This was my opportunity. Stick it in. Twist it. Make him bleed.  
"They'll smoke you out, man," I said, "it's all pastels and salads out there. And besides, if one of us was going to be gay, it'd have to be me. I'm the face of this thing we have going. Gay people are all about the face, man. You'd just end up as some banker's booty call."
"Jesus, how do you sleep at night?" he said.
It's finally happened. He's broken now. I'm sorry, Fatboy. It had to be done.
"Quite comfortably, thank you," I managed, "And if you'd just given up on me when you should have..."
"No, turn around man," he said, "that's actually Jesus, right behind you."

So I turned around, and what do you know, there's ol' JC, large as life, and not Caucasian in the least.
"Oh, so you've decided you're not too good for my little corner of the world, have you?" I asked.
Jesus shrugged. "Fatboy needed me", he said.
I turned around again and sure enough, Fatboy lay spread-eagled on the couch, out like a light and snoring up a gentle storm.
"He just needs a little nap," said Jesus, "he'll wake up with no recollection of this evening and the two of you boys will be just fine."
"He won't remember?" I was furious, "do you know how hard it was for me to go all Old Testament on him?"
Jesus smiled, and helped himself to a sip of Fatboy's beer. "And you take it easy on yourself, young man," was all he would say.

Riding In Cars With Boys

Few things intimidate me like the sight of a blank page. That probably sounds like the kind of thing you'd expect a writer to say. But that's not the sort of thing I'm talking about: I'm literally terrified of blank pages. I keep thinking they'll rise up from the spines of books and the backs of type writers and computer screens and swallow me whole or suffocate me to death. Kind of like a scary, literate and reluctant-to-show-it, Casper.

This means I scribble incessantly and compulsively on any blank sheet within my reach. That sounds rather grand but it doesn't have to be anything legible or even meaningful- an X or a pair of boobs will do. I go looking for canvas-of-life metaphors and deeper significance but my sister- who's a good 7 years older than I am, and quite the success story- narrowed it down to a more obvious (some might say "vicious"- ha, you've just been incepted!) possibility recently. She said- and I quote- "you've been babied by too many grown-ass women all your life. Go play with somebody half your age.".  

On the face of it, this may just be a little sibling rivalry at work (though best of friends we are) based on the Mothership's well-documented partiality towards me. Or maybe it was my trail of broken relationships- wonderful, kind, women who figured out sooner or later that they deserved better- and how badly I'd been dealing with my latest heartbreak. It may also have been the fact that it was 9 AM on a Sunday. I'd just dropped in at her's after a night out with some old friends, and was badly in need of coffee. She, on the other hand, had been up since 6, had brushed, showered and packed off the niblings to Abacus classes, prepared breakfast for the clan, and was getting dressed to go to church. The implication was clear: I needed to grow up and do a little babying of my own. Or maybe it was finding a doodle of our childhood Ambassador car -replete with big round headlights, and the registration plate- on Page 1 of a 145-page report she shad typed up over the weekend on "Why Grown Men Don't Grow The Fuck Up and Leave Home". I kid. The report was on something far less serious, something to do with intellectual property law. Unfortunately, the drawing had left an imprint on at least the next 60-odd pages.

"I'm sorry, Chech," I say, "I'll get it printed out again."
"It's not about the damn print outs," she tells me, "it's everything. This thing you're doing. You want more sugar?"
"No," I say, and gratefully accept the mug of coffee she offers. Tastes like home. And hangover.
"Look Chech," I try another tact, "why don't you head out, go to church if you must, and a movie or a spa or something after, and I'll pick up the kids and make sure things go smoothly here, what say?"
"Make this about me and I'll hang you by your toes," she says.
She's got her back to me but I can tell she's smiling.
"The kids finish at 10," she says, as I kick back on the couch and wave goodbye.

"GET OUT!"
"GET THE- go to your room- GET THE FUCK OUT OF MY HOUSE!"
Oh God, it's real. This is no nightmare, I've done something terrible. Again.
I wake up to see the niblings march their patented walk of reluctance to their rooms. They get in, leave their doors open just a tad, and settle in to watch. Further north of my eyeline is a familiar pair of hands on hips, and further up, a Very Pissed Off Chech. Scratch what I said about blank pages earlier; nothing intimidates me more than Very Pissed Off Chech.

"One thing," she says, "I didn't even ask you; you offered to pick up the kids. You couldn't do that for me."
"I passed out," I say, "I was exhausted. I'm sorry."
"Yeah well I'm sure sorry would have worked just fine if they'd been kidnapped too!"
"But they haven't been..." I stop, "I'm sorry. I'll leave."
As shameful as it is, this is an old trick. Offer to leave when I screw up, and she'd ask me to stay. Upsets the momentum of her fury.
"And don't come back till you've learnt to be responsible," she says, "I won't let you let my kids down too."

Sis safely fuming in her room, the niblings quietly make their way towards me.
"Hey guys," I say, "We were just playing a little joke."
"I'm ten next May," says my niece, "I can tell when a joke's not funny anymore."
I look up from tying my laces, and give her a hug.
"You stink," she tells me, "but don't go."
"I'm just going to give her some time," I say, "Sorry I didn't pick you guys up."
"It's ok," she says and goes back to her room.

"Hey buddy," I turn to my nephew and offer him a high five, "you've been a bit of a brat, haven't you?"
"I'm sorry," he says, and the severity of his apology, the solemnity of his voice, makes me want to kill whoever deemed it inappropriate to doodle on corporate documents.
"Hey, you draw pretty well," I tell him, "just not on anybody else's stuff ok?"
"Yeah," he promises, "I didn't realize."
"I know," I give him a stinky hug, "where'd you get the registration number? Nice detail on the front end too, great job."
"Mom's always talking about how Grandpa used to take you on roadtrips as kids," he says, "we just get driven to school."
"Hey, I had to walk to school," I tell him, "and we used to fight non-stop on those trips. And those trips only happened coz our Grandpa lived far away. We'd drive down to spend Christmas with him. You got your Grandpa right in your city!"
"I wish our whole family lived in different countries!" he declares, "except maybe you."
"Me too, Nephew," I say, "Get your shoes on. Let's go get you some drawing pencils."

   

Coffee and Cigarettes. And PMS.

I knew this wouldn't end well when you suggested meeting at Gloria Jeans. I mean seriously, when's the last time we met up at a coffeeshop? Is that even normal? I heard the rumours- just like everybody else- but I've tried my best to remain unaffected. You're my bro, my oldest friend, and I'm not going to buy into the nonsense that has been doing the rounds about you. I'm here and waiting, and you're ten minutes late and you won't answer your phone, but I'm counting on you to show up and tell me the coffeeshop thing was a joke and take us to some crazy new bar you've discovered and end the night scoring eckies off some random in the Red Light District or some such. Rock out with our cocks out, etc. Don't let me down, broheim.

You're wearing a pink shirt. You tell me it's not pink, that it's salmon, that the 'l' in salmon is silent because it originates from the French 'saumon'. I just want to have a drink. I want you to shave off that ridiculous hipster beard, and ditch the man-bag, and insist the barista top up our cappuccinos with a sprinkling of Ketamine. I want to go back in time to an age when you would never use the word 'sprinkling'. It'll have to wait. Because you want to wait for your girlfriend, whom you're so excited for me to meet. So she's Frankenstein. I don't like her already.

She's not unattractive. She's actually quite nice. She's interested in my novel, she reels off football stats like a pro, and chases her espresso with a smoke and pokes indulgently at your nicotine patch. I think I like her a little bit, but then I notice you're wearing suede loafers. Did she do this to you? Does she do your shopping now? Would you like me to take her out, Liam Neeson-style? I've got your back, bro. Just say the words.

She's going to the loo. And she's taking your man-bag with her. So it's her bag. I'm sorry I'm such a superficial bastard but I'm so glad it's her's. So glad, that I'm going to ignore the fact that you lug around your girlfriend's bag. Holy fuck, you have a new tattoo. I love that you didn't post pictures of it on Facebook or show it off to me the moment you walked in. That's the cool motherfucker I used to know. I wish your tattoo weren't of a Puerto Riccan Parrot, though. I get that it's an endangered species, but I don't know if a tattoo of it on your neck is going to help them live long and prosper.      

Fuck, my stomach is cramping up again. Fuuuucccccck. Fucking fuckitty motherfucking fuckbiscuit. FUCK. Oh great, now my nipples are sore. I knew I shouldn't have worn my stupid polyester Chelsea jersey. God, it chaffs so bad. Who thought making replica football jerseys for scrawny men with all the upper body strength of an 8-year old was a good idea? Why the fuck did I ever think buying it was a good idea? I'm so susceptible to male wish-fulfillment. I'm every advertiser's dream consumer. God, men can be so stupid sometimes.

She wants to go to Totos for a drink. It's just past one in the afternoon. What a couple of alcoholics. I just want some chocolate. All I want is to sit around at home in my boxers, order that pork thing with the black bean sauce from that Chinese take-out place, and watch that Sandra Bullock movie I've been saving for just this kind of day. But I'm never going to tell anybody that. Unless my stomach starts cramping again. Oh fuck, it's cramping again. I hope a bus runs me over the moment we step out.

"Dude, you look like you're going to pass out. You ok?", you want to know.
"Oh, finally you noticed?" I find myself saying, and realize immediately how mean that sounds.
"What? You don't like her or something?", you whisper, though she's in the loo again.
"I'm sorry man, it's just... that time of the month again," I say. And die a little inside.
"What time?", you say.
"You know, that time. The whole... menstrual thing." Why do men always pretend like they don't know? 
"But you're a dude", you say, as if the universe really is that cut and dry.
"It's my girlfriend, man. She's getting her thing. I'm getting them sympathy-cramps. You know."

You're silent. You're doing that thing men do. Please don't do that thing, we're bros. I stood guard while you took a drunken shit on your ex-girlfriend's car when you found out she was cheating on you. Don't do this to me.

"Did you just say sympathy cramps?"
"Oh for fuck's sake, don't go on like you don't know. Everybody gets them."
"You get cramps when your girlfriend's PMS-ing?"
"Yes. Everybody does."
"No they don't."
"Yes, they do. It's a thing."
"It's not a thing. But do you need meds or something?"
"I don't needs meds, alright? Who even says 'meds'? Why can't you just say 'medicine' like normal people? God, I can't even stand to look at you. Why are you wearing a fucking pink shirt?"
"It's salmon."
"It's not. It's PINK."
"Whatever, man."
"I'm sorry. You make it work. Salmon is good on you."
"Really? Lisa picked it up for me. I wasn't too sure about it."
"It's beautiful. It really brings out your eyes. I love you, man. I'm sorry."
"It's alright, bro. Just don't mention the sympathy-cramps things around her, ok? I don't get those."
"Yeah, sure you don't. Ooh, cupcakes! You want one?"  

Drinking games and crazy pussy

"Pussy"? That's just  like, derogatory, man. 

Meeting old acquaintances is always awkward. Especially when they think they have the skinny on you by virtue of the ol' alumni grapevine.

"So thanks for having me over, man, but you really didn't have to do this. I live like ten minutes from the bar we were at. As I kept telling you."
"Let's make a night of it. You can hold your drink, can't you?"
"Aren't you working tomorrow?"
"Nothing I can't handle. This is me being mellow, dude. I've seen some dark shit."
"That's good to know."
"Nothing you haven't seen, right? I heard about your thing, man."
"Yeah, well, people exaggerate."
"Dude, I get it. I told you, dude. I was in a band, man. Things happen when you're in a band."
"I'm sure. Yeah."
"Didn't you notice the posters?"
"Yeah, I figured you're a music person. I've never seen anybody do this before though."
"Do what?"
"You know, the thing, these posters..."
"They're all me."
"Yeah, I know. I mean they're not actually you, are they? You've just cut and pasted your head over James Hetfield's face."
"What? No, that's me on stage. With my band."
"I can see Lars Ulrich drumming away right behind you."
"I don't know what you're talking about. That's Andre, my drummer."
"Right."
"So what kind of thing do you write?"
"Oh, words, mostly. Are you sure you want another drink?"
"How many times must I tell you man? This is cool. We're cool. How's the pussy scene?"
"I'm sorry?"
"Chicks. How're the ladies?"
"What, in general?"
"No, for you, man. Do you get a lot of crazy pussy?"
"I can't say I've noticed any mental illnesses, no."
"I've been getting crazy pussy, man. Not like in the band days. But, oh yeah."
"I'm sure they enjoy it as much as you do."
"You bet they do. I can't even keep score anymore. There was Anjali, Angela, Amaravati..."
"Are you actually naming women you've slept with? Is that what you're doing right now?"
"Shut up, you fat bastard. Barbara, Bindu, Bryoni..."
"Did you just call me a fat bastard? Are you going alphabetically?"
"Cathy, Crazy Cathy, Wet Cathy.."
"Of course. As opposed to her more common cousin, Dry Cathy."
"Seriously, shut the fuck up you fat asshole. Deborah, Diana, Tall Diana, no wait, that didn't happen.."
"Look, can I please go home now? I think I might be a little exhausted. With life."
"Elizabeth, Esther, Eczema..."
"Is this like counting sheep for you? Is this how you go to sleep?"
"Fat Frances, Funny Frances. I'm sorry I called you fat, man."
"It's not the most factually inaccurate thing you've said tonight. Can I leave now?"
"Yeah, I think you should. I'm sorry things didn't work out between us."
"Yeah, me too. It's not you. I'm weird around lists."
"Bye, dude."
"Yup. Bye, man."

                       Icy Highs's Video Recco: "Yeah! - The James Hetfield Compilation."

Why men will be boys

Like Newton and the apple, sometimes it takes a thump on the head to make you realize that you are after all -despite all efforts to ensure it does not happen, again -forever falling. Unlike Newton, my own epiphany happened in the aftermath of a bar brawl. The actual sequence of events is unclear in my mind, coated as they were with generous helpings of whiskey and weed. I do remember it was set off by my reversing into an Opel Corsa in the parking lot. I remember the almost silent crunch of a headlight cracking, the security guard gesturing wildly, the owner of the car cursing loudly.

They were in a big group - two cars and six middle-aged men, out for a night of banter and excess. I had stayed back till closing time in a desperate bid to hold on to a few more moments of solitude before the inevitable cacophony of parents and toddlers and news channels and telephones re-claimed ownership of my existence. Unfortunately, I had picked an unlikely setting for such a noble pursuit.

Men who drink only to get drunk, if granted the opportunity, will indulge in acts of incivility. If they're in a group, they will go looking for trouble. The sight of a younger man -smaller, well-dressed and harbinger of fender-benders - is about as irresistible to them as procasturbation is to unpublished writers. I didn't just back into the gentleman's car last night; I had rear-ended their collective masculinity. And collective rear-ending will always have consequences.

Bloody lip, three stitches to the back of the head and a police-complaint (filed by them, funnily enough) later, I can only think of the incident in terms of a general 21st century affliction - the "manchild". While Todd Phillips and Judd Apatow may well be responsible for making the phenomenon an accepted 'type' of our times, the concept itself is no stranger to popular culture dating from Joey Tribbiani and Kurt Cobain all the way back to Adolph Hitler, Sigmund  Freud and Epicurus in varying degrees.

The archetypal man-child is of course Jesus Christ: the son of "God" who turned water into wine, was never gainfully employed, befriended prostitutes, hung out with low-lives (whom he actively encouraged to quit their Mcjobs and stick it to the Man) and lived with his mother till he took off on a 'mission' to spread the Word- all classic symptoms of what we now know and love as the Mid-life Crisis.

What, I wonder, makes middle-aged men sport soul patches and flashy tee-shirts and shout racist chants at football games and incite drunken violence at Oasis concerts when they should be home with their women and children. Is it the white picket fence and warm meals that put them off growing up? Why do bearded, thirty-year-odd men spend large chunks of their lives playing videogames and surfing pornography? Is a world with traffic laws and pubic hair really that appalling?

I say this not in judgment, but because I'm faced with a similar crisis myself. At twenty-seven, I'm still clinging to fast-fading memories of student-life and freedom and lack of purpose. I find it impossible to distinguish between fact and fiction, youth and adulthood, to leave things behind. The realities of work and settling down and tax returns are just a little too real.

Sitting on the curb last night, sweaty, bloody and hung-over, I thought I caught a glimpse in their eyes of what it might be like to grow up. The celebratory air of a fight well-fought, the childish delight at having avenged the tarnishing of a favorite toy,  the joy of giving in to the feral demands of their domesticated bodies. They glowed with the satisfaction of a dog that has been let out for a walk and a piss in the open after a long day of confinement between the walls of its owner's home.

And in that moment, I knew. I knew what it must be like to be chained, to be tied down by marital and familial constraints and commitments. I almost felt a pride swell up inside me that I was in a small way responsible for their release, no matter how temporary. And I smiled as I watched the leader of the pack rub his shin where I had managed to land a weak kick just before the blows rained down on me.