Sounds Good, Big Guy!

It’s time to put an end to the bullshit. It’s gone on far too long, and I’ve had enough. I realize I may not be the most memorable person, not one to make a lasting impression, devoid of major disfigurements or a unique stench to help you recall my name (“Hmmm, club foot – shrunken ear – smells like burnt hair and marmalade – this must be Tim. 'Hi Tim!'”), but did you really need to call me “Big Guy”? Let's dispense with this charade and admit you can’t remember my name although we’ve met twice, I had dinner at your house, and I’m pretty sure you were lying when you told me your favorite baseball team was the Kansas City Seahawks.

Let’s recount, shall we? I was leaving the supermarket on a Sunday morning, and yes, you clearly were on your way home from church. I could see the smug self-satisfaction on your face along with a smidge of communion wine on your chin, and as I waved hello, you looked at me, hesitated and said, “There’s the big guy!” and kept right on walking into the store. I might've been OK with “Hey guy!” or “What’s up, buddy?,” the two standard dammit-I-should-know-your-name-you-short-bastard salutations, but you had to add insult to ignorance by calling me “Big Guy.” I guess if I were a big guy, such a comment would be mildly reassuring, but I’m as tall as Danny Devito and buy my clothes in the Husky Boys section of Lord and Taylor, so you should've said something along the lines of, "Hello little person - I recognize your face and small yet stout physique, as if Billy Barty's been dabbling with Human Growth Hormone, but I can't remember your name, my wee friend." But no, you had to go for “Big Guy.”

I bet you’re the kind of person who likes to say, “God love ya!” too. I’m sure you're always prefacing nasty, pointed references with that greeting. Things like, “Pal, God love ya, but you’re as dumb as a box of hammers.” Let’s stop pretending your semi-religious disclaimer in front of phrases like, “But I wouldn’t hire you to baby-sit my hamster,” or “But I could make a cable-knit sweater from your back hair,” really makes a difference. Telling me God does love me just before explaining how my bad breath could cause renal failure does me nor you any good.

You just can’t wait to say things like, “Don’t get me wrong,” can you? “Don’t get me wrong –I love crystal meth and porn just as much as the next guy, but I’ve got to get back to choir practice,” may sound rational, but please, stop this insanity and get some help.

And your emails? I wouldn’t be surprised if your co-workers get dozens of responses from you with just two words – “Sounds good!” Sounds good? What sounds good about the four-page email I just spent an hour writing to you about why my career is falling apart and how I think I’ve stolen enough Post-Its and staplers to open my own office supply kiosk at the flea market? You didn't even read it, did you? Were you so busy playing with your pencil fort that you figured “Sounds Good” would be enough to let me continue my downward spiral into career-ending turpitude while you whistled your day away? Be a man and send a response that cuts to the chase. Give me a simpler two-word response - “Up Yours.” “Up Yours” accomplishes the same sentiment, letting everyone know exactly where we stand with you, guy.

So, to summarize, next time we see each other, look me dead in the eye, take a deep, cleansing breath, and say, “Hey Tubby! I should remember who you are but don’t, so Up Yours!” Give me a huge, genuine smile and never break stride. After that, I think we could be friends.

Britney, Fame Like Ours is Toxic

Dear Britney -

This fame thing’s a bitch, huh? I know how you feel. It can tear a person apart, that’s for sure. One minute you’re writing a few hundred words for the local newspaper about fanny packs, and the next minute your well-shorn hoo-haw is out and about for the whole world to see. Let’s be real, Britney. We both love the attention, the fame, the celebrity, but it comes at a price. Selling 417 books out of the trunk of my 2003 Honda is full of glamour, but there's a dark side to it. That hollow feeling – whether you’re dropping off three copies for consignment sales at The Book Nook, or you’re getting slapped with a restraining order from your ex with the cookie duster mustache, leaving you alone and angry, smashing his car windshield with an umbrella – we both live it every day. I mean it's freaky how similar our lives have become.
It’s the emptiness that stings. You don’t miss those nights on arena stages, staring into thousands of adoring faces, their eyes looking right through you. Just like that night I had at the Toadstool, when I arrived to read a few essays and sign books. Looking out at the empty chairs they’d set up for me, watching people avoid eye contact for fear of acknowledging me, alone and dejected next to a stack of unsold books, I felt the same way you did. People just don’t know us like we know ourselves.
And even though blowing off steam at exclusive clubs without any underwear can be fun, the next day we're back to the juggernaut of fame, trying our best not to get crushed. I guess I'm lucky, in a way. When I shaved my head, I begged someone to take my picture so I could prove I'd done it. It's been a wee bit different for you- but basically the same. I looked like a naked mole rat, just like you. I looked kinda sad after it was over, just like you. We're connected on so many levels it's crazy, even toxic.
And the addictions? It's the worst part, isn't it? If I eat one more caramel bullseye or another packet of Suzy Q's, I swear I'll be dead. Granted, it's not expensive booze or high-quality weed that the father of my children left in the other baby bag from before all this went down, but it's basically the same. We need what's bad for us because we're searching for what's good for us.
And everyone hassled us for having a few cocktails a few days after our kid was born, didn't they! They all wanted to know why you weren't busy being a parent. Ditto for me, sister. Ten days after my son was born, I went to a wedding, and wouldn't you know it, some lady got all in my face on the flight home just because I needed her barf bag too. I didn’t appreciate her smirk as she handed it over, asking me, "I wonder who's getting up with the baby tonight." Babies having babies – ain’t that the truth.
And the back and forth from rehab? Been there - done that. True, it wasn't really rehab. It was more like 6th grade swim team practice, but I never even put on my suit, hiding in the phone booth, crying on the phone with my mom until she agreed to stop laughing and pick me up. You were totally afraid to bare your soul to the other addicts just like I was afraid to bare my belly as my Grimace rolls cascaded over my Speedo. It's no picnic letting others see us for who we are, I know, I know.
And the breasts? Everyone talks and talks about them, don't they? A few years ago, I left my house to go for a jog when this paparazzi - well, actually, he was a nine-year old kid just getting off the school bus, but he practically pounced on me and said, in a real obnoxious way, "Hey, you got big boobies - where'd you get them boobies? You got boobies like a girl!" The he started pointing at me, screaming, "Girl! Girl! You're a girl!" So when millions of people wonder if your boobies are real and how they defied gravity that time on the MTV Video Awards when you gyrated around in green leather and spandex with an enormous boa constrictor coiled around your sweaty neck, I could totally identify. At least deep down, we each know God gave us our boobies and wants us to be proud of them.
So do what I do. The next time people ask you when your next book is coming out or your next CD is ready for release, just put on your sunglasses, stroke your hairless head and remember that these troubles are temporary, but fame is forever. So call me when you get out of rehab. We’ve got lots to share.