"We are all of us obliged, if we are to make reality endurable, to nurse a few little follies in ourselves." -- Proust

I don't know why I include this little quote, except that I read it tonight at the gym and liked it. I intend to include some passages from the volume of Proust that I'm reading now, as every time I sit to read Proust I think to myself, wow, that was a wonder passage. But they are longish, all of them, and I don't want to type tonight. So I offer you just that little aphorism tonight.

What I did think I'd include is a scrap of fiction I started a few years ago and recently came across on the file system of my hard drive. I think it must have been an attempt at a new "style" or something. I'm not sure where I was going with this, though I have my ideas based upon the notes to myself at the end (which I've discreetly removed). It run into trouble when it begins to read like a cheap Penthouse Forum letter, but it might be saved from that and made into something, if I were inclined, which, of course. I'm not.

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Twyla and I make a really good couple...at least that's what I think. I remember when we met, people were saying, "You two really stand out ." At first I thought they were making fun of the way Twyla dressed. My friends can be real jerks sometimes. I mean, yeah, she likes to wear lots of jewelry and stuff. So what? When James got his nipple pierced, did I say anything? James and his stupid skater mentality--all the green fatigues, bullshit, and reefers. He's 29, for christ's sake..... But then Jean said one time in one of our heart-to hearts that she thought we were good together. I think Jean likes Twyla for some reason, like they're both spiritual outcasts of the feminine world or something. Or it could just be that, like everyone else, she thinks Twyla is always secretly waving at her. I mean, Twyla is always wearing all of those damned bracelets and things. Seems like hundreds, but probably not. She's always got her wrists cocked upward to keep them from falling off. It looks like she's some sort of penguin or something. Sometimes she looks as if she's waving at you, if she turns her head to you just right..... But Twyla's not really that friendly.

One time Twyla and I were walking to a Red Apple a few blocks from my apartment. She had her hand in my back pocket, which I always liked. She was going on about something and I wasn't paying much attention. But when I looked up, I saw this guy who looked really familiar to me, pumping gas into an old green hatch-back compact of some sort. I stopped for just a second to look back at his face again and then walked inside, trying to think of how I knew him. Then it hit me--it was Russell Sorensen from my high school days. Russell was one of those shy, nerdy guys who didn't have much going for him....not a bright kid. Always wore pants that were entirely too short for him. His hair was always really greasy, and he had a disturbing fascination with guns, swastikas, and the para-military. But I liked him. I always wondered what a boy like that does as an adult. So there he was.

After Twyla paid for her wind-up bubble gum and quart of orange juice and we headed back outside as he was coming in to pay. "Hey, Russell?" I asked. He looked up and after a slight hesitation, grinned and said, "Robert Parker?" I grabbed his hand and shook it, both of us grinning like idiots. It was good to see him for some reason. But Twyla didn't even stop. She headed for the curb and sat down, as if to say "Go ahead. I'll wait here until this little thing has passed." I couldn't even introduce her properly. It pissed me off a little. That was when I realized... Twyla is not very friendly.

Yesterday I was at work talking to Jean about her plans for the holiday weekend. Jean's been with the company forever, and I love talking to her. We've been friends ever since I started. She's in her early 50s, I think--dresses in the most unflattering combinations of lycra-based pants and men's flannel shirts, even in the summer. She's got the most enormous set of monster hips you'll ever see, though barring those, she might be rather well-figured. She has one of those figures which was probably once good but has since gone terribly wrong. In her white trash, hick southern accent, which I adore, she was telling me about her camping trip last year with her daughter, Julie and some of her other family. Julie....Julie. Julie is a complete knock-out beauty. A brunette with long hair, a perfect face, and the most delicious body I've ever seen. Each time I've seen her she's been wearing some sort of a sports outfit with a sports bra showing the most gorgeous set of breasts--perfect, full, but not large, nipples poking out nicely. A girl with those breasts could command any guy. Funny thing is, I imagine that's what Jean looked like 30 years ago, before things whet so wrong. Now, besides her mega hips, she has huge udders which even the flannel can't fully contain. I don't really know much about Julie except what I've seen of her when she comes in to work to pick up Jean. But she IS pretty hot.

Jean and Julie had gone to an old campgrounds they always go to near a small lake just a short drive north. The men had gone fishing early in the morning, leaving the women to enjoy a quiet day to themselves. About noon or so Julie puts on her bikini, spreads out a lawn chair in the sun, and lays down to work on her tan. From the very outset of the story Jean is snickering, can hardly contain herself, and I can't for the life of me think what's so damned funny, but I start laughing along with her. The camp site, she continues, was pretty secluded, covered by the small trees and brush, not much foot traffic, etc. "Ok, I got the point, it was isolated," I'm thinking as Jean's talking. So Julie is lying there and the rest of the women are talking, when Julie decides to take off her top--just takes it off. She wants to tan her boobs, as Jean put it so delicately . The rest of the women just laugh at her....no harm, since there's no one around but a few voices from the closest neighboring site. A little later, though she pulls down her bottom and rolls over to tan her ass. They tell her she's crazy, but still, what's the harm. But of course there is harm. Minutes later a frisbee flies right beside Julie's chair, with a teenage boy chasing after it. Before Julie can cover herself, there's the kid....stopped dead in his tracks, staring in disbelief at what he's seeing. Julie's embarrassed to death, and everyone else is hysterical with laughter. By the time Jean finishes the story I've got a giant boner and can't get the image of a naked Julie out of my mind. Twyla....if only she were more interested in sex.

My stupid kid brother Jeremy was telling me the other day about his boner theory of love. According to him, if you don't get a boner for your girlfriend at least once a day just thinking about her, she's a waste of your time. I don't give this test a lot of credence, though. I mean, what kid Jeremy's age isn't going to get a boner thinking about any girl, any time? He admits that, by his own theory, he's been in love with every girl he's ever dated. Jeremy's current girlfriend, Kara, is a very cool girl who seems to know how to handle Jeremy.

A few days ago I was over at my parents' place. I stop in occasionally to say hello and hang out. At 24, Jeremy still lives at home. Poor bastard. He has no plan....there's no plan, or at least that's what my Mom keeps saying. I'm not sure any kid ever has a plan, though. He'll leave when the opportunity presents itself, just like every other kid with a BFA from a mediocre midwestern liberal arts school. Jeremy and Kara seem to get along great, and that's amazing mostly because Jeremy can be such a difficult person sometimes. Actually, he's a great kid, happy, intelligent, still innocent in many ways. But he's still a kid...and he still hasn't grown out of the tendency to be a know-it-all. He's been like that ever since I can remember.

Anyway, as I walked into the recreation room where Jeremy and Kara were watching television, I immediately heard them arguing, or mostly Jeremy arguing and Kara just wishing the whole thing hadn't come up. Kara, slouched on the end of the sofa with her head turned away from Jeremy, eyes rolling in disbelief, says to me as I walk in, "Jason, tell your idiot brother that flax is made from a plant, not from an animal."

"What?" I ask--a normal reaction to what seems an absurd topic for dispute.

"Jeremy insists that flax is made from an animal. He's wrong, of course; everyone knows it comes from a plant, but he won't let it go." I see Jeremy gearing up for his defense, another protracted explanation of why this issue has become the cause célèbre that will split a 24-year old kid from his beautiful young girlfriend.

I look at Jeremy: "You've got to be joking? You're arguing over flax? Flax?"

"Just tell us who's right."

"You think I know the origins of flax? No. Just look it up, if it's so important."--the obvious solution.

"I tried but I couldn't find a dictionary. You think Twyla would know?"

Did I think Twyla would know? No, I didn't. And frankly, I was stunned that Jeremy would think she did. I didn't think he had a very high opinion of her intellectual abilities. Would confirmation from Twyla about the origins of flax satisfy him? Well, yes, he was hopeless when it came to arguing--any evidence, no matter how flimsy, to advance his position, was welcome. Still, I wasn't going to call Twyla.

"Jeremy, who cares? Forget about it."

But Kara had the final word.
[finish]

[add in bit about conversation gaps]

Yesterday James called me up to ask me if I'd help him move an old entertainment center cabinet out of his living room and into the bed of his pickup truck. James is a fanatic about music. He spends all his disposable cash--sometimes even his not-so-disposable cash--on cds. Apparently now he's moving onto hi-fi equipment, speakers, cd loaders, equalizers, whatever. I'm not sure where he's getting the money for this, but I didn't ask.
"Dude, can you come over? I thought I could do this myself, but when I attempted to make an attempt at it, I nearly broke my back. No way am I doing this alone."

"James, did you just say 'Attempt an attempt?'" I ask, knowing he's completely unaware of what he says most of the time. James spouts at the mouth...he spouts--an accurate description. Words flow from his mouth like an unordered parade of seemingly unrelated ideas, but when it's all said, meaning reveals itself somehow.

"What are you, my grammar instructor? You coming over or not?"

"Yeah, I'll be there."