Tuesday, November 19, 2013


Today was the day of the selfie at work — partly because the Oxford Dictionaries editors named it the word of the year, but mostly because we're egotistical bastards who like to camp and vamp in front of the camera. Evidence of said vanity insanity can be found here, and I make no apologies for any of it, not even the fact that most of the people I work with are good-looking humans, and I am me. It's actually a great deal for all involved; I get to hang around pretty (and pretty talented) people, and they look better when paired in a pose with me, the same way stars look even more glamorous with their personal assistants in tow. Hey, anything for the talent. I was born to make other people look good and feel hot.

I did notice one thing about today's selfies: in every pose I look like I'm going through the motions. Line 'em up, snap the pics — there they are, all bright eyed and alive, and there I am, dead-eyed and dreary.

"I can't agree that your eyes look dead," Marjorie said. "Weary, yes. Wary, sure. But there's still a spark in there. Especially in the one where you're licking that lady's head."

Maybe I'm just too serious and cynical. Pair me with someone like Moloney, or these two goofballs, and there's no doubt who's the life of the party. Spencer and Daniel, the aforementioned goofballs, think they'd like me to hang with them at Dublin's Pass, but they also think I'm kidding around when I tell them how consistently terrified I am of life, how every fucking day is a battle and it takes most of my strength just to get through it with a snarl and a rattle of the cage bars as the people around me laugh and say oh that's just rondavis, what a character he is. They don't see that I'd love to be accepted as me — not a character, not a curmudgeon, not an iconoclast — just me, a quiet guy who avoids crowds because they make me uncomfortable and uncertain and tongue-tied. A guy who wishes to find a like-minded weird soul to relish life with, but the more I look and learn the more I become increasingly sure that this is what the rest of my life will be like — solitary and too often sad, wearier and more wary. Too wary to let myself tend to whatever spark is still glowing behind my eyes. But fuck, I'm not going to settle for someone just because I'm lonely and want to romp. I may be a libertine but I have high standards. I'd rather be alone than be with someone because it's convenient or easy. I know what will put the fire back in my eyes.

I go outside and pick up two fistfuls of fallen leaves, throw them high in the air to gin up some enthusiasm for the day. The wind catches the leaves and blows them into the face of the person taking my picture. My Mary Tyler Moore moment is a bust. Fuck it. I still tell myself I'm going to make it after all. I am, right? Right?


Anonymous said...

To find the weirdness you have to not be alone. In my life I have always found that the weirdness sought me out, but only while in certain company. Fuck, man, nobody's asking you to turn water into wine. What is it to 'make it' anyway? Don't worry tho, we should have a Clubhouse to celebrate all this weirdness in sooner than later. I'll see to that. You just have to promise to be there, too. You will find that there are many more just like you and I. Talented, tongue-tied, etc, heads in asses and so on. ."reality is the only word in the language that should always be used in quotes" Is making a new, weird reality the same thing as 'making it'? Maybe?

Anonymous said...

There are MANY among you just like you. Those that can see it in your face and your eyes, and TOTALLY understand the feeling of it all. Constantly bewilderedly searching, yet NEVER giving in to others ideas of contentment. Continuing on through the pain and the tears knowing that somewhere inside it is all "OK".