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Brand New Bag
May. 14th, 2002 11:54 amTelephone Conversation:
Romie: Happy Mother's Day and 28th wedding anniversary and so forth.
Mom: Thank you. Sentiment might have been better if you'd been the one to call me instead of vice versa.
R: You're lucky I even know what month this is, let alone what day -- and I only know that because I got a threatening postcard from Dad's folks saying "and you better remember their anniversary."
M: Yeah, it's not like I got you anything for graduation.
R: Yes you did. You got me alcohol and a really cool mask; you're just not aware of it yet. Anyway, I called you two days ago, so in a sense you're just copycatting.
M: I always strive to emulate you, dear.
R: Besides, you already know everything that's going on with me, as per the conversation of two days ago.
D: I was not present for said conversation.
R: Damn. I didn't realize you were on the phone.
D: Whereas in fact I am.
R: I see that now. Hear, rather.
D: There, daughter.
R: "Rather," not "father."
D: Rather not what?
R: Never mind.
D: How goes the --
R: I would like to state unequivically that there is no way I can become financially independent in the short run, which I am defining as the time before my apartment lease ends, due to certain fixed inputs.
M: (finding this hysterically funny) When in your life have you ever been financially independent, dear?
R: Well, I thought you said that --
M: We were just fucking with you. We don't actually expect you to become financially independent.
R: (murderous yell) You bastards! I'm hanging up the phone and driving to Massachusetts to kick you into next Tuesday! You fucking assholes! Do you know how stressed out I was?
Mom and Dad: (laughter. a sound that might be a hi-five.)
Dad: So. Job hunting?
R: Well, I'm auditioning for a lot of stuff and applying for grants and sending things in for publication.
M: Whatever happened to the plan where you get a job that makes a lot of money and use it to support your friends so that they will have a patron and will be freed to go around being artistic? I liked that plan. It was very noble.
R: My friends pointed out to me that it seemed kind of backwards since I was more artistic than they and hate dealing with money.
M: Oh.
The plan to which my mother alludes was a plan which I maintained for at least six years of my life. Effectively, I looked at my friends who were all poor artist types. I looked at my academic record and my patented ability for making money when I want to. I decided the best course of action was to found an artists' colony, so that at least someone could live the dream. This explains a lot of how I was swayed into going to college.
Of course, in the intervening years the majority of my friends sold out and I realized that my going into a corporate career would be tantamount to my committing spiritual suicide. I twirled the chessboard and rewrote the contract so that the party of the first part switched with the party of the second part. Otherwise, the plan remained constant.
While we were waiting for the new plan to be notarized by The Powers That Be, Chad and I talked about my willingness to mooch off people (in the sense of crashing on their sofas), in opposition to his own fierce fiscal lonerism. Part of my lack of guilt comes from my earlier willingness to exist on the other side of the plan, and the investment of a third of my life toward this end. Part of it has to do with the fact that if I ever do make an absurd amount of money, I intend to give it to my friends so as to perpetuate my ability to mooch off them.
A lot of it has to do with my incredibly egotistical concept that I'm a specialized form of live entertainment and paying for my company is no less insulting to either party than buying a movie ticket is.
"So basically," said Chad, "you're a house bard."
This label is ingenious. It rewrites The Parents' assertion that I was born to be a courtesan (in the entertainer/behind the scenes political mover sense) in a way that is more practical to the modern world. It also gives a strong internal logic to The Romie Exception whereby I am automatically welcome at any event.
My, my. I have a job title. Let the world rattle in fear.
Romie: Happy Mother's Day and 28th wedding anniversary and so forth.
Mom: Thank you. Sentiment might have been better if you'd been the one to call me instead of vice versa.
R: You're lucky I even know what month this is, let alone what day -- and I only know that because I got a threatening postcard from Dad's folks saying "and you better remember their anniversary."
M: Yeah, it's not like I got you anything for graduation.
R: Yes you did. You got me alcohol and a really cool mask; you're just not aware of it yet. Anyway, I called you two days ago, so in a sense you're just copycatting.
M: I always strive to emulate you, dear.
R: Besides, you already know everything that's going on with me, as per the conversation of two days ago.
D: I was not present for said conversation.
R: Damn. I didn't realize you were on the phone.
D: Whereas in fact I am.
R: I see that now. Hear, rather.
D: There, daughter.
R: "Rather," not "father."
D: Rather not what?
R: Never mind.
D: How goes the --
R: I would like to state unequivically that there is no way I can become financially independent in the short run, which I am defining as the time before my apartment lease ends, due to certain fixed inputs.
M: (finding this hysterically funny) When in your life have you ever been financially independent, dear?
R: Well, I thought you said that --
M: We were just fucking with you. We don't actually expect you to become financially independent.
R: (murderous yell) You bastards! I'm hanging up the phone and driving to Massachusetts to kick you into next Tuesday! You fucking assholes! Do you know how stressed out I was?
Mom and Dad: (laughter. a sound that might be a hi-five.)
Dad: So. Job hunting?
R: Well, I'm auditioning for a lot of stuff and applying for grants and sending things in for publication.
M: Whatever happened to the plan where you get a job that makes a lot of money and use it to support your friends so that they will have a patron and will be freed to go around being artistic? I liked that plan. It was very noble.
R: My friends pointed out to me that it seemed kind of backwards since I was more artistic than they and hate dealing with money.
M: Oh.
The plan to which my mother alludes was a plan which I maintained for at least six years of my life. Effectively, I looked at my friends who were all poor artist types. I looked at my academic record and my patented ability for making money when I want to. I decided the best course of action was to found an artists' colony, so that at least someone could live the dream. This explains a lot of how I was swayed into going to college.
Of course, in the intervening years the majority of my friends sold out and I realized that my going into a corporate career would be tantamount to my committing spiritual suicide. I twirled the chessboard and rewrote the contract so that the party of the first part switched with the party of the second part. Otherwise, the plan remained constant.
While we were waiting for the new plan to be notarized by The Powers That Be, Chad and I talked about my willingness to mooch off people (in the sense of crashing on their sofas), in opposition to his own fierce fiscal lonerism. Part of my lack of guilt comes from my earlier willingness to exist on the other side of the plan, and the investment of a third of my life toward this end. Part of it has to do with the fact that if I ever do make an absurd amount of money, I intend to give it to my friends so as to perpetuate my ability to mooch off them.
A lot of it has to do with my incredibly egotistical concept that I'm a specialized form of live entertainment and paying for my company is no less insulting to either party than buying a movie ticket is.
"So basically," said Chad, "you're a house bard."
This label is ingenious. It rewrites The Parents' assertion that I was born to be a courtesan (in the entertainer/behind the scenes political mover sense) in a way that is more practical to the modern world. It also gives a strong internal logic to The Romie Exception whereby I am automatically welcome at any event.
My, my. I have a job title. Let the world rattle in fear.
