Published at The Unbroken Journal (Issue 12) on January 1, 2017 (1 minute read)
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The Space and Slip Between Cup and Lip
True Love is rare…herpes sucks…part 2
The regular at my bar who has herpes on his genitals and is trying to find love visited a few days ago after a one month hiatus. When Joe arrived, he immediately told the bartender working that he wanted to speak to me, because I like to listen, so she called me on the phone while I was upstairs in the office slamming my head against a printer. Give me a minute, there’s blood everywhere, I’ll be right down.
Joe found a girl! Can you fucking believe it? Love! Intoxicating, enthralling, ethereal love! The clouds have cleared! The dawn is here! Get this man with a venereal disease a beer!
“But wait,” Joe said, “Something really bad happened this past weekend. I-”
“Hold your warts right there, cowboy. Start from the beginning.”
About a month ago, Joe was feeling depressed after a string of failed dates. The women he was meeting through his herpes website weren’t setting him on fire like the outbreaks on his crouch were 2-3 times a year. One night, a friend asked him if he wanted to go out to bars and meet women. “You know I can’t do that,” Joe replied. “I can only meet woman through the herpes website.”
“Then just be my wingman. I know you like to drink.”
“Okay, I guess.”
Joe went out with no intention of finding a woman. Isn’t that how it often happens? You go out just to have a good time and an eager person of the opposite sex just appears? Well, that’s exactly what happened. While at the bar, a cute blond, 22 years old, approached Joe and they began talking. Joe is a generically handsome guy. Despite being 32 he has a babyish face with baby blue eyes, slightly chiseled jaw, slight scruff, crew cut, tan, lean, and in shape. He has good genes in the appearance department, which is why I’ve asked him to set me up with his sister (I’ve seen pictures). This means he’s had numerous girls approach him in the past and initiate the courting process, something I can’t imagine. If a girl ever approaches me in bar, I’m gonna assume she’s playing a prank. Anyway, this new girl, Diana, took the reins. She had extra tickets to a comedy show nearby. Would Joe like to join her after this drink?
“Yes.”
Everything clicked. They had a swell time. The comedians were insulting everyone in the small theatre (it was a Monday night and there were only a few people in the audience) except Diana and Joe. “Look how happy and good looking this couple is, we can’t make fun of them!” said one comedian. “That guy is so handsome,” another flamboyant comedian added, “I bet you he has a big dick!” The world was conspiring on their behalf. They left the show holding hands and took an Uber back to Diana’s apartment…
Kiss in the Camry. Arrive at the apartment. The clothes come off. Oh no. Are they gonna fuck? Should Joe drop the herpes bomb now? What’s he gonna do?
While kissing, Diana pushes Joe back.
“I have to tell you something.”
“Yes?”
“I don’t want to have sex just yet.”
“That’s fine. I understand. But why?”
“I…I…was sexually assaulted a few weeks ago, and I don’t think I’m ready.”
“Okay.”
For the next three weeks they waited to have sex and went on many dates. They started to fall in love. They went apple picking, to the movies, to a Broadway show, barcade, an art museum, and the park. While telling me these things I told Joe,
“You were given a gift! A chance! A woman who wants to develop intimacy before sex! Before you have to drop the herpes bomb!”
“I know, but wait.” He showed me text messages. Diana was saying how she hadn’t felt like this with someone before. She couldn’t believe she liked him so much so fast. She was even fine with him having two kids, an ex wife, and a broken past! She accepted the fact that he had been in psychiatric hospital on suicide watch for a week and in rehab for alcohol for a month.”
“All of these dates and confessions happened in 3 weeks?” I asked.
“Yes. We did things practically every day. She’s in school and skipped classes.”
“How did you find the time to go on so many dates?”
“You know how I’m a chef in the coast guard now, right?”
“Yes.”
“Well, after training, they don’t really have anything for me to do at the moment. So I’m just getting paid to hang out and wait.
During these 3 weeks, Joe was also the perfect gentleman. He told me that he held doors open for her, frequently asked how she was, and even gave her flowers.
“No one’s ever given me flowers before,” she said.
I think some people, when dating, oscillate between extremes. Girls go back and forth between the asshole and the nice guy. Guys go back and forth between a bitch and a nice girl. Perhaps Diana, after the sexual assault, naturally gravitated towards Joe, someone on the other side of the kindness spectrum: a push-over, nice guy.
Then it happened: the night of sex. Diana told Joe that she was ready. He put on a condom and they…
“What!” I exclaimed. “You didn’t tell her that you had the herpes before sex?!”
“No, I-”
“You fucking idiot!”
“I know I know, but let me explain.”
“You had a chance, Joe. A chance!”
“But wait, I wore a condom and was very careful.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“My ex-wife and I had sex for A YEAR without a condom before she got it. I figured I could keep getting closer to Diana before I told her.”
That’s it: Joe got greedy. I’m guessing the heat of passion might have had something to do with it too.
“I’m sorry to say this, Joe, but you don’t have that luxury anymore. You gotta tell the girl BEFORE you have sex about your disease.”
“I know, you’re right. When I did tell Diana a few days later, she did exactly what you did, she blew up.”
“Rightfully so.”
“She said I betrayed her. That it was worse than the sexual assault. Even though I explained everything about my ex-wife.”
“Doesn’t matter.”
“She said she couldn’t trust me anymore. She scheduled a doctor’s appointment to get tested and said that she was feeling horrible anxiety before the appointment.”
“But you stayed in touch?”
“Yes. She said she still had feelings for me, but didn’t know what to do. Last Saturday she called me drunk and said that she still really liked me a lot. But that she needs time to think about it.”
“Hmmm. And that’s it?”
“No, so this past Monday I went to a hockey game, and she was there too.”
“You didn’t go with her?”
“No, she didn’t want to go with me after what happened. It was her favorite team and her friend had already purchased the tickets. But I had already bought 2 tickets for her and I as well. So I went with my roommate.”
“So while I’m there, Diana and I are texting. I’m also getting stupid drunk. I ask her where her seats are. At halftime, my roommate and I surprise her. But when I walk up to her, she immediately says,
‘Wow. This is creepy.’ We stand there not saying anything and it’s awkward. Then she says, ‘Don’t you think this is a little aggressive?’ I couldn’t believe it. I got pissed. She had called two nights before and said how much she liked me.”
“But she was drunk.”
“Yes, but we had been texting during the game.”
“So?”
“Anyway, I lost it. I told her we were finished. Done. No more.”
“Hmm.”
“But get this, while my roommate and I are leaving the stadium, we run into her again! I wasn’t even looking for her! And there she was! We practically bumped into each other.”
“What happened?”
“She basically told me to get away.” So my roommate and I continued walking. But I figured this run-in, this coincidence, was a sign. Like, our destiny or something. It was like the movies. So I ran back to her.”
“Oh Jesus.”
“Then she basically told me off again. She told me to just leave her alone.”
“And that’s where you both stand now?”
“No. It gets worse. You know how I almost killed myself after all the shit with my ex-wife?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I felt myself going into that dark place again. That night, after the hockey game, I started texting her some bad stuff. Basically hinting that I was going to kill myself. And my roommate was texting her similar things. Making her feel guilty.”
I sighed and shook my head . “C’mon Joe. That’s not right.”
“I know, I know, it was dumb. The next day I apologized. Here’s the last message she sent me.”
While reading this girl’s text essay, I realized what a detrimental thing a desire for pity can be in a burgeoning relationship. Joe was finished.
And this poor girl. First she was sexually assaulted, then she meets a promising man. Within a week, she discovers that the man has herpes, then he threatens to kill himself.
“What do you think I should I do now?” asked Joe. “You should do what Diana said in her text message,” I replied. “Wait. Let her see the test results. Let her sort it all out.”
Joe sighed. “I really screwed it all up, didn’t I?”
“You did.”
“Now I know to always tell a girl about my herpes before sex.”
“Yes. Now you know.”
“Do you think I’ll ever have a chance with a girl like that again?”
“Maybe.” I said.
For a moment, I was tempted to tell Joe a story about a woman I had started to fall in love with this past summer. It was the first time I felt the fire since my ex. She came to my bar with a black book of poems and sipped cider daintily from a straw. She lived on Staten Island and was a bartender in the city. She had been working in restaurants for the past ten years. She failed the math regents five times, had dyslexia, and was a die-hard fan of Joe Budden. I liked the freckles on the border her face and that she often cooked dinners for her mother who was battling cancer. We would ride the late-night ferry together. One night I fell asleep next to her, drooling a little bit on my dress shirt, inches from her shoulder, and had a ridiculous dream that she owned a bakery where she could sell her signature apple pie cookies. Twice, when I was going on a surprise visit to her bar, we coincidentally ran into each other in the terminal. It was like the movies. I’d sit down next to her, start reading my book, pretending like we were strangers, and wait until she noticed me and laughed. She had a great laugh. She’d drive me home occasionally and would always speed, whipping around the dark curves of the neighborhood streets, even though the love of her life died in a drunk driving accident when they were both 19, after they had been dating for 2 years. His name was tattooed on the back of her neck. I never asked her to come in to my apartment. Should I have asked her to come in to my apartment? I bought her two books and inscribed them. I couldn’t sleep at night for a week after we met and went through two notebooks filled with silly hopes and juvenile obsessions. But in my attempt to gradually develop intimacy, to take things slow, I believe I waited too long and came on too strong, clearly I came on too strong, and she had enough of my nervous, stuttering conversations, inadequate expressions, and moved on to someone else. I would probably have done the same. I was simultaneously too late and too much. It’s a mistake I plan on never making again. But I didn’t tell Joe because people are usually more interested to tell you their stories than to hear yours.
“Hey, quit daydreaming.” I blinked my eyes a few times, shook my head, and came back to reality. “Can I get another beer?” Joe asked.
“Yes,” I said. “You can.” I mechanically poured the beer from the tap, noticed that my hand was trembling, and placed the glass in front of him.
“And anymore advice, bartender?” I had already started walking back to the office.
“Live and learn.”
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Regular at Dive Bar with Habitual Chuckle May Be a Serial Killer or a Sweetheart
NEW YORK, NY – John Walter, a bartender at The Crass Slap for the past 10 years, has seen many patrons come and go. But one regular who has stood the test of time and caused much pause for thought is Robby, also know as Rob the Slob. Everyday at 6 o’clock Robby shuffles into the bar wearing layers of tattered, smelly coats, sits in the farthest seat, and orders two shots of whisky and a pint of lager. He doesn’t talk to anyone and he likes to smile. Whenever someone has attempted to initiate conversation he invariably begins nodding his head and chuckling. Sometimes, Rob the Slob will chuckle when a bartender says something funny, or if a waitress passes by and says, “How ya doin’ honey?” but often he will chuckle for no apparent reason. Members of the staff have given up trying to learn about his past and have various theories: “I think he has a pile of dead bodies in a freezer in his apartment,” said a haughty, single-mother waitress. “I think the love of his life died when he was a young man and he just hasn’t fully recovered,” said an aspiring actress. “I bet he used to be a drug lord, made a ton of money, dipped into his own stash too much, then became brain dead,” said the portly chef. “The bastard pays, so I don’t give a shit,” said the owner. But one thing the entire staff can agree upon is that, despite drooling on his coats and his unshaven and untidy appearance, Robby has never caused a disturbance, always says a gracious thank you when served, pushes his chair in carefully when he leaves, and tips very well. John Walter, when interviewed, said, “Sometimes I have nightmares of Robby chuckling over my sleeping body and murdering me in my sleep. Other times I imagine him running in front of a bus and risking his life to save a little girl. For the sake of my own sanity and well-being, I’m just gonna assume he’s more inclined to the latter.”
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Why you don’t actually want to hire a private butler named Adam Raul
An estimated 6.4 million children between the ages of 4 and 17
are currently diagnosed with ADHD. It is the most commonly studied and diagnosed mental disorder in children and adolescents.
As I type this, I can feel my concentration slipping. Noises have become intriguing, I feel a desire to look at my phone, and every time somebody walks by me in the library, I turn around seeing if it’s someone I know…and whether or not they know I have a debilitating, mental disorder. My private butler, Adam Raul, is on a particularly long bathroom break and my mind is started to fidget back into its natural, agitated state. My ADD is clawing its way out of the focus which Adam has been helping me with for the past 10 hours.
ADD is not all that its cranked up to be. I was diagnosed with it at the age of six, by a concerned yet suspiciously easy-going doctor. Yes, I was just like any other wild, unruly, energetic boy, perhaps a bit more so, but my parents wanted to do something to help me out rather than see me suffer, do poorly in school, and cry. So, they hired Adam Raul, a drifter in a third world country without any wealth or prospects, to follow me around all day and help me stay on track.
Sure, I’m lucky that my family cared enough about my life, gave me enough attention (perhaps mis-guided and a bit too much), and had enough money to hire a private butler, but at what cost to my own autonomy? Let me put this in context for you. You know when you’re in the library and there’s one really, really loud girl talking on her phone? You know who I’m talking about. How? You’ve either ignored her, told her talk more quietly, or moved away. Well, for me, I can’t stop listening to her. A part of me LIKES listening to her. I’ve been told I have this disease since I was six years old and I HAVE to listen to her. And for someone with ADHD, that is what everyone in the room is like because distractions are enticing, concentrating is hard, somebody like Adam can really help if he cups his hands over your ears, and the mind, based on environmental constraints, will travel the path of least resistance.
When you have ADD, it’s not just schoolwork you can’t focus on. You can’t focus on anything. Recently I tried watching a Alejandro G. Iranittu film, either Birdman or The Reverant, I can’t remember, and out of nowhere one of the main characters started flying. Halfway through I couldn’t concentrate. In my mind I thought, “This movie is stupid, it doesn’t make any sense, but some many critics really liked it, it won so many academy awards, it must make sense. What’s going on? I CAN’T CONCENTRATE!” At the time, Adam was in the kitchen stuffing his face with berries and cumquats like a rabid bear. When he came back in he reassured me that it was just Hollywood bullshit, that people are bored, and that art likes to show off with surreal moments to mask writing incompetence.” Phew.
What almost everyone doesn’t understand when they ask if they could borrow Adam for a couple of hours is that I need him to focus how you would normally. By “focus “normally” I mean, “perform equal or better than my peers in narrow academic settings.” When a typical person has Adam by their side they feel like they can solve the world’s problems because of his persistent encouragement. Adam Raul is an excellent cheerleader and a faithful sidekick. You can finish an entire project with him helping you in one night. You can cram for an entire test with his steady pats on the back. Adam Raul tells me I’m a superhero. You may borrow Adam and ask, “Is this how you feel all the time? Like you can do anything? Like you’re a superhero?” And, unfortunately, my answer is no. Adam has been calling me a superhero for years and I don’t care as much about his compliments, I’m used to it. I’ll never feel like a limitless mastermind because I was told I was a limitless mastermind at six years old when I could barely tie my shoes. When Adam is by my side, I feel like a normal human being. What a “normal human being” is and what I actually feel on the inside, nobody will ever know.
My brain works in two modes: when Adam is around and when he’s not. When Adam is leaning over my shoulder, I’m attentive, motivated, and energetic. When Adam is not around, I can barely get up the energy to clean my room or send an email. You ever feel like that? Sluggish, unmotivated, and incoherent? I bet you have, BUT NOT AS MUCH AS ME.
And it’s frustrating. I’m frustrated with my lack of drive, or at least my drive compared to more driven people. I’m frustrated that this is how my brain operates when Adam is not guiding me or herding me along. Scattered, spastic, and very, very unorganized. There’s nothing desirable about not being able to finish a sentence without the support of Adam being there. Actually, take that back, the pity and caring attention I have received in the past when I can’t finish a sentence feels pretty good. That’s at least better than complete neglect or being insulted when I can’t perform.
The worst thing you can say to someone with a private butler named Adam Raul is, “I think I should have a private butler named Adam Raul.” Having ADD isn’t a free pass to hire a private butler. You need a diagnosis, early family concern, a kidnapper, and money for that.
When the late night assignments and cramming for tests are over, and we’re all out in the real world, I’m still going to have Adam Raul by my side. Yes, a 2012 study in Germany found that, “Although ADHD causes impairment, particularly in modern society, many people diagnosed with ADHD have a good attention span for tasks they find interesting.” But the problem is that I don’t find everything in my life interesting. Doing the dishes and doing my laundry aren’t interesting tasks, so I have difficultly concentrating.
So you tell me you’re jealous that I have a 24/7 private butler? Don’t be. I’m jealous that you can drink a cup of coffee without a man shaking your shoulder and sobbing, “Please, I’m not actually a drifter! Let me go home to my family. This life is torture!” I’m jealous that the success of your day (whatever the hell that is) doesn’t depend on whether or not you have a cheerleader around. The idea of waking up and performing a full day without Adam by my side is foreign and fills me with terror.
Again, I repeat, in case you forgot, my brain works in two modes, and I don’t know which one is the right one. I don’t know which mode is the one that god or Kanye wants me to operate in. So before you say you want a private butler named Adam Raul, ask yourself if you need and want to operate in two modes. Ask yourself if you want to rely on another person to make your life work. If I had a choice, I would choose coffee like the rest of the world. But I’m not like the rest of world, remember? I’m sick and special.
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Report: Friend has been going by nickname for years when it is categorically different from his real name
New York, NY – Flabbergasted that it had never come up at any point in the five years of knowing each other Victoria Saya, 25, reported Wednesday that her close friend, Jack Kasnitch, has been going by a fake name this whole fucking time. “I remember thinking, wait a second, Jack’s real name is actually John? What the fuck?! That’s completely different. The two names only share one letter. What a lying sack of shit!” Saya was alerted to her friend’s deception while going through his wallet as a joke. Her discovery of his license, which revealed his true identity, sent her down a dizzying spiral of puzzling questions ranging from, “Why not just go by John? Are you telling me you’ve filled out thousands of documents ranging from applications to standardized tests with the name ‘John,’ when nobody even calls you that? Why didn’t your parents just name you Jack instead? It’s like I don’t even know you anymore.” John/Jack tried to explain that his parents had only named him John as a formality, but had planned to call him Jack for his entire life. Victoria couldn’t understand. “So wait, are you fucking telling me that almost every teacher and employer you’ve ever had has started calling you John, and that you’ve had to correct them each time? And that you don’t even respond or turn your head if someone says, ‘Hey John?'” “Yes.” “This doesn’t make any sense. What should I call you now?” “Jack.” “But that’s not what your birth certificate says! Why haven’t you changed it? I’m so confused. I don’t think we can be friends anymore. I don’t even know who you are.”
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An Open Letter to Anyone with a Facebook-like Addiction
Life is not easy. It’s not easy if you have a facebook, or even if, god forbid, you don’t have one. It’s all about evolution. The people who are popular on the internet are usually better than everyone else and have a better chance of survival. And survival isn’t about putting particular moments of your life online, it’s about putting every shred of experience that means anything at all to you on your public wall: marriage, food, trips, pets, babies, plans, selfies, art, complaints, witticisms, call for donations, political opinions, blog posts, sports observations, or jokes. And when these things are “liked” you subconsciously want to post more and more, until you can’t stop and it consumes your life. Could you survive without facebook likes? Could you make it through one day without your second cousin’s ex-girlfriend’s brother validating your pineapple fried rice with a click of a button?
As a person who has never been a severe facebook-like addict, I can only speak from that perspective. My insight into your world is only through cyber stalking. I do not wish to sit in your comfortable desk chair and post twenty pictures of my dog in an hour. But I can tell you what it’s like to sit in mine – living extended periods of my life without a facebook.
Everyday I have people ignoring things I do and not caring at all about my discoveries or accomplishments. It may seem selfish and narrow, but I believe that the center of one’s being and the best emotions and experiences in one’s life are incommunicable and inexpressible. Yes, I like cyber pats on the back and documentation of what I’ve seen and done. But these pleasurable pricks of validation and ceaseless capturing of what you observe can cover up bigger things like powerful, life-changing emotions, self-development, insights, real laughter, real tears, patience, discipline, and actually listening to the people you’re spending time with. That being said, I believe that the desire for validation is no different for a facebook-like addict or a non-addict.
Daily, there are people out there who don’t care about what you think, observe, or do: this includes your friends, bosses, spouses, girlfriends, and parents – that is just a part of life. Being ignored and feeling angry because you didn’t take a picture of a beautiful sunset is as much as a part of living as joy, happiness, love, and having such a good time you forget to look at your phone. Dying alone and having everything pass away with time is the same for an addict as it is for a non-addict. The difference is how we react to and cope with this loneliness and transitoriness, whether our coping mechanisms are good or bad. I don’t know what hundreds of facebook likes does for an addict to help cope with the void inside of all of us. I don’t know the bursting high of receiving more than a thousand likes on a picture or a video. But I do know that my life would be boring and unsatisfying if I was always concerned with what the internet thought of my new haircut or political stance.
I have no doubt from observing you that you hated every day you were spending hours on facebook. I can see how your life was out of control, spiraling into a pit of hurt, hashtags, and despair. You were so lost that when your best friend came to your pigsty of an apartment and said, “Hey man, want to go on an all-expenses paid trip through the Amazon jungle with my nymphomaniac hot old sister?” you replied,
“Will there be wifi or cell phone service?”
“Probably not.”
“Then no.”
I see your struggles without receiving facebook likes. More pain than joy. It’s a time in your life where the social scales aren’t balanced. You are working so hard to be a real person, when no one is there to react positively to your selfie in a mirror. There are so many confusions. What is the use, you may wonder? Do I even exist?
Being on facebook was the one place where you could craft your identity how you seemed fit. “I’m happy! I’m well-traveled! Look at me with friends! Look at the things I do!” It is a place that always accepted you. The life of facebook-likes you have known for just over a decade. That is the easy path to take.
But please know that the immediate pain and loneliness you will feel without facebook likes, now, will eventually fade.
Just as when my dog, Sheena, died when I was young there was terrible pain for me. I wanted to give her a ten minute belly rub in the morning to wake up her up, but I couldn’t. I flashed back to the good times, walking her everyday after school and letting her sniff around her favorite spot to shit, the neighbor’s front steps, but they were not to be anymore. I believe my desire to share my sadness with the internet and post pictures of her carcass on MySpace is something you are fighting against. Your old life must die, and there is tremendous pain with death. Each day you will want to post something on facebook to receive a “like” just one more time. And let me warn you that time may heal all wounds, but sometimes the emptiness you feel…when your co-worker’s son’s best friend doesn’t like your video of an orangutan swinging from a tree…lasts forever.
In time, the social scales will balance and you will be able to experience something without the reflexive thought: “I can’t wait to post this on facebook!” But for now, you must travel the difficult path of nobody noticing your life and find the will to be your own, glorious witness. You will become stronger and happier each time you think, “You know what, I’m not going take a picture of that sunrise, I’m just going to look at it and put my arm around my girlfriend,” and, “Hmm, maybe I’ll keep my opinions about the presidential candidates to myself.” It may be hard to see a path without cameras or status updates because the path to recovery is difficult. But please know that you can only walk this path alone – and that life is waiting out there for you to savor and grasp in all it’s brutal, fleeting reality. Just turn away from the screen, my friend, turn away…
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Jimbo Bimbo’s Modern Art Exhibit Receives Glowing Reviews from Bored, Rich People and Causes the Working Man to Lose Faith in Humanity
“Art is what you can get away with.”
-Andy Warhol
Among other things, childhood is about learning to conform to a preexisting social narrative that necessarily limits cultural free will. The previous sentence is essentially meaningless, but it was published in a reputable art magazine, so it must be profound. The idea which you don’t understand is ostensibly the theme of Jim Bimbo’s art show.
Born in 1988, Bimbo grew up the child of strict parents in suburban Baltimore, and like many upper class American children, he lived in two places simultaneously: the one in a house with rules (make your bed, be kind to the maid, stop crying) and the one outside of it with less rules (here’s some money, we don’t really love you, go have some fun). This sort of dichotomy often prompts a young mind to retreat into a world of its own – a dissociative state evoked here by mixed-media pieces that go into a recondite, defensive crouch. Did you not understand a word or phrase in the previous sentence? Good. Now I seem intelligent and knowledgeable of what I’m talking about.
One sculptural tableau features a pair of formless piles of trash made of aluminum foil and discarded diapers. Both piles wear animal masks rendered in frozen cow dung to resemble fabric hoods, and both are posed by a carved lion (like one you’d find guarding a building) without its head – evoking, perhaps, a vision of childhood fantasy burdened by the demands of acculturation. Do you not know what acculturation means in the previous run-on sentence? (I didn’t know before I wrote this article.) Good. Now I seem even smarter.
Daydreaming interrupted also seems to be the subject of a video fixed on a school entrance as gray, static blurs the image. You can’t make out details of what you’re looking at, so you stand there for a minute and ask yourself why the fuck you just bought a $15 ticket.
Bimbo returns to adulthood with small, crystal shelves shaped like the balcony of his Manhattan apartment. Yes, can you believe it, he lives in a spacious two-bedroom apartment in Manhattan with a balcony, a fireplace, and a disgruntled doorman who has three children, a used car, and an unpaid mortgage. In another part of the show, a model of an abandoned detergent factory in Bedstuy, Brooklyn being redeveloped as condos offers a view of gentrification undermining artistic agency. It also makes Bimbo feel less guilty about his status and wealth.
Like a lot of millennial artists, Bimbo makes work that risks being about everything and nothing all at once. In other words: complete and utter bullshit. His show takes a lot of explaining, but that doesn’t detract from its cerebral appeal. It simply makes other working artists living on the edge want to kill themselves. •Middle aged rich man attempting to meet a deadline for a reputable art magazine (Bimbo’s exhibit located on 11 Prince Street through Oct 23)
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One Lap Left
A Creative Nonfiction Essay (3.5 minute read) published in the July 2016 issue of The Tishman Review:
one-lap-left_kash_july2016-1
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I consumed nothing but gluten, alcohol, sugar…
The Irish Goodbye
You ever go to a party with your wife and best friend and a few hours later discover they have left together, giggling and drunk, without saying goodbye? You ever go on a first date with someone and after she vomits in your lap on the taxi ride home neither of you contact each other again? You ever get so high at a high school reunion that you think, “I gotta get the fuck out of here. Fast,” and surreptitiously slip out the back door? These are all examples of the Irish Goodbye.
—–
The Irish Goodbye, or Ghosting, or the French Exit, or the Dutch Leave, or the Filer a l’anglaise (just pick an ethnicity you don’t like and add “departure” after it) is when someone leaves a social gathering or a relationship without politely informing the people involved of their imminent departure.
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The origin of the Irish Goodbye is believed, by some, to be The Potato Famine:
When the potato crops failed in Ireland during the years 1845-1852, the Micks left their homeland in droves. One morning a lad would say to his freckled chums, “Just goin on down to the pasture to check on the old croppity crops.” Two hours later: gone. In most cases, the Irish never spoke to their remaining neighbors or friends again. The departure was irrevocable and unspoken, hence the phrase.
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The other, not so sad origin story is that Irish people just like to get obliterated drunk and secretly stumble away:
This cultural preference leads to zombie mode, slurred dedications of undying loyalty, wandering to a back ally for a quick nap, and the remaining friends wondering, “Where is Saucy Sean?”
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Social critics ask: Is the Irish Goodbye acceptable? Is it rude? Some reply, “Woah woah woah.” Others reply, “Go go go.”
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The Emily Post Institute, an organization dedicated to etiquette, believe it’s improper to not thank the hosts before leaving:
Others, like Seth Stevenson of Slate, say, “Let’s free ourselves from this meaningless, uncomfortable, good time, dampening kabuki.” (What is kabuki? A Classical Japanese dance drama.)
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Tom Jones of the Huffington Post says that, concerning relationships, The Irish Goodbye, “… saves an awkward conversation, an even more awkward face-to-face meeting or a most awkward “Dear Person B” letter. Everyone’s a winner because no one has to hear or say, “it’s not you, it’s me,” “I’m just terribly busy right now” or “for some reason, I just want to punch your face in.”
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Buzzfeed made a list of 14 reasons why The Irish Goodbye is the best exit strategy.
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It seems today’s consensus is that the Irish Goodbye is socially acceptable. But some people still don’t like it. They want closure. They want a soft landing of slow separation, even if it’s fake and pointless, rather than a harsh severance. When someone disappears without warning, it subconsciously signals that life is always moving on, no matter how hard we try to stop it. We want a nice, wrapped-up ending. Because when we’re at a party and we’re looking for someone who has already left, when we’re searching for them to say goodbye and pretending that there are endings in life, we feel