Mostly Cognizant

The continuing uplifting saga of a single 30-something aspiring writer living in a disreputable part of New York in a squalid apartment with obnoxious roommates, working degrading jobs while waiting for success.

[mostly-cognizant]

Do Not Mistake My Enthusiasm for Sincerity

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. Hey, are you listening, Horatio? Are you even paying attention? Come back here, Horatio!

Well, let’s see. Where to begin? I am a carbon-based form of life, in that respect not unlike a Tanzanian Thompson’s gazelle or a clam. In fact, genetically I am 93% similar to an oak tree (96% after 10 P.M.). I rarely travel faster than the speed of light (although I will make exceptions if someone I know well has been boxed up and I have cause to believe that shipment is imminent), I find molybdenum additives charming and I once stopped a runaway bulldozer with a well-placed asterisk. On Tuesdays I give gutters undeserved compliments. I am a three-time high-velocity subterranean soap-embroidering champion and have won international acclaim for my hip, avant-garde technique of doing basic arithmetic using only colors and smells.

I enjoy a good omelet, but not as a food — only as an example. I believe that no man is an island, but I’ve met at least one woman who is an archipelago. To me, days of the week are like coins in a jar: if you pour them out into a canal all at once, they will make a big, loud splash before sinking immediately to the bottom. Seeing life as I do, as a glorious pageant, a grand adventure, a rich and complex tapestry of interconnected events, I think the most important and ultimately beneficial thing we can do is nap quietly. I continue to be haunted by the vague sense that despite the worldwide popularity of its current incarnation, someone got the basic design of the peanut butter and jelly sandwich horribly wrong. I always hyphenate my compound modifiers and I understand the difference between a contraction and a possessive. I believe hot sauce should never be administered in colonic form, unless nuns are present for safety.

I stand by my personal moral conviction that one should never date a person who is considered legal tender in any Eastern European country. I suffer from a panoply of debilitating physical complaints, including rum fits and the inconvenience of occasional explosive leprosy. I have received a great deal of attention from medical science due to my one anatomical peculiarity: any time an E flat minor chord is played, instead of a left clavicle I have, for several minutes, a few dollars’ worth of oranges. (Interestingly, the opposite is also true.)

I have never been invited to the annual Spring Triceratops Boogie. I can levitate objects with my mind, but only those objects already prone, by nature, to levitation. Sometimes I hide spare socks inside dormant volcanoes. My friends and I are the only ones who know that the numbers 14 through 27 are in the wrong order. Are you still reading this? Holy crap, that’s incredible. I lost focus half an hour ago.

My motto is: “Do not walk in front of me, for I may not follow. Do not walk behind me, for I may not lead. Don’t walk next to me, either. Just bugger off.”

What makes me happy? You mean aside from cake? Forget it, I’m going with cake.

I would like to conclude with the words of Woody Allen, who observed, “he who loveth wisdom is righteous, but he who keepeth company with fowl is weird.”

(Lemon curry?)

[mostly-cognizant]

What Your Friends’ Names Really Mean

I get tired of all those name-origin explanations that claim "Bob" really means "Noble King With Surprising Knowledge of Agriculture" and "Jen" really means "She Whose Boutique Contains Many Overpriced Items." So instead of "Wise Ruler of Numerous Small Islands" or "Brilliant Star in the Northeastern Sky After 3:45 a.m.," here are a few modern common name meanings to apply to your friends. (I have decided to leave off the actual names, because the way I see it, that makes these no less accurate. You can fill them in yourself if you wish.)

[NAME] — Poster of nothing but pictures of her new baby all day long.

[NAME] — Poster of nothing but pictures of her cat all day long.

[NAME] — She who is incapable of saying anything that isn't passive-aggressive.

[NAME] — He who somehow believes that rude and offensive statements are the same as jokes.

[NAME] — One who makes vague, needy, whiny statements on social media and then angrily refuses to clarify, citing privacy.

[NAME] — Shameless self-promoter.

[NAME] — Desperately lonely and sad.

[NAME] — Possessor of far more self-confidence than what would be justified by the facts.

[NAME] — Reflexive re-poster of links to articles she has not read.

[NAME] — He who only shows up in your feed to mock and belittle.

[NAME] — She who argues with every statement.

[NAME] — Makes everything about politics.

[NAME] — One who seems to think he is your friend.

[NAME] — He who peaked very early in life and now is on a long, slow, agonizing slide through middle age towards mediocrity, despair, and death.

[NAME] — Black hole of constant emotional need.

[NAME] — Seeker of validation through Facebook "Likes."

[NAME] — Queen of Selfies.

[NAME] — Tumblr user whose feed is lightly and unexpectedly sprinkled with extremely hardcore porn.

[NAME] — Hijacker of threads.

[NAME] — The person you only follow to keep track of the ex you remain obsessed with.

[NAME] — Persistent requester of nudes.

[NAME] — He whose life is a never-ending series of existential crises.

[NAME] — Belligerent grammar critic.

[NAME] — He who still pretends to not be gay.

[NAME] — She whose only mode of social interaction is flirting.

[mostly-cognizant]

The Icy Fingers of Death

The Icy Fingers of Death is the name of a fancy specialty drink prepared by Gunther at a tiki bar everyone simply calls “Gunther’s place” on the island of Pana’ia.

  Pana’ia is a coral atoll in the Vunau Group, a cluster of about six hundred rocks and cays, only five of which are populated. Gunther’s place — and the potent frozen concoctions served thereat — is the standard example I always invoke when asked to explain my “Impact Index” concept. But I’m getting ahead of myself. I’ll return to the Impact Index shortly.

  Gunther never set out to be the world’s most dangerous bartender, armed with a blender and a freezer that operate on a diesel-powered generator. He went hard aground on a reef near the narrow channel that leads out of Pana’ia’s cozy lagoon and into the great wide blue Pacific. Gunther and his wife Katja abandoned their 42-foot steel cutter, which was damaged beyond salvage, and came ashore — for good, as it would later turn out. They retrieved all of their belongings, ferrying them to dry land one dinghy-load at a time. Katja sailed to Tahiti on a boat that belonged to someone they met on Pana’ia, and from there flew home to Germany. I don’t know if Gunther had planned to follow her at some point, but he never did. That was eleven years ago. When people ask him if he’s married, he replies, “I don’t know.”

  Having no boat yard and little in the way of other amenities, Pana’ia sits outside the trade wind belt and is not heavily visited. Those who do come to Pana’ia come for three reasons: the excellent snorkeling, the beach bonfires and Gunther’s place. And while it’s not technically required to be naked, on Pana’ia almost everyone always is.

  Nearly all serious sailors are what I call practical nudists. Even those with absolutely no interest whatsoever in the social and recreational aspects of a clothing-optional lifestyle simply came to terms with the expediency of not wearing anything when they didn’t have to. Laundry is a problem at sea. Washing machines are unheard of on small boats; they require enormous amounts of power and fresh water and take up lots of precious space. Articles of apparel dampened by splash and spray must be shed when going below, and there is never a good place to hang them all up to drip-dry. Soon the cabin resembles a cave, festooned with stalactites of wet gear dangling everywhere, creating a musty atmosphere and promoting the growth of mold and mildew, already a constant hazard in tropical waters. Also, fabric soaked in salt water is abrasive and irritating, and can cause painful sores if not changed often. The term “painful sore” is a wonderfully redundant phrase, isn’t it?  I don’t know why I didn’t just say “can cause sores.”  I suppose I added the “painful” for emphasis, as if there is such a thing as a comfortable sore.

  Where was I? Not wearing clothes, right. So as I was saying, when the weather is warm, which for equatorial mariners is most of the time, after a while they just tend to quit wearing anything when they don’t have to. Then they start to get used to it. It starts to seem normal. From there, it’s a short hop to congregating naked, especially when rum is involved.

  Some people object to the idea of being nude around others on the dubious basis of something along the lines of this haughty declaration: “some people just shouldn’t take their clothes off.” But this statement gets the whole proposition completely backwards. Going without attire is not, I repeat, NOT an activity performed for the benefit of those watching. In fact, anyone who hangs around to gawk without disrobing is a bit of a creep. Moreover, anyone who disparages another person’s body for any reason is a judgmental asshole. No, it’s something you do for yourself, for your own comfort, your own enjoyment and — in the case of sailors — your own convenience and expense reduction, not for the entertainment of others. The naked sailors hanging around Gunther’s Place aren’t necessarily swingers or exhibitionists. They just don’t want to deal with the hassle of getting dressed.

  An interesting phenomenon I have observed in situations like this is the Critical Mass of Nudity. There will be a group of sailors drinking around a bonfire and one or two of them — generally European — will be naked. Then a couple of people will decide to jump in the ocean to cool off, and of course that’s 300% more enjoyable without bathing suits. They won’t bother to put anything back on as they rejoin the party, and pretty soon the majority is unencumbered of textiles. At that point, an interesting reversal occurs. The few people remaining who do still have clothes on suddenly feel a little weird and self-conscious. They look around and see people of all shapes, sizes, ages and ethnicities clad only in the warm, humid tropical breeze. Most long-distance liveaboard cruisers are not athletes in their 20s. They are mainly retired married couples. And so the prudes either leave or shrug and strip down. And then those in the latter category are surprised, even shocked, to discover that it’s really no big deal. In fact, it’s kind of nice. These individuals have learned perhaps the most important lesson anyone can ever learn: NO ONE CARES.

  Some people go their entire lives without figuring this out. I want to publish a free self-help book called “NO ONE CARES,” except that one line would be the whole book. Life is too short to worry about what other people think beyond what I call the “Impact Index.” (See how I circled back around to that?)

  The Impact Index can be negative one, zero, or positive one. The opinions of friends, family, co-workers, law enforcement officers etc. can actually matter in some situations, and in such cases they have an Impact Index of positive one. You should be concerned with your choice of words and actions. An Impact Index of zero means people’s estimation of your behavior is not likely to have any significant material effect on your life, although you might find it annoying. When a stranger criticizes you in the Internet, that has an Impact Index of zero.

  And when you are naked and drunk on a beach in a remote part of the South Pacific, dancing around a bonfire underneath the stars, dear readers, that is perhaps the ultimate example of an Impact Index of negative one. As Gunther reminds us, NO ONE CARES. Have fun and don’t worry about it. Come to think of it, maybe that’s why Gunther gave his signature cocktail such a morbid name. It’s a helpful reminder. I might have another one.

[mostly-cognizant]

Too Many Towels

I don't understand the process by which towels multiply. I rarely purchase towels. I am seldom in situations conducive to inadvertent towel acquisition. I do not get drunk, break into people's houses and steal their towels for the raw thrill of it. I do not frequent towel-intensive locations such as beaches, spas, bathhouses or places that are just generally leaky and damp, so there is no reason why I would somehow accidentally pack up an extra towel or two as I was gathering my things to leave.

Yet the number of towels in my closet seems to increase steadily. The reason for this eludes me like elves in a colander factory. (That analogy makes no sense to me, either.) I would like to point out that that I do not have a dedicated towel closet — NOT THAT THERE IS ANYTHING WRONG WITH THAT — where towels might naturally gravitate to socialize with their own kind. I don't even have a linen closet where towels and their distant textile cousins the sheets and pillowcases might mingle along with their common ancestor, the blankets. No, I live in a crappy apartment with a single catch-all closet in my room, where obsolete video-game equipment must coexist with clothes, shoes and pornography. Towels have their own segregated district within this complex multicultural mishmash.

Yet there are more towels every time I check. Is someone sneaking into my room and putting towels in my closet? If so, why? If it's just to increase the level of random surreal entropy in New York, bravo. Well played. But I kind of doubt that. It's just too interesting, and interesting things never happen to me.

So I decided to test this phenomenon. I counted the towels; there were four. I closed the closet door and then opened it again. I counted the towels: five. I closed the closet door and re-opened it a second time. Now there were seven. I repeated the experiment, and counted eleven towels. The next time there were 19, then after that 35. Soon I lost count and could no longer shut the door. But the towels continued to increase in number at an ever-accelerating rate. Soon I was pressed up against the wall, unable to move. Then the apartment exploded, and I found myself riding a great surging tidal wave of towels down Roosevelt Avenue. All that thick, soft, absorbent terrycloth soaked up the East River. By now the towels numbered in the billions, and I was at the vanguard of a mass of multicolored fabric plowing across the Midwest. Once the number climbed into the octillions, the surface of America was engulfed. Soon all the world will be covered. Eventually, the mass of towels will form a sphere expanding through space at the speed of light, ultimately consuming the universe in its final, fluffy fate.

I'm sorry, humanity. I'm so very sorry.

[mostly-cognizant]

Is Death by Masturbation Possible?

I'm just trying to figure out whether I should leave a note or something.

[mostly-cognizant]

Regarding Sleestak Cookies

First of all, no thanks. And second of all, no way that's a thing.

[mostly-cognizant]

It's Like Joke-Murder

Me: "My new motto is 'carp diem' — seize the fish."

Pretentious, overeducated friend with no sense of humor: "Actually, 'seize the fish' in Latin would be 'capere pisces.'"

Me: "My God, you're right. It's so much funnier now."

[mostly-cognizant]

I Guess They Have a Point

I have just been informed that lying curled up on the closet floor with the door closed, paralyzed by anxiety and depression, is technically not a "coping mechanism."

[mostly-cognizant]

Observation

It seems I always come back from visiting friends with way more food and booze than I brought. I am starting to see these trips as a slow, indirect, somewhat randomized and highly social form of grocery shopping.

[mostly-cognizant]

Time to Spray for White People Again

Remember that appalling Orkin commercial from a few years back where the giant cockroaches are cruising menacingly through a nice white neighborhood in a pimped-out square-back sedan, only to speed away when they spot the Orkin man vigilantly standing guard in front of the house? I think someone should re-do that commercial with the cockroaches as gentrifying white people.

A family is relaxing on the front porch, drinking beer and having a pleasant conversation while the kids skip rope and play hopscotch on the sidewalk. A couple of cockroaches in clothes from Old Navy and The Gap suddenly appear, looking at zoning maps and pointing out where they can invoke eminent domain to bulldoze old houses and put up Starbucks, Whole Foods and Hobby Lobby.

Then a tall, handsome black Orkin man suddenly appears! He sticks the sign into the ground and the cockroaches scurry away in fear, muttering, "oh my goodness gracious, I suppose we'd better go, then."

[mostly-cognizant]

Oh Dear.

I just received an urgent text message warning me that one of my roommates has found out about this blog.

So if you're reading right now, I'd just like to explain that when I refer to you as, "Mean Roommate," what I am really trying to say is, "Handsome, Physically Fit and Popular With the Ladies Roommate." Also, anything insulting or demeaning I may have mentioned about you was intended to be purely ironic, meant to highlight your indisputable intrinsic awesomeness. Anyway, there is no need for you to go back and read all my old posts. I think we can all agree that reading is hard. And I don't mean that in any negative sense with respect to your intellect, but I'd hate to see you waste your vast mental capacity on slogging through my boring, silly, pointless little online journal. As for the rest of my readers on Tumblr (all five of you), I'd just like to say that it has been a pleasure interacting with you. Thank you for all the snarky criticism and unsolicited pictures of dicks.

And to the rest of the human beings on planet Earth, I would like to take this opportunity to say that being alive has been, occasionally, more or less tolerable.

[mostly-cognizant]

Social Anthropology at the Laundromat

Whenever I'm doing my laundry and I see a guy washing, drying and folding women's underwear, I always notice what kind it is.

If it looks comfortable and practical, I assume he's in a happy marriage in which they split the household chores fairly.

If it's sexy lingerie, on the other hand, I assume he's a transvestite.

[mostly-cognizant]

Realization

After giving the matter a great deal of thought, I have come to what I now realize what an inevitable conclusion: Nope.

[mostly-cognizant]

Mmmm, So Papal

Dinner this evening consisted of a selection of fine artisanal cheeses*, some grapes**, a glass of Pinot Grigio*** and the Pope. *Kraft American Singles. **Well, former grapes. Actually raisins I picked out of the cinnamon raisin bread that was otherwise unsalvageable due to mold. ***Purplesaurus Rex flavored Kool-Aid, aged in a plastic pitcher that had been forgotten for about a month due to the presence of an object in front of it.

[mostly-cognizant]

You Know What's A Little Embarrassing?

. . . Having a full-blown existential crisis, and then dozing off.

[mostly-cognizant]

I Don't Know Why I Do This to Myself

I follow this former "reality TV star" on Twitter. I feel like I should enclose "reality TV" within quotation marks as well: "'reality TV' star." There, that's better.

I have no idea why. I despise him. I loathe him. But there is something perversely satisfying about the pure indignant moral outrage I feel when I see how successful this essentially talentless waste of oxygen is.

He's always tweeting from places like Madrid or Hong Kong, posting stupid pictures of his big dumb face grinning in front of famous monuments. He recently got a book deal based on his name recognition, which will obviously be written by someone else (or more likely by a team of writers, responding to the findings of a focus group which determines that the target demographics want to read). He just floats through life based on being a noise-making, attention-grabbing dickhead pseudo-celebrity, going to all the places the rest of us dream of, surrounded by a fawning entourage and able to indulge all his idiot whims.

I think of all the workshops and seminars I've participated in, all the classes I've taken, all the rough drafts of screenplays I've ruthlessly, exhaustively re-written again and again to achieve that ever-elusive powerful storytelling that will resonate and become the next Casablanca or at least Hunger Games. And yes, I've fantasized about what fame and fortune would be like: no more awful roommates, no more tiny, grimy, bug-infested apartment, no more riding the subway, no more humiliating minimum-wage jobs, no more ramen noodles for breakfast, lunch and dinner. No more slogging through snow on a day like this — the overnight low is 23 and the wind just slices through you when it funnels between the buildings. Instead, it would be a nice hillside house in L.A. with a view of the city or maybe the Pacific Ocean.

But I also fantasize about all the good I'd be able to do: all the great causes I could support. All the great projects I could undertake. The worthy charities to which I would lend my name. All the great artistic challenges upon which I could embark. One big commercial success would free me to write the movie I really wanted to write — the Great American Story of the Nixon-era industrial Midwest. 

And yes, maybe a certain amount of Hollywood pussy.

But do I get any of that, despite my years of hard and devoted work? No. Does he get a free ticket to the good life, on account of nothing more than being the kind of guy whose bloated moron head makes people pause before changing the channel? You bet he does.

I want to be a good person, a person with a caring, compassionate and sympathetic heart . . . but if I'm honest with myself I really do want to see this guy succumb to necrotizing fasciitis. Namaste.

[mostly-cognizant]

Me and My Brain

Me: Listen, brain. Can we just declare a truce for a few hours? I really, really need to get some sleep.

My Brain: I have a better idea. Let's go over every single mortifying event that's ever happened in your entire life.

Me: Seriously, I need to be at work at eight. Can I just have a little sleep?

My Brain: Remember when you were 13 and you popped an obvious boner in gym class, and everyone was pointing and laughing?

Me: Can we do this later? I promise, I'll feel terrible about myself tomorrow. For right now, I really, really, really need to get some sleep.

My Brain: Remember when you crashed your bicycle and wound up with a bloody nose and scrapes all over your hands and elbows? Let's replay that crash over and over again in slow motion.

Me: That was more than 20 years ago.

My Brain: BOOM, right into the pavement. Ouch!

Me: What do you want me to do? I can't un-have that accident. It happened. It hurt. It's over. There is nothing I can do about it. Leave me alone.

My Brain: You're going to have a lot of pain when you get older, you know. Every injury you've ever had is going to come back to haunt you.

Me: OK, great. Thanks for reminding me.

My Brain: Plus your hair is going to fall out, your teeth are going to fall out, you're going to lose your hearing, you're going to lose your eyesight, you'll have constant knee, neck and back pain, you're going to get Alzheimer's . . .

Me: Oh, for fuck's sake. Shut up!

My Brain: Remember that time you fell off the slide and broke your arm?

Me: Yes.

My Brain: That was painful and embarrassing!

Me: I was five.

My Brain: Who falls off a slide? What an idiot.

Me: OK, you know what? I'm going to think of a pleasant memory. There was that time Kim and I went up to Niagra Falls for the weekend. That was so nice. Just the two of us. The weather was great, it was so romantic . . .

My Brain: Wouldn't it have been terrible if she had fallen over the side?

Me: . . . What?

My Brain: Swept away by the current, dragged over the edge, plunging to her death, looking you right in the eyes, screaming in terror, begging "help me!" and yet there is nothing you can do to save her?

Me: What the actual fuck? That didn't happen!

My Brain: How could you let this happen? You are an awful human being. You failed her in the worst, most unforgivable way possible.

Me: But that never happened! You want me to feel bad about something that never happened?

My Brain: She died knowing what a failure you are.

Me: I refuse to let you make me feel bad about an event that did not occur.

My Brain: You're wasting your life, you know.

Me: Shut the hell up. I'm not kidding. I need sleep.

My Brain: You should be learning a foreign language.

Me: I know.

My Brain: You should be working out. You're in terrible shape.

Me: I know.

My Brain: You should be eating better. Your diet is horrible. You're going to have a heart attack or a stroke, probably real soon.

Me: I'll have a veggie sub on whole wheat for lunch tomorrow, all right?

My Brain: You need to quit putting so much pressure on yourself. You're too tense. You're going to give yourself cancer.

Me: That doesn't even make sense.

My Brain: Every decision you've ever made has been a horrible mistake.

Me: Sure, whatever. Can we talk about this tomorrow?

My Brain: Let's go over some fights and arguments from your past.

Me: Let's not.

My Brain: All you ever do is work. You're going to wake up one day and realize that you've squandered the best years of your life slaving away at jobs you hate.

Me: Hey, come on. I've got to make a living. I'm lucky to be working.

My Brain: You'll look back and wish you had seized the day, stopped to smell the roses . . .

Me: Yeah, I guess you're probably right. Maybe I'll take some time off, relax, spend more time focusing on my screenplays.

My Brain: Oh, yeah. That's it. Just sit around the apartment like some lazy, worthless, unemployed loser.

Me: Wait, what? That's the exact opposite of what you just said a second ago!

My Brain: Let's review every bad thing anyone has ever said about you on the Internet.

Me: Let's really not do that.

My Brain: Your screenplays are crap.

Me: I know, I know, I'm the world's worst screenwriter. Can we do this tomorrow? I just want to sleep.

My Brain: Sure is a lot of unspeakably horrific stuff going on in the world today. If you aren't in a state of constant moral outrage, you're a bad person, and you should feel guilty about that.

Me: I feel plenty of moral outrage, OK? I hardly feel anything else.

My Brain: Well, cut it out. Going through life in a state of constant moral outrage is stupid, and you should feel guilty about that.

Me: You win. I'll feel guilty.

Me: Guilt is a pointless emotion. It's a sign of your weak character. You should be ashamed of yourself.

Me: Exacty how miserable do I have to get before you declare victory and leave me alone?

My Brain: I'm just saying, you should try harder.

Me: Fine. I'll try harder. Can I go to sleep now?

My Brain: You know what your problem is? You try too hard.

Me: Jesus Christ.