The Agony of Discretion

There’s No Secrets This Year - Silversun Pickups (mp3)

To keep your secret is wisdom; but to expect others to keep it is folly. -- Samuel Johnson

I wrote something funny, and it cannot be shared.

I had this incredible, awesome, cathartic experience of scathing creative comedy, borne of a mere two hours of feverish and obsessive work, and the product must be locked away like a kidnapped child, never to be revealed to the world.

It all started when a friend of mine created an amusing video as he lamented his own pending 40th birthday. He has been so paralyzed by this birthday that he disappeared into his computer and started creating a movie to manage his anxiety.

He used this site called xtranormal.com, where you can create short movies using one or two characters from more than a dozen different genres. Each genre has a handful of scene choices and a dozen or so characters. You pick one or two characters and a scene, and you start. You create the script. You add hand gestures and sound effects and body movements. You can even micromanage the camera angles.

If you’re curious, here is his brainchild:



Fate had it that my friend sent this video to me immediately after a frustrating series of interactions with coworkers and fellow administrators at my school. Making a “humorous” video out of his own anxieties seemed to have helped him, so I figured I should dive in and find my own humor catharsis as well.

And I did.

I signed up. I picked perfectly unidentifiable characters, sat them in a school office setting, gave them perfectly unidentifiable names, and used them as amalgamations for the personality glitches and shortcomings of five or six different coworkers, including myself. I made up names of schools that were only barely similar to our own schools. Every single thing I did guaranteed that no single person at my school could possibly accuse me of targeting them.

But then I did an awful thing. I showed my wife.

I’d been holed up in my computer room, giggling maniacally, and I let her watch as I proofed an early draft.

“Kinda funny?” I asked. “I mean, it’s not Daily Show material, but it’s kinda funny, right?” (You see, my wife doesn’t laugh aloud at stuff that comes through on a TV screen. She laughs at people, at conversations, but she doesn’t ever laugh aloud at a TV or computer.)

“Oh, it’s funny. It’s very funny.”

“So what’s wrong?”

“You’re going to lose your job.”

“Oh come off it. That’s silly. There’s absolutely no way anyone can connect this to me or the school,” I said.

She looked at me, shaking her head.

“What?”

“I’ve said my part. You’ll lose your job. Good night. Love you.”

“What??”

“The minute you send this to anyone, it’s got your name attached to it."

And she was right, of course. The essential part of my beautiful creation is that the only way I can share it with anyone is to tell them, and the only way to tell of such creations in a digital realm is to email them, Facebook them, tweet them. And in all those realms, it’s all too easy to trace these things right back to my doorstep, to my paycheck, to my pathetic and desperate attempts to claim I didn’t have specific people in mind when I skewered them in my cute little movie.

That I’m one of those getting skewered wouldn’t be much of a good defense as I packed up my office and polished up my funny resume.

So instead of getting to share my fun creation, it sits hidden in a virtual drawer, and I know what it is to have that secret drug addiction, that secret lover, that secret murder weapon. I created my own personal Jack Bauer emergency in the form of a stupid silly expose on the idiocy of school administrators. I armed the device, and all I can do now is keep it locked away and try my best to guard the door.

Even though what I want so badly is to let people in.

Dammit.

As always, there’s a silver lining. Before this week, I never understood how to write a screenplay, or true dialogue without novelistic exposition. There was some disconnect in my feeble skull. But with XtraNormal, it makes sense. I can write dialogue and test it out. Yes, it’s poorly-enunciated, kitschy computer voicing, but just moving that one step into verisimilitude gives me loads of confidence and has me hungry to keep writing more.

I’m about to finish the second in what is certain to be a series. This one was inspired by summer reading programs.

I probably can’t show that one, either.

Who Knows What Evil Lurks...

The Deepest Blues are Black - Foo Fighters (mp3)
Set It Off - Girl Talk (mp3)

I'm having a Bizarro Andy Rooney moment. Please forgive me.

Few things on earth are more awkward than taking a dump on a black toilet.

Am I the only person who gets weirded out by black toilets? When I see a black toilet, I think Area 51. I think aliens and black-ops conspiracies and that old '80s TV series V with the lizard-faced people and the dude who eventually became Freddie Kreuger. People whose houses have black toilets are either ashamed of themselves or have big smelly secrets to hide. There's no other explanation.

When we go #2, there's this standard set of procedures we all must follow. We must wipe the seat down or cover it. We must sit. We must do our business while reading an entire newspaper or drawing penises on some flat surface along with our friend's phone number and the times they're available to meet anyone interested in a good time. This is stuff we all do, so up to this point, everything's normal. White toilet, black toilet, mauve toilet, it matters not.

But eventually we must stand, and eventually we must wipe, and that's when black toilets mess with the mojo.

All of us look into the toilet bowl after wiping. (Stop tryin' to deny it!!) It's as much a part of our human nature as our need to eat donuts or bet on sporting events. We look down into that bowl for two essential reasons:

1. to see what kind of poo we made -- Lincoln logs or cucumbers or rabbit pellets or yogurt;
2. to make sure the plumbing is healthy -- no red, no green, no ectoplasm.

This shit is a whole lot more important than our economy or China, 'cuz it's about home decoration and proper digestion and the need for human beings to see their poo after they made it. Beholding our fecal creations is one of those things that keeps us closer to God. We are the molders of our own shit; we must see if it is Good, and if it is, we can rest. If it isn't, we gotta go drink some Pepto and pray.

Cavemen had no better way of knowing about the status of their innards. Their poop was their best medical clue. CSI:Crap Scene Investigation. And they passed this habit down through the eons. We do this because it's totally instinctual.

Was the poop good and thick? Was it streaked with a little blood, or did it look kinda moldy? And, most importantly, was it a two-flusher? You'll never know, because those bastards installed a black fucking toilet! You might walk out of that bathroom with streaks of your poo still stuck to that black porcelain, but apparently your host thinks ignorance is bliss.

In a black toilet, you look down to see your business, and all you see is this pit of darkness and despair. It's like you're staring into the Loch Ness at midnight, and the best you're going to get is maybe the top of a turd, poking up above the water like the legendary monster's head in that famous picture.

The more one thinks one's shit doesn't stink, the more likely one possesses a black toilet. They don't want you to see your poop because they don't want to see their poop. They want to act like shit doesn't happen, but it does! Shit happens! We're full of shit!

And Now a Word from a Sponsor Who Isn't Sponsoring Us...

Amazon.com right now has three different sets of classical music that any decent human being presently unschooled in classical music should consider purchasing. All are part of a The 99 Essential... series. Ninety-nine songs. One for Mozart, one for Beethoven, and one a catch-all of everyone's "greatest." Each collection can be yours for the ludicriously low price of $7.99.

These collections are the lazy person's way to seem sophisticated and knowledgeable, and I'm the first to admit such. Buying a collection of 99 "essential" classical music songs, with tracks that range from just over a minute to just under 10, is like buying a collection of 99 Cliff's Notes versions of classic novels. OTOH, Mozart's CV makes Springsteen's look like a haiku. How the hell is someone who's curious about classical music but not setting out to become a snob about it supposed to dip their toe in the water, enjoy a few orchestral moments in their raucous and electric life?

By spending $8 for several hours of "essential" stuff. That's how. So go and consider broadening your classical horizons and simultaneously annoying the hell out of music snobs by buying one of these collections. I can't imagine a better combination than that.

And it makes for great music when sitting on someone's black toilet.

Devil's Advocate for the Adulterous Advocate

Your Next Lover - Lori McKenna (mp3)
A Girl in California - Nine Days (mp3)

I caught wind of John Edwards' daliances slightly ahead of the curve thanks to my regular visits to Plastic.com, a geeky little discussion + news site that posted this as it was starting to really percolate in late July. So I felt like friggin' Drudge when Edwards came out and shocked the world with his confession last week.

The reaction of acquaintances has been fairly surprising, to be honest. Shock, mostly. Edwards' infidelity has been a much larger surprise to (left-leaning?) people, it seems, than that of Wild Bill Clinton. Meanwhile, I'm like, The dude pays FOUR HUNDRED FRIGGIN' DOLLARS to get his friggin' hair cut! He spends as much on his hair per year as Spitzer spent on that prostitute. Any guy who loves his own hair that much is waaaay too full of himself to sleep exclusively with one woman.

But here are some other thoughts that have sprouted from the Edwards scandal:

FORGIVENESS
Edwards said he has sought his wife's forgiveness and his God's forgiveness, and so he basically doesn't care what the rest of us think. Since it's hardly our business to begin with, I couldn't agree more. If you enjoy this story for its juicy context, or if you enjoy watching the overly ambitious and well-coiffed get their come-uppance, that's fine and good. But I'm kind of violently anti-TMZ and anti-paparazzi at the moment, and for me this is just a slightly higher-class version of celebrity rubbernecking I can do without. This really should be between him, his wife, and his deity of choice. Well, and the "other woman "who seems to have gotten a sweet-ass deal out of it.

BUT HE LIED! HE DENIED IT!
If reporters gave a flip about my private life -- and if you thought The Truman Show was a boring concept, my daily existence is even more snooze-a-riffic -- and had the unmitigated gall to ask me if I was having affairs, or smoking crack, or surviving solely on a diet of Pop Tarts, Mountain Dew and Twizzlers, I'd like to think I could answer them in such a way that gave them nothing good yet amused me to no end.

If they ask and you say "No" because it's the truth, then you're only helping their cause, because they can then use you as an example of those who "have nothing to hide," allowing them to bring down that judgmental hammer harder on another's head. So I'd like to think I would say I'm sleeping with everyone. Kate Beckinsale. Ashley Judd. The whole cast of The Golden Girls (except for Estelle Getty, of course, God rest her sweet soul). Tom Cruise. Barbara Bush (the older AND the younger). Say their names, I'm sleeping with them. And they're all just using me for the sex.

My point is, once Edwards screwed around, is he really obligated to, according to our society's odd little rules, confess it in detail to the first reporter to ask the oh-so original question of "Have you ever had an affair?" Is George W. Bush required to explain in great detail his past drug use or even admit he did cocaine just because some bonehead asks him? Are we really better off as a country if they tell the truth to us when it's none of our business?

In my book, if goobers with no right to do so ask anyone such questions, it's not lying to tell them whatever you want. "I sleep with Martians. We spoon, mostly, but sometimes we use toys on each other. I prefer Martian Menages after my Martian Massages. And if you've never been rubbed down by a Martian, you haven't truly lived!"

BAD APPLES MAKE BAD ORANGES?
Our Puritanical society has somehow bought into the bullshit that you can't be a great politician without being a lily-white clean slate of perfect family values. Being outstanding or gifted in one area of life does not require being outstanding or gifted in another. That's like saying you can't be a great rock guitarist without sleeping with 40 women a year. Or that Donald Trump can't be successful in real estate unless he's also a devoted and loving father. It's so oddly unrealistic and foolish that I don't even know why we continue to allow this myth to propagate.

"THE WORST TIME TO DO IT"
Almost every person I've heard pontificate on his infidelity says something akin to this: "And he couldn't have done it at a worse time. His wife is fighting for her life against cancer, and he's off fucking around! What a jerk!" First off, I wasn't aware there was a proper or acceptable time for adultery. Is there some space shuttle re-entry in adultery, where there's a few "perfect windows" in the atmosphere wherein it's acceptable and understandable for married folks to screw around?

Jimmy's always been a devoted husband and father, and although he slept with that drunk librarian two years ago, it was at a time when his wife was healthy and everything in his life was going well, so it was no big deal. If he'd fucked that librarian back when Shelly had been diagnosed with diabetes, well, that would have been another story... Then Jimmy would have been one disgusting sumbitch.

Let's go one step further. (Since my writing on this entire topic automatically qualifies me for the "Perhaps He Protesteth Too Much" Award, no point in leaving any stones unturned.)

Isn't it maybe a little more acceptable for the dude to seek his needs elsewhere at a time when his wife is utterly and completely incapable of being there for him? So long as Edwards didn't abandon his wife emotionally, so long as he was there in the ways she needed him, why isn't his shoplifting some pootie on the side more acceptable when Elizabeth is sick rather than when she's shiny and healthy as a pearl?

If one of you readers is willing, I would really appreciate you breaking down the Affair Scale for me. From 1-10, when's having an affair a 1 and when is it a 10? This might help all those readers out there who want to know when it's most acceptable to have an affair. If they're gonna be immoral, at least they can be considerate.

"Your Next Lover" is from Lori McKenna's super-mega-awesome album Unglamorous. "A Girl in California" is from Nine Days' latest EP, Slow Motion Life Part I. Both can be purchased through iTunes or on Amazon.com's mp3 site.

Confessional Quid Pro Quo

The Town Halo - A.C. Newman (mp3)
Testimony - Robbie Robertson (mp3)

Hey. You. Come closer to the screen. Like, really close.

I need to tell you a secret that I've never told anyone before. I'm very afraid to tell it, because if I do, you might not like me anymore. But keeping it to myself is torturous in its own right, because it feels like I'm lying to everyone. And if I'm the only one with my secret, it starts feeling like I'm lying even to myself, living out this fantasy where the secret stays buried even though it says so much about me.

But... can I trust you? Can you keep this secret? Can I rely on you to be my friend, even if you don't particularly approve of my secret?

If not, please don't read any further. Stop right here. I'll give you a paragraph of meaninglessness so you can slow down, reverse, and move on to another web site before stumbling on something you don't want to see.

Still here? OK. How's the weather up where you are? Gettin' hot down here. I friggin' hate summer. No more corduroys. No more sweater vests. No more windbreakers. No more jackets. Gone are the fun layers of winter. OK OK, enough BS. Here's my secret:

Some of my earliest sexual fantasies involved "The Golden Girls." Although my primary target of lust was Betty White, I had plenty of drool for Rue McClanahan and Bea Arthur. Estelle Getty didn't really do it for me. Too old.

So.

Um. Wow, those crickets sure are loud tonight.

Can I trust you to keep this, y'know, just between us? Are we still friends? I know how totally screwed up this is, I do. It's wacky. Which is precisely why I can't just keep it pinned down in the butterfly album of my soul.

Crap.

Now there's this thing. This thing between us. This sense that I've let go of too much, revealed too much of myself while you're there, covered and comfortable like Hugh Hefner in a bathrobe.

Maybe you can tell me a secret now. You know, so there's not this thing between us, this difference between the knowledge you hold over me and what I hold over you. Not that knowledge between trusted friends is a weapon, necessarily. It just... makes things weird. The best friendships are a see-saw where both sides carry equal weight. Sure, there's times when one friend is up and one is down, and then weight and gravity work to shift sides. But the best friendships could, when they wanted to, balance that see-saw perfectly. Like the scales of justice.

I'm not sure which is worse, being the friend who unleashes the heavy burden, or being the friend upon whom that burden is unleashed. My memories of times when I was on one side or the other still linger like barflies after last call, even from my childhood. In fact, it seems like most of these moments occurred between elementary school and college.

In the world of disclosures, confidants and friendships, someone always has to jump first. Worse, the very cautionary tale your mother gave you as a kid becomes the very thing you're supposed to do as a friend. If your friend jumps off the Golden Gate Bridge, do you jump in after him or her? In this case, yeah, you sorta should if you can.

"The Town Halo" is off A.C. Newman's most recent CD, The Slow Wonder. "Testimony" is from Robbie Robertson's (formerly of The Band) absolutely stellar self-titled 1987 CD that included a bevy of phenomenal guest musicians including Stewart Copeland, Peter Gabriel, and U2.

And I never actually had sexual fantasies about "The Golden Girls." Not that there's anything wrong with that. I was more just trying to make a point about the nature of confessions and friendship.