In the narrative that has developed here, and which began on nicolasix, I've kept certain character names the same as their real-life counterparts. I thought this made sense because there are readers who do not know the real-life people at all. So to them, we (C, Honey, me) are already characters in a kind of story. We always have been. I find this idea fascinating: that a person can exist solely as a character in somebody's imagination. So I like to play with that. But here's the other thing: I think even if I didn't use the same names, people who read this and who do know the real-life namesakes would at some point wonder: Is that her he's talking about? Is he referring to him when he says that? So the use of actual names is just as good as any other names, really. We'd probably arrive at the same questions, either way. And by the way, the answer to these self-referential questions is always yes. And no. Sometimes, like this week, I'll get an email from a concerned friend who, upon reading my last post, asks me if everything is good between C and I. And I'll respond publicly now to that question this way: Everything is the way it always has been. Which is to say, I love C and she makes my life make sense and I can't imagine her not being in it. And even though these sorts of sappy declarations have become socially acceptable to exclaim on Facebook, I still find them hard to shout publicly like this. Because they are annoying and the only people who really care to hear things like this are the people they're intended for or their immediate relatives. So having said it, let me also say this: Do you know any couple who has been married eleven years or more where everything is "good?" I should hope not, because that's a sure-fire sign of trouble. Or hard-core drug use. Or witchcraft. And I would stay as far away from those people as possible.

Strangely, the biggest problem for me with blurring the line between fiction and reality on this blog hasn't been a fear that people will confuse the fictional elements for reality. It's been the other way around: that people will confuse the real things that happen for fiction. Because I want people to know when something is real. And so it's left me with this recurring problem: How do I take posts out of the narrative landscape of the story? How do I call a "time out" and say, "Okay, listen, this really happened!" Well, I guess I know how. I'm technically doing it right now. But this voice...the me, the myself...it just doesn't seem to fit here anymore. I think I have to come to terms with the fact that I've written myself out of my own blog. Which was a really sneaky move on my part, I have to say. I'm tempted to go storming into my office and give myself a piece of my mind. Because myself has to know that without me there is no goddamned blog. I am the glue that holds this fucking operation together. Doesn't he see that? I am not expendable and I will not be treated this way!

The post I wrote several weeks ago about my neighbor pulling a gun on me is a great example of what I'm talking about. The interaction really happened. And while the guy who took his gun out to show it to me in the dark street turned out to be a cop (which was a relief...sort of) probably has a slightly different version of what happened than I do (I was sneaking up on him; I am a smart-ass cocksucker), it nevertheless is the truth as I saw it. And I wanted to write about it and tell people about the crazy fuckers in my neighborhood. But writing the post just didn't seem to work here anymore. It was inconsistent with the rest of the blog. And I couldn't figure out how to make it fit. So I pulled it, partly because of this inconsistency, and—okay, okay —partly because I have a healthy fear of plain-clothes cops who carry guns while walking their dogs through my neighborhood and who might someday Google my name. But mostly it was the inconsistency thing.

And so today I'm a little bummed about this. And I'm not sure what to do about it.

Because honestly, sometimes I find myself wanting to tell you about some small, insignificant event in my life which, at the time, seemed kind of huge and significant to me. Like how last Friday, after I came home from the JCC, I lay down on the couch to wait for C to come home from Maryland, where she had spent the day on business, and I promptly fell asleep with Marketplace on in the background and Honey uncomfortably sprawled out at my side. And she and I lay there together on the couch—waiting and sleeping—for something like two hours. And I drifted in and out of consciousness with radio voices entering and leaving my head, mixing with my dreams to form strange radio scenarios filled with financial forecasts and the latest news. And then Marketplace finished, All Things Considered started and ended, and On Point began. And Honey would push her feet against my side and I would put my leg over her head, and neither one of us could have been very comfortable, but we slept like that. As On Point began, my consciousness began to return. And it took in the fact that it was now dark out and for a moment I wondered about the time and...holy crap, where the hell am I? And I looked at my phone and saw a text message from C about Amtrak train delays in Delaware and how it looked like she was still another two hours away, at least. So I got up and started the oven and took two frozen pizzas out of the freezer (because I were quite famished) and went upstairs and started the shower so I could wake up during the oven preheat. And as the water rushed over me I fought through the brain fog that had landed so heavily on me, and I thought about how suddenly I had fallen asleep and how strange it is when you're body just does something like that, without your consent. And how, post-35, my body does seem to do things like that with annoying frequency.

And if I were in the mood to be honest, which apparently I am, I'd tell you that after the shower I stood in front of the mirror and found myself contemplating the state of my sporadic chest hair, which grows in little patches, small bands of brothers, over chest and torso. And there are also some solo commandos here and there, stray hairs, serving lonely tours of duty, feeling misplaced, scared, angry. My belly has a nice consistent group of hairs, though, and I'm proud of them for sticking together.

And Christ, let me stop right here to ask: Is this not the very nature of what blogging is all about? This sort of...naval gazing? I mean, literally. This is blog gold right here. You shouldn't take it for granted, people. You folks are witnessing something special right now.

Anyway, so I'm standing there and I begin wondering what do you do about something like chest hair, anyway? First of all, it seems a person should either have it or not have it. And if I'm to have it, I want it to be like Magnum PI's. This strange in-between state is entirely unacceptable. It always has been, all my life. The easiest and most convenient way I've found to deal with my non-committal chest hair is to, every so often, take an electric beard trimmer to those fuckers. But only when they get really long and straggly. Of course, the problem with the beard trimmer approach is that it leaves chest stubble, which I think might actually be a worse condition than sporadic chest hair. But chest stubble only lasts for a day or two, so if you plan ahead, you can sneak a trim in without anybody noticing. And by "anybody" I of course mean C. Luckily, she is not overly offended by the state of my chest hair. The patch of hair that grows on the back of my neck and which has begun, alarmingly, to march aggressively downward, invading the territory of my upper back is an entirely different matter, though. And I think C keeps at least one attorney on retainer for this very reason since this was not in our original marriage agreement and she wants to be prepared if things get out of control. And who can blame her? It wasn't in my own agreement with myself, either. And I'm fairly pissed off with my neck hair about this wrongful assertion of upper back real estate.

Oh, God. How did this happen? I mean, really. How did we get here? Do you see what comes out when I'm left unchecked? I started this as a treatise on fact vs. fiction in blogging and wound up ruminating on the condition of my chest hair. If that's not a testament to some sort of genius I'm not sure what is, though exactly what kind of genius I'll leave up to you to decide. Sadly, despite the profundity I've expressed here today, this post may never see the light of day, or if it does, it may only be up for a few days. I will put it in the category of "the everyday." Then I will come back here in a few days and look at it and I will wonder what the hell I was thinking with this shit and I will decree that this kind of thing no longer belongs here, and in a fit of hyper-consistency, I will delete it. And it will be a terrible blog tragedy. But thankfully, it will be one few ever know about. It'll be our little secret and we'll never talk about it again. Okay?

Category: Nada