On my way into work when I’m not listening to a podcast or one of my old Weird Al albums, I get quiet and think. About myself. Within a minute or two I start interviewing myself as if I were a guest on some important television program, answering questions about my life. I’ve written about this before, and while it seems like narcissism I actually think it’s about me getting to know myself a little better.
A standard go-to question in interviews has always been, “Who were your heroes growing up?†Since I interview myself at least 5x a week, this question gets asked of me (by me – to me).
I have music heroes, acting heroes, directing heroes, author heroes, comedy heroes, music heroes, and even one sports hero.
I know them all by name, and I basically worship at their altar. I know the bible suggests otherwise, but the bible says all sorts of weird stuff. I think if you read carefully they’re cool with stoning women. So you have to pick and choose the passages.
I believe that my obsession with having heroes stemmed from not having a ton of self-esteem growing up. I always thought I was not doing enough, not working as hard as my potential would suggest. As a result I revered people at the top of their respected fields.
Over the years (and through a lot of therapy), I no longer think of myself as a piece of crap. Well, I’m still a piece of crap, but one you would show off to your wife because it was in the shape of a unicorn and reflected light like the Hope diamond. Okay, I guess I don’t think quite that highly of myself. My shit’s just regular old shit.
As my self-worth has returned to a normal, more healthy level, my love of heroes has not changed. I still dream of meeting my heroes in real life. I know that if I met guitarist Joe Satriani I would cry uncontrollably like a preteen at a Justin Bieber backstage makeout party. He was the reason I picked up a guitar for the first time 23 years ago. Important dude in my life. Of course, I’m talking about Justin Bieber.
I am amazed at the number of times I have asked grown adults who their heroes are and they stare at me blankly. I feel like they are missing out on connecting to someone’s passion. My heroes are sources of inspiration. When I hear the near-perfection that is most Beatles songs, I want to pick up a guitar and write the next Yesterday. Of course I probably never will, but that’s not the point.
With heroes I am motivated to do something that engages my own passion. It’s not that I want to achieve greatness or get rich or be famous – I mean, I totally do, but that’s just so I can wipe my fanny with monogrammed toilet paper after I poop out unicorn diamonds. My heroes keep me going because every one of them engages their passion. That encourages me to do the same.
Oooh, what if I’m your hero? I would for sure let you take me to dinner to Friday’s where you’d only have to spend $20 and I’d get one of their awful fried appetizers and let you stare deep into my eyes while your fruity cocktail glass shook nervously as you struggled to make eye contact because you were this close to greatness. Best run-on sentence ever!
Ever since I can remember, touching a cotton ball freaks me out more than anything else.
Let me put this in perspective. When I was nineteen I worked as a security guard in a Jewish retirement home. I had a badge. It was totally lame, and I just sat around reading books and drinking from the water-cooler. I sat behind a desk, and pretended to look tough.
That summer I watched a beautiful woman my age who did the cleaning with her grandparents every day. I never had the courage to ask her out.
I did, however, have the courage to find three dead bodies. Well, not courage, exactly. I just ended up finding three dead bodies. Old people die sometimes.
These were elderlies who kicked off in their apartments. And you know what? While a little sad, the idea of seeing a dead person (this was my first experience) wasn’t such a big deal. I don’t remember freaking out at all. Even the smell didn’t bother me.
But the idea of touching a cotton ball, then and today, sends me into a inner mental frenzy. I’d just as soon never touch one for the rest of my life.
Now, I’m not a total spaz. You wouldn’t notice that if you put a cotton ball in my palm I start screaming on the inside. I play it cool. Inside I’m exploding like a tween at a Justin Bieber mall sighting. But not in the good way, like exploding with excitement. Like in the bad way, where I need to run away so far that I’m sure it won’t roll in my direction and stalk me.
So, here’s the deal. If you place one in my palm, I can deal. If you ask me to pick one out of a bag of them, I’d really rather not do that. I suppose I could, but I would try to find any excuse in the world to get you to do it for me. If one fell to the ground and you asked me to pick it up, I would not. You are pushing me too far. Stop now.
Then, if you asked me to squeeze one with my fingers, I would sprint away at full speed, sweating like a bastard. Because to squeeze a cotton ball between my fingers would be fucking CRAZY. I’m all worked up just writing that. No lie.
Every time I get a new vitamin bottle with the cotton at the top, it’s pure agony to remove it. I’ve tried using two knives to grab it like a chopstick so my fingers don’t actually touch it, but I can still sort of feel the texture that way. No good.
Sometimes I just press the cotton to the bottom with a pen cap (which also is awful because of the pressure) and try to jimmy the meds out around the cotton.
This is my personal Vietnam.
Can you imagine how awful it would be for me if I were a woman? Using a cotton ball to remove makeup? No way, Jose! Also, tampons? Forget that. I’d be a proud panty-liner patron.
To be clear, snakes don’t bother me. I can speak before a thousand people and not break a sweat. Fingernails across a chalkboard? It’s like a symphony to my ears. I could chew on tinfoil and love every bite.
But cotton balls – man, that’s just not cool. Not cool.
Think I’m alone? Well, I’m not!
Now, if you watch this, you’re going to think it’s fake. But I know better. It ain’t fake. I know this woman. And to a much less embarrassing extent, I AM this woman.
So, if you ever want to see me in the fetal position, build a wall of cotton around me. Sure I could just run through it to escape, but I totally wouldn’t. I’d just stay in the circle until someone rescued me. And I’m pretty sure I’d have my eyes closed the whole time.
Ooh, now I’m thinking of stepping on it. That’s freaking me out. End of post.
]]>My condo is usually less than perfectly clean, I don’t spend more than 30 seconds on my hair (brushes and combs are lame), and once a week I go to sleep without brushing my teeth.
I don’t use any moisturizer on my face nor do I wear cologne.
But I also have never slept in a tent or gone hunting. I don’t watch sports and during the Superbowl I have to ask which team has the dark jerseys. Then I have to ask what the other team’s name is.
I probably fall in the middle when it comes to masculinity.
One thing that sends me screaming like a little girl at a Debbie Gibson concert, though, is when someone cracks their knuckles.
Desperately need to update my pop culture references. The obvious choice would have been Justin Bieber but something about him really creeps me out.
Let’s face it – cracking your knuckles is gross.
Only twice in my life have I had my knuckles cracked and they were both by other people. In both instances I freaked out after the first one and refused to participate further.
Actually, that’s not entirely true. I was getting a massage in Santa Fe recently, and the woman cracked each of my toe knuckles. No jive. It was so weird. But I went with it.
When I hear someone cracking their knuckles, my face gets pale for a second. I recover quickly usually by thinking about something more pleasurable, like the pizza I am going to binge on that evening.
To me cracking your knuckles in public is a distant cousin of picking your nose.
But am I the only one who gets fouled out at knuckle cracking?
Let’s say “no” so that I don’t feel so alone.
