The Kim Kardashian Interview

I can make these fuckers dance. Words, I mean. I've been awarded, you know. And now I'm here to sell you Kim fucking Kardashian.

You understand this is an insult to everyone involved, right? But her team, and her, really, thinks (and at this point let's credit them and say "knows") there can't be bad publicity, so here we are. A self-involved literaturist and Kim K. Internally, I howl in disdain, veering on hatred. Externally, I have resting bitch face. Or whatever that is on a man.

And yet, do you have any idea what they're paying me for this? $34,000 for an interview-centered thinkpiece. They have to be hoping it's a hit job. That's the only thing that makes sense. Some snob bashes Ms. Talentless and it rallies her hordes of failures, the ones who watch her show, and buy magazines featuring her, and play her phone game where I-don't-know-and-refuse-to-look-up-anything-about-it-on-principle. Kim Kardashian is a pet rock come to life. But then it just kept sitting there, being a pet rock, but breathing.

And yet. And Yet. AND YET. Who am I? Because her whole "deal" is offensive to me and people like me because it doesn't just feel like a repudiation, it *is* the repudiation of our entire self-value. Intelligence and accomplishment? Meh.

Can I be honest? Like savagely chauvinistically honest? Fuck it, I’m doing it.

She’s some weird gestalt. She’s her ass. She’s her tits. She’s her face. She’s her flawless complexion. She’s her hair. She’s her uptilted voice. She’s her goddamned family. So she’s her sister, and her other sister (you know, the tall one), and her half-sister and the other half-sister and now her brother and her brother’s pregnant Blac Chyna.

I swear that when I wrote the words Blac Chyna, one of my awards disintegrated on the mantelpiece.

But, anyway, she’s all of those things, plus, somethingorother, plus kanye goddamned west.

Oh, Jesus Christ, I just remembered Kris Humphries.

What important in my mind got pushed out so I could hold on to Kris Humphries?

That’s probably why I hate Kim Kardashian: her insipid bullshit has stolen valuable brain real-estate.

But who is she? And who cares? I mean, who really cares?

I have a bazillion-ty IQ. I’ve been published in Harper’s Weekly and the New Yorker. My great-great-grandfather is the Rhodes from the Rhodes Scholarship (let’s gloss over his racism, svp). I got kicked out of prestigious boarding schools and went and did drugs and joined the Marines and wrote that hard-hitting book (you know the one) that made the intelligentsia swoon (I didn’t use punctuation! On purpose!) and then I wrote that play that bombed and tried my hand at screenwriting and then my second novel had punctuation and sold dick and then I was a columnist and then my third novel was fine, but only fine, and then…and then…and now.

So I’m here and I’m me and I’m waiting for Kim Kardashian to appear and I don’t like her because of course I don’t like her. Do we really have to do this?

There are only so many ways that this can even go:
1.     She shows up and is boring and of course
2.     I’m flabbergasted that she’s an astute and clever businesswoman, the depths to her cleaving me to my core
3.     I hit on her to make her uncomfortable because all of this triggers some dormant ape-dominance gene and I want to assert that I have value and who the hell does she think she is?
4.     Words come out of her mouth and does it matter? Does anything matter at this point? Did it ever? Why, God? Why.
5.     We talk about whatever it is she wants to sell because that’s why I’m here and I am a sarcastic asshole because I really want to do this one please.
6.     We talk about whatever it is she wants to sell because that’s why I’m here and I steal the $34,000 by recording what she says and later typing it, verbatim, with no commentary, and I pray the intelligentsia thinks, again, that a gimmick is brilliant.
7.     We tear each other’s clothes off and have furious, vengeful, disappointing sex. I acknowledge the disappointing part is my fault.  I’m a balding, out-of-shape, middle-aged writer. What?

Why did I have to bring sex up? “Have to”. I had to. Seriously. Ray J. Silver paint. Playboy. Break the Internet. Selfies. Had to. 

What’s she going to do when her sexual currency dries up? Will it?

Why in the hell is she popular?

That’s the question. At least, for folks like me. For the others, it’s not a question; it’s nonsensical. She’s popular because she’s popular. It’s the Law of Inertia. Objects in motion stay in motion. Duh.

She’s a mother and a person and why for any and all of this? WHY?

What’s the point?

Could she disappear, even if she wanted to? Why wouldn’t she want to? She can’t want to, right?

I say I’d take the multi-millions (she has to be over 100 million by now and acknowledging that makes me want to stab things) and slink off, but I’ve made considerably less than that, but still good money (and inherited a decent amount; thanks, Cecil), and I’ve refused to slink off myself. Hell, I’m a remora at this point, aren’t I?

And now I’ve been flown to Paris for this. I’ve literally had to pay for my own gas to drive to Des Moines to sign books at a Barnes and Noble, and that goddamned book (the fine third one) took years of my life and a piece of my soul and now Hearst Magazines paid for me to fucking fly to fucking Paris for this. And they paid for the hotel and gave me a reasonable per diem.

Buy Cosmo.

More.

Can you believe I’ve made it this far and I haven’t mentioned Paris Hilton yet?

Or Orenthal James?

But I’m in this room. It’s a hotel room. Why a hotel room for these things?  There are other private places that don’t have a bed. 

I’m a real sexist bastard for the sex thing to keep popping in my head, right?

:/ (Shrugs)

Oh, Christ. She makes money off emojis or some such, doesn’t she?

I’m not looking anything up for this interview; they can go to hell. Who can go to hell? They all can. All of them.

What are we going to talk about? Maybe that’s my opener: “So, Miss Kardashian…or Mrs. West…or Kim…or what the hell do I call you because I don’t actually know you, even though me and everyone else has taken possession of you because you’re everywhere and a part of our lives even though some of us don’t want you to be, have I mentioned I hate you, and, oh wait, what are we going to talk about?”

I brought a notepad for this. Because I’m a professional. But I’m using it to write this out, now aren’t I?

But I’m sitting here in this Parisian hotel room (of course it’s overlooking the Champs) and I’m writing this and I’m waiting on Bruce/Caitlyn’s (former) stepdaughter and I hate this and I hate myself for being here, but you bastards didn’t buy those last two books, so I hate you too. My play wasn’t that bad. Fuck.

Do I get to meet Kris Jenner? I want to meet her. Just for a second. Just to brush up against pure evil. She has to be, right? The multimedia mogul matriarch. Do I have to explain this? She had money. So none of this is for that. Why push her daughter into the limelight? Y’all have heard the “theory” that she sold the sex-tape to Vivid through an intermediary for plausible deniability to drum up publicity for the upcoming show Keeping Up with the Kardashians, right? Because…well, because…  And then she’s pushing the young ones into the limelight. I think. How the hell would I know?

Will I be able to smell the fear of death on her? It has to reek. Like a widow’s perfume (Kris is a widow, after all). That’s what I assume. For that much chutzpah, that much brazen insecurity, well, she has to be terrified of aging and death. Has to be. She’ll look plasticine in real life, won’t she?  Whatever.

I’ll keep it to Kimberley Noel Kardashian. Kimberley Humphries. Kimberley West.

I did it. I just used my phone and looked up something for this and now I know she was married to a guy named Thomas from 2000-2004. So, Kimberley Thomas. Oh, and that Ray J sex tape was from 2003, so legally, that’s adultery, huh?

Can I hate her? Can I please hate her? I don’t know why I feel like I truly need approval for this, but I do.

When she walks in, am I going to notice her butt because it’s noticeable or because it’s the thing I’m supposed to notice?

Oh! The door’s opening. I have to set this down.

Okay, back. To meet the contractual requirements, this has to be a 1500-word piece about Kim Kardashian and it must include dialogue from our interview. 

She walked in the room and said “Hello” and then other things.

The Weather Channel Internal Memo for All On-Air Talent

A cousin of mine works at TWC and passed this along:

From: TWC Management
To: All On-Air Talent
RE: BROADCAST REQUIREMENTS

Talent,
We are thankful and appreciative of your routine efforts, however, we are a business, and all our market research and tracking shows that we don't make money based on your average, everyday forecasts.  

Advertisers pay beyond what they would for virtually no viewers on a day-to-day basis on the regular occurrence of a catastrophe that we can massage.

We have a country that spans a continent.  There is a weather event we can work with on AT-LEAST a weekly basis.

So, TWC requires that you and your production teams MUST:

1. USE YOUR IMAGINATION. Look. Let's be blunt. We love you and so we hired you and continue to pay you, but TWC is not the pinnacle of a broadcasting career. If you want to get back on track, you're going to need stand out. Take some risks, be a trifle ridiculous, go for it.  Maybe don't go so overboard that you go viral and it hurts you down the road, but we will NEVER tell you to turn it down. 

2. DRAMATIZE. Do so to the point of being ridiculous. People will roll their eyes, but they will still watch. AND THEY WILL KEEP TWC ON ALL DAY if the event impacts them. Do you have any idea what Red Lobster pays during even a tropical depression?! 

3. OVERSTATE.  Add 33% to the impact area AND the effects.  Hell, add 50% if you think you can remotely justify it.  Did you find someone willing to support a S.W.A.G. (Silly Wild Ass Guess)? Put them on air and see if you can brow beat them into hyperbole. You can do it. We believe in you. 

4. DEADLY-FY. If a tree branch can fall on a baby, without a storm, you can explain the dangers of rain! and wind! and debris! and tides! and waves! and dust! and fill-in-the-blank!  Always appeal to the danger to children and the elderly. ALWAYS.

5. GET WET. Wade in the surf; have someone off-camera spray you with a garden hose. We don't care. We get a spike in viewership if y'all look miserable, courageous, and endangered.

6. LIFE INSURANCE WILL PAY OFF QUADRUPLE IF YOU DIE ON AIR.  Only to the first one to take us up on this. We retain rights to your life story and your death story.

7. INSIST THIS ISN'T LIKE THE LAST TIME WE DID THIS. Can't preach this enough.  Find any minute difference in situations and explain how the current "threat" must be taken seriously. DEADLY SERIOUSLY. Then do what you always do.

8. DON'T SPEAK TO JIM CANTORE UNTIL JIM CANTORE SPEAKS TO YOU. DON'T LOOK JIM CANTORE IN THE EYES. He's a god. You're not.

Notes Whilst Storm Prepping

Whilst house-and-dog-sitting, ordinarily, my duties are to keep the dog and plants alive and to ravage the pantry.  This time we have a tropical storm/depression rolling through.  I'm in the midst of a bout of insomnia whereby I begrudgingly fall asleep at 2-3am and then pop awake, against all desire otherwise, at 5-6am.  These are my thoughts as I get the house in order:


1.  The tiny, yapping dog does not understand why the furniture that gets used twice a year (screened-in back porch) and the furniture that gets used never (open front porch) are coming in to live with the furniture that gets used all the time.  

2.  Neither do I.

3.  The tiny, yapping dog thinks I'm really bad at this new furniture placement and that I'm really %$#!ing up the feng-shui.  

4.  He's not wrong.

5.  Note to self: as with the lessons learned from moving a bajillion times in life, never have a thing you don't use once a month, at least. 

6. You can make do without. 

7. Diogenes got down to only having a bowl in his life, until he saw a pauper drink water by cupping his hands; then he got rid of the bowl.

8. Anti-materialism is commendable, but Diogenes was a bit of a prig.

9.  The dog does not understand why the plants that live on the porch must come in.

10.  That's no surprise because, even before the storm/plant movement, the dog did not understand why plants, which are designed to be outdoors are kept outdoors, on the porch, but in a place where they must be watered.

11.  Neither do I.

12. Note to self: nothing living that can't contend for itself should be in my future home. 

13. Strikes out plants, pets, and babies.  

14. Probably a trophy wife too.  

15. My home will be a cold, stark fortress. 

16.  But it will be a monument to self-sufficiency.

17.  It takes a week for the dog to think its loving masters are dead and I, the heartless humanoid who dutifully fills bowls and opens doors (yet shows zero affection whatsoever) am, if not the life giver, the life-allower.  
18.  After which, he follows my every movement by walking a micron next to/under me, just to make sure I don't abandon him too.  

19.  This is not helpful when lugging unwieldy, dripping plant pots indoors.

20.  Big Green Eggs™ are wondrous. 

21.  Until I have to lug one, by myself, with a tiny yapping dog underneath my feet, into a garage through a narrow side door. 

22.  A narrow side door with an 8 inch lip.  

23.  Then, Big Green Eggs™ are 100+lbs ceramic monstrosities without handles and if I drop or chip this one, my life will be over, because the sort of people who buy them (in this case, my mom's husband) are *that* serious about grilling. 

24.  Storm Prep for the boat was so much easier.

25.  Checked the lines.

26.  Cut the power to the boat.

27.  Raised a prayer to the Almighty to either let the Argo come through without a scratch or to mercilessly sink it.

28.  Disaster is if it gets beat beyond recognition but still floats.

29.  If I were homeless, I'd figure out how to get to Key West or Hawaii.  

30.  They don't have soup kitchens for the homeless in hot places, right? 

31.  Soup's too warm for hot places.

32.  Cucumber sandwich kitchens?

33.  I hate cucumbers.

34.  Tomato sandwich kitchens!

35.  I wonder what mayo they'd use?

36. Dad's family is a Duke's™ family.

37.  Mom's family is a Hellman's™ family.

38.  I'm 37 and I haven't definitively chosen yet.

39.  That makes me some sort of Southern heretic, I'm pretty sure.

40.  Okay; I'm choosing: I'm going Hellman's

41. Well, maybe I should find a neutral third one. 

42. Then I'm not back to being an 8 year old and having my parents make me choose between them again.

43.  Well, that was a dark joke.

44.  I could go hipster and make my own mayo; it's just vinegar and egg whites, I think.  

45.  Obama's the 45th president, right?

46. I need to get some sleep.

48. I'm not making much sense anymore.

34. When was the last time I really made sense anyway.

4012. tgaklg2415@#%^^NA$! zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz zzzzzz zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

An Open Letter to All Single Women: I Give Up

I just don't know what to do about you women. I am besides myself. I am verklempt, for crissakes.

How many times am I supposed to put my heart out there, unprotected, for you women only for y'all to casually dismiss me? If you even notice me in the first place...

Blake Lively, Melanie Iglesias, Amber Heard, Angela Lansbury, Rosamund Pike, and, now, Taylor gawddam Swift...

All of the waitresses and bartendresses I leave 40% tips for when I go out six nights a week...

The randos I buy top shelf liquor for each night...

The one really pretty, ginger barrista over at Kudu's who calls me 'hun' when she hands me my double-soy half-mocha latte but always pretends she can't understand what I'm saying when I ask for her number...

I'm not good enough for ANY of y'all?!?! 

You gotta be kidding me.

I clearly don't know what women want because it sure as shit isn't perfection. 

Because that's me, baby: fucking perfection.

I mean, I'm not some nancy-boy model, but that's the point. I'm a real man. I have most of my hair and some of it's grey, because I'm not a child. Know how else I'm not a child? My eyebrows are cordlike and menacing. My face isn't sun-damaged; it's weathered. Weathered is to faces as aging is to wines, dumbasses.

And don't even get me started on my body. 

Look, a man's muscles are supposed to be there for when he needs them, not to look pretty in a mirror. 

And that's how I have the platonic ideal of a modern man body: I don't have much muscle because I don't need it. Seriously, nearly everything I'd need muscles for, I can press a button and some machine does it for me. 

And don't give me that crap about needing muscles and cardio for sex. A) You're the ones who pointlessly spend hours each week pilate-zoomba-yoging so you can do all the thrashing around required and B) I don't really need cardio or muscles for the three minutes of sex that you'd let me have with you twice a week anyways. BOOM! (DROPS MIC)

Also, I have a natural pimp strut. This limp is macho as hell. And if chicks dig scars, they'd need a backhoe or an industrial mining drill for the gruesome seven-incher down my leg that looks like a nightmare version of one of the millipedes from Temple of Doom.

And let's get real about my body.  Here's the truth:  I'm 36. I'm middle-aged.  Unlike the other guys my age who have gained 50lbs in the past few years,  I've methodically added four pounds each year since college, like clockwork, so I get all the positives of a sexy-ass dad-bod with none of the tiger-striping grossness of stretch marks.  I'm like an adorable, smooth-bellied buddha.  

An adorable smooth-bellied buddha with most of his hair, and fierce eyebrows, and a weathered, manly-ass face. 

I rest my case.

No, I don't really, because that's the thing. I'm not just an object.

I hate how shallow women are about little things like "success" and "career potential".  Don't y'all realize how little we all control what happens to us? I mean, I did all the right things; I technically have a doctorate-level degree after all.  Shit happens, is my point.

It's not my fault the economy tanked and I am living on a tiny sail boat that's older than I am. 

I mean, sure, I could have "tried harder" to find a "traditional job" that "paid my bills", but I'm an artist, baby.  I gotta be me. 

And right now, being me means living on that dinghy.  Well, it did, until I hurt my leg and had to start crashing at my mom's place. 

You know, to hold that against me is kinda sexist because I shouldn't have it be a black mark that I have a healthy, reciprocally beneficial relationship with a woman (mom). I get a place where there's a bathroom that I don't have to pour over the side of the boat, and she gets to help me with my bills a few times a month. It empowers her. 

But fine, I admit I'm not top shelf right now, but I'm one hell of a buy low opportunity. You have to admit that.

Also, aside from success, let's talk about personality. I've got one hell of a winner here. Because I keep it real. And by "real," I mean "moderately depressed." Any man my age who's an optimist has had a lobotomy or access to all the best drugs for over well over a decade.  

A real man should have a personality that reads like a PTSD checklist. Am I bitter? Check. Do I hate groups? Check. Do I not talk about my feelings? Check. Am I highly apathetic? Check. Do I drink too much? Check. Do I blow a fuse at the drop of a hat? Check. Do I fear change? Super-check.

Nowadays, candy-asses think those are negatives. When I was growing up, those were considered virtues.  

Also, because nothing matters to me, I'm more than happy to let you do whatever silly, pointless crap you want. We can get a mini-van and go on a wine tour of Napa and I'll wear the $200 asshat shirt you bought me and insist I wear and I'll go to a "stylist" for my haircuts.  It's all fine with me because none of it moves the needle. At all. Seriously.  How is this not the biggest PRO in my favor? I don't get it. 

Not that I care much whether I get it.

But I really would like someone to coddle me and pay attention to me and look at me with intense unrestrained longing and I just don't know what else I can do to make that happen. 

I guess what I'm saying is, y'all need to step your game up and get your shit together, ladies. Because I'm not going to stay on the market for long.