Watching the season premiere of Saturday Night Live, I realize that Michael Phelps is not the least bit interesting to me when he’s wearing clothes. While his accomplishments in this year’s Olympics were inarguably historic, I’m a little perplexed by this business of promoting him as a sex symbol. Sure, he’s got that crazy ripped body, but then you get to the face, and the contrast just confuses the hell out of my penis.Preppy’s working an overnight doing inventory, so I’m hanging out at the house with my cousin Nelson, which I won’t be able to do much longer.
Nelson got an offer he couldn’t refuse, returning to the pricey fancy-pants seafood restaurant he used to work at in our nation’s capitol. Apparently the period of time between the election and inauguration of a new president is like Mardi Gras up there, and people who work in areas of the service industry catering to moneyed pundits spend those months rolling around naked in piles of cash. I can’t really argue with the choice.
Nelson’s straining the laws of physics trying to pack everything he’ll need for the next four months into his Prius. What must go with him, versus what must stay here in Atlanta, reveals a lot about the life he intends to have up there. He’s leaving his good suit, but taking his lacrosse stick.
“This is a challenge,” says Nelson, furrowing his brow and staring at the pile of pots and pans he’d hoped to include. “I want my saucepan, but do I need it more than my brown shoes?”
“Take the saucepan,” I say. “You’re straight. Doesn’t matter if your shoes match your outfit.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, it’s the trade-off. Gay guys don’t have to worry about getting anyone pregnant, and straight guys don’t have to worry about accessorizing. We all get a little something special.”
“That’s fantastic,” says Nelson, as he goes to the Prius to remove the shoes.
The next morning, Nelson is on the road and Preppy’s sound asleep, and I’m sitting in my office tapping away at the next script that will take up six months of my life and make me no money. A little window pops up alerting me that I need to update my anti-virus software. I click “OK” and keep typing.
And that’s when the shit hits the fucking fan.
The desktop disappears. My blood pressure goes up ten points. Fifty pop-up windows fill the screen. A strangled screech forms in the back of my throat. Then the screen goes blue and a message tells me the computer is beginning a “system dump.” This is the entire spectrum of panic, including levels that only dogs can hear.
“Noooo!” I scream. “Don’t dump! Don’t you dare fucking dump you piece of crap I hate you so much! Eee-yaaaa!”
I remove the battery, and sit panting at my desk. You can’t dump if you’re not on, right?
I call my friend Joey, who’s good with computers. It’s important to have someone in your life at all times who’s good with computers. If you’re curious, you also need: A friend with a truck, a stylish friend who wears the same size as you, a friend who can talk about sex in graphic detail without getting weirded out, and a friend with tools. That’s just off the top of my head, I’m sure there are others.
“You fell for a Trojan Horse?” says Joey. “Really, Topher, have I taught you nothing?”
“Apparently not. So really, this is your fault, because you didn’t teach me.”
“I’ll look at it tonight. If you can access your files, get some CDs and save whatever you don’t want to lose forever. We might have to scrap your system and start over.”
I only have one blank CD. Curse all those mixes I burned from I-tunes! Did I really need Best of the 90’s Volume Three that badly? Well, yes I did. Sometimes singing along with Pearl Jam is the only thing that keeps my shit in one sneaker, okay?
“Alright, ya bastard,” I say, restarting the computer and entering the viral minefield that was once my desktop. “What do I really need?”
All of my writing is safely stored for just this scenario, so we’re really talking about photos, music, stuff like that. And much to my surprise, there isn’t all that much I can’t live without. I don’t actually NEED the crappy Nelly Furtado/Bon Jovi mashup, or the naked pictures of famous people.
Well, okay, maybe a few of those.
That night, I bring my sick Dell over to Joey’s perfectly staged home. He’s got it on the market now, following the recent demise of his six-year relationship. After all those years of nesting, he’s cutting his losses and hoping for a studio apartment to simplify things.
“Let’s see if we can save this baby,” he says.
“No worries if you can’t,” I say. “I’ve got what I need.”
It’s like that question of what you’d grab if your house was on fire. We live with an abundance of stuff in our hard drives and houses, which we really could walk away from if what’s important had to fit in a CD, a Prius, or a studio apartment. And that’s actually reassuring.
It’s been said that you can’t take it with you. But if you really examine your life, often you realize you don’t really need to after all.
That night, I bring my sick Dell over to Joey’s perfectly staged home. He’s got it on the market now, following the recent demise of his six-year relationship. After all those years of nesting, he’s cutting his losses and hoping for a studio apartment to simplify things.
“Let’s see if we can save this baby,” he says.
“No worries if you can’t,” I say. “I’ve got what I need.”
It’s like that question of what you’d grab if your house was on fire. We live with an abundance of stuff in our hard drives and houses, which we really could walk away from if what’s important had to fit in a CD, a Prius, or a studio apartment. And that’s actually reassuring.
It’s been said that you can’t take it with you. But if you really examine your life, often you realize you don’t really need to after all.
