I was not fishing for the comment today, but the therapist said something that has calmed an accumulating fear about myself. Her exact words were: “Wow, you really like and respect all your exes.” I laughed, because I did not see that coming. Since leaving her office I have let it trickle down. She said it with genuineness, and with a certain look of puffiness in her face and eyes. She answered one of the key questions I had entering into this midlife round of therapy: Am I and have I always been a latent misogynist who does not deserve love or happiness, and whose latent misogyny helps sabotage all my relationships? I now answer that compound-complex question with a word: No!, with an exclamation point. I am an OK guy, and a decent human being. That conclusion is sufficiently moderate in its scope that I can accept it sans fear of backtracking on account of its exuberances.
I celebrated this triumphal insight with a rare-for-me shopping excursion up Madison and 5th Avenues. I was looking for a jumbo-sized canvas messenger bag, the likes of which I cannot seem to find satisfactory specimens on Amazon or anywhere else, though I found something pretty close to what I had in mind last night. I seek zillions of pockets and plenty of room for a DSLR and either a tablet or laptop, as well as a light jacket or vest and a handful of porns. I found nothing close to what I had in mind on Madison/5th today but I decided to celebrate my Declaration of Human Decency with a purchase of a pair of shorts that is as white as I am. White!, with an exclamation point.
In less moderately sanguine developments in my ever-fascinating life I seem to have stirred up a hornet’s nest of incredulity between myself and a 2600/HOPE conference organizer who asked me to speak at said event. I see now that I never should have responded in the first place but that is my damn fault and I accept responsibility for getting myself into this increasingly strident e-mail exchange.
I was not on e-mail last night because I was spending time with a good friend (we had a great time, btw, for the ages). So I did not see the “URGENT” subject line message asking if I had heard any of what turned out to be 9 or 10 voicemail messages (hah, almost typed “voidemail”). I am supposed to get text message alerts whenever a voicemail lands at my (212) area code number but for some reason that did not happen. I already noticed he had called 5 or 6 times but I had no idea he went on to call again and again and again.
I am not blowing sunshine up my ass but I have to imagine that the conference is having trouble finding speakers this time and that this person thinks I am interesting because I have some media pedigree with the various features and appearances. A virtual celebrity by phreaker standards? I don’t know but it makes no sense for someone like me to be pursued with such urgency. I am staying away because I am not a phreak or a hacker, I am not a script kiddy, I have nothing to say to an audience of such individuals, and most importantly I do not want outiders of that realm to think I have any stature, relevance, or self-assumed prestige in the world of phone phreaks.
Phew.
I am at the millennial bar, waiting for the band to start. The bartender remembered me this time. I smiled. It is a dichotomous void over which I dangle. I come here because no one knows and me and no one cares that I exist; yet i take some satisfaction in being recognized and remembered by the bartender. It makes me feel famous.
Famous!
