The Man of Action

Of all of the advice I’ve stolen from ex-girlfriends, for raw figures of everyday impact, none can compare to some I heard rather offhandedly about two years back.

The circumstances around the advice aren’t reallly worth reconstructing, but advice given is always advice needed, at least in the mind of the advisor. In this case, the ex was given the advice as an intervention. A stab at getting her life back on track. “Look at yourself now,” the ex’s mother said, “what would the middle school version of you think if she could see you now? Would she be proud?

I think about this all of the time.

What you have here is this smaller version of yourself presented as an ideal interviewer – showing innocence without stupidity, inexperience without ignorance You have no choice but to care about what Past You thinks about Now You, unless you throw all concern for consistency out the window.

But when I sit down to interview myself, I’m always just getting home from high school. For me, high school was the last time when I felt really sure of anything, myself included. Self-worth in those years was just so basic. If I took AP classes, I was smart. If I talked to people at lunch, I was popular. If I got an A on a paper, I was a good writer. My opinions, once created, were unshakable and always, always right. If I woke up and wanted to wear a tie, I’d wear a tie without endlessly retracing the same steps in some search for meaning – is a tie too formal or too gay? What does it say about me now that I have gone out once wearing a tie? Is this some rigid precedence I’m setting? – because, fundamentally, a tie was a fucking tie.

What I can see now is that my high school self wasn’t wearing a tie, or indeed any other clothes at all. I was living a blissful inexperience without challenge. And the really sad bit is that I know I can never go back. It’s like “Glory Days” on repeat, even though instead of glory, I’m more nostalgic for not having to worry about glory or creativity or anything else, for that matter.

But, as dumb as he is, when my high school self sits down to chat, all I can think about is making sure he thinks I’m cool. The closer the peer, the greater the peer pressure, and when the peer is you, it gets mighty strong.

To keep up my image, I practice stories of my coolness. By now, I’ve told the main ones so many times it seems like even people I meet for the first time have heard them already. And so my life is now a continuous struggle to gather more stories, more evidence of my coolness to appease my young inquisitor.

Maybe you’ve heard these already:

My family sells fireworks in South Carolina for 50 years in a huge store known across the state.
I grew up very, very poor and on welfare before moving to Michigan.
At Michigan, I was a late-nite DJ on WCBN FM.
At the Daily, I snuck into the ‘04 Democratic National Convention in Boston with help from Michael Moore.
As a photographer, I saw so many free concerts, traveled across the country, went on adventures in abandoned buildings.
I graduated college with a degree in Neuroscience.
I slept on a cargo boat from Minnesota to Michigan.
I slept in an aluminum refining plant.
I slept with my chemistry professor.

And now the latest story:
I moved to Los Angeles.