THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF AN EX-OTHER MAN'S FAVORITE EX-OTHER MAN: Hot Women, Thought-Filled Boyfriends, Abstract Expressionist Paintings

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- There's things about me, I tell her, she's not going to want to hear about.

In fact, there are things about me and where I've been, things I've done, that I don't want to hear about.

She's not happy with my answer but, well, she accepts it. Me being the Man of Fucking Mystery, and all that.

She's standing in my living room, staring at my very lovely, very intentionally crooked abstract expressionist piece.

I painted it years ago, after I'd gone clean, one particularly bad night on the beaches of California's Central Coast, overlooking the village of Cayucos.

"It's about nothing. Sorta about Jackson Pollock. But a lot about Lee Krasner and my perceptions of their marriage..."

I can tell she knows nothing about either artist, about California beyond Disneyland and television, doesn't get my whole Well, see, I don't smoke weed because, like, I'll have to check myself into rehab bit, either.

Apparently, if you add in some White Russians and a joint, I'd make a perfect Ohio version of The Dude, given my lifestyle and the way my brain works. Sadly, I really don't see any similarities...

But she says she gets the nothing part. About the painting. My crooked, three-foot-long, acrylic-covered canvas is purple and squiggly and pretty, she says. I leave it at that.

She totally ignored the abstract form on the same wall, the one I'd, well, sorta painted using a woman's breasts. No sense in bringing that up.

"You know, you're the most interesting guy I've met in college," she says. "EVER. I can see why girls think you're a mystery."

She turns as I hand her a cup of tea. She was hoping for something harder, but, well, after last call on a Saturday night my apartment goes drier than an AA meeting in Utah.

The Dude may abide, but I hate hangovers just as much as he hates the fucking Eagles, man.

* * * *

She'd been drinking Crown Royal and Cokes at one of Oxford's lesser watering holes, a veritable swap meet of flesh. I could smell the blended Canadian whiskey on her breath as she talked, even a few feet away.

I'd offered her a ride home - it was her idea to come back to my place, just to talk. Her new roommate was wasted and probably going home with some guy from the bar where they'd been drinking away the start of the new academic year.

And she sorta knew me, or had seen me before, so...

She'd always wondered, she says, where the librarians around these parts disappear to at night. Or where the faculty go (they commute), or support staff (again, commute), or even the custodians go when the sun goes down...

In particular, she's always wondered where certain librarian bloggers go when they're not at work, or writing about Oxford Fucking Ohio, or...

* * * *

A knock at the door. She doesn't look away from the painting. She's been staring at it for a good fifteen minutes.

I open the door to find a guy in a print-pattern shirt, designer jeans, and flip-flops staring at me, wondering what the hell he's doing at this random stranger's apartment at well past four in the morning.

"Lose your girlfriend?"

"Um, I think so. Sorry. Are you Jason?"

"Yup. C'mon in..."

He's sober as a priest in rehab. He probably drove all the way over, wondering why the girl he's been seeing for a few months called him from another guy's apartment.

An older guy's apartment.

He's nervous. Not yet visibly upset, but obviously embarrassed and probably angry, too. I'd be all of those things, if I were in his shoes.

He walks the short corridor; the living room opens before him. And there she stands, beneath a strange crooked painting. He finds his girlfriend fully clothed, tipsy but not shitfaced drunk, staring at a wall.

And he seems relieved. I'd be too if I were in his shoes.

We're talking a seriously hot young woman here.

* * * *

"Chica, your ride's here."

That snaps her out of it.

Whatever contemplation of those funny-sounding abstract expressionist names and colors she's been experiencing ends, that nothingness she's been pondering dissipates like a wet fart.

"Oh hey, baby. This is THAT Jason. You know, that guy from the-"

His eyes light up. He's recognized me. And it's not because he's always running into me at the library, either.

I guess I've made it as a cult-status writer.

Heh. Too funny.

* * * *

"You're the Zenfo Pro Jason, right?" He shoves a hand my direction. "Holy SHIT! I love your shit, dude! Cracks me up."

"Yeah, _____ here seems to dig it, too. Cool chick you've got."

"Ha, she's your biggest fan or something. But I just read, fuck, when I'm bored. But she's like all over your shit."

I take his hand just as she turns her head. She gives both of us that annoyed look tipsy women often give when they're trying to concentrate on something important, like the meaning behind a painting.

Or, well, when two douchebag guys are talking about her in the third fucking person, as if she's some out-of-sight object.

"Cool shit, thanks. Glad I keep students entertained with my fuck-ups."

He makes a face. For a moment, I think I've offended him.

"Oh, fuck that! Dude! You fucking keep me awake in class..."

The boyfriend and I are soon balls' deep in a very man-centric discussion about being a single, smart guy in Oxford Fucking Ohio, the mystery of Cult of the Snake Brother harmony in such a small town, about Joe Nuxhall and Cincinnati baseball, Woodie Guthrie and Bob Dylan and bands like NOFX, the Pixies, and Nirvana ...

Yeah. My bad. Homeboy's girlfriend. Standing right there.

Not the best conversation to have, given the company. How rude of me.

* * * *

But she's fascinated, for some odd reason. She starts moving towards us, closer to him, leaning on him, listening.

The painting no longer interests her as much as the eloquent thoughts her beau's espousing, his knowledge of all these wondrous things. It's clear by the faces she's making and the way she's staring at him that this is the first time she's heard him in such an impassioned conversation.

And he's so enthralled in the subject matter that he's oblivious to the fact that he's become a much more intriguing work of art than any old painting.

Art, after all, is sometimes nothing more than a purple and pretty and squiggly thing, a manifestation of thought, sifted through a creative medium. It's the information contained, the thoughts inspired and the knowledge formulated in its manufacture and study that means something, something more than the aboutness of nothing.

I figure that's my queue to wrap up the conversation. Conveniently, I announce that, well, I'm kinda tired and kinda need to hit the sack.

The way she almost dragged that poor guy out of my apartment...

Heh. Too fucking funny.

* * * *

Hell, I'm sure information can leave you waking up with some serious lower back pain, too. Maybe even a torn ligament.

Not sure if that's how the night ended for the Biggest Fan (trust me, I'm cracking up at how silly that sounds) and her rather cool boyfriend.

Not that I've ever experienced such a thing, mind you. I'd never, ever stoop so low as to let my brain and its infinite capacity for thought get me laid.

No. Never.

And no self-respecting female would ever, ever just want to fuck the shit outta somebody, simply because that person could carry on a decent conversation about mysterious things, could get overwhelmed in an ecstasy of thought, oblivious to the world?

No, never.

Or maybe it was the nothingness of the painting.

You'd be surprised what sorts of things some of those hot Local U. undergrads find fascinating at four in the morning on a Saturday.

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OXFORD CONFIDENTIAL: Oh Sure, Nobody's Ever Been Busted in a College Town for Underage Drinking...

OXFORD, Ohio (ZP) -- Five boxes of cheap bagged wine.

Five boxes. Twenty-five liters of yuppie rotgut.

I've known winos in my life who'd kill for that kind of suburban hooch.

And a case of bottled water, a jar of peanut butter, sugar-free jelly, three bags of pita chips, two bottles of sunblock, three bags of salad, a bottle of whey protein, a gallon of skim milk, and some baby carrots.

I couldn't help but look into their shopping carts as I squeezed between them heading down the cereal aisle.

CARTS. Plural. One cart for the booze, one cart for the food.

Two girls.

Correction. Two young women. With more than six and a half GALLONS of wine in a shopping cart.

A common enough occurrence in any tiny-ass Midwestern college town, the week before classes start and the day before the residence halls reopen for on-campus students. The Local U, in fact, is well-known for its undergraduate binge drinking problem.

And trust me. There's barely anything for a guy my age to do after work in this burg in August. I was a student myself once, and I've drank away my share of dog-day afternoons as both an undergrad and a graduate student.

But here's the problem.

One of the girls - sorry, young women - is wearing an old t-shirt, with the words _____ High School, Class of 2007 sprawled across the front.

And they're openly discussing the fact that Ms. Tee isn't of legal drinking age, discussing things such as the party they're planning and it's location, cracking jokes and saying things like Oh don't worry. The cashiers are Townies. I'm, like, buying so...

Aside from the pair, I'm the youngest person within earshot. There's an elderly couple checking out granola and rolling their eyes at the girls, a 40ish dad type with two teenage girls listening in, too.

There were 10 people in that aisle alone.

* * * *

Here's the deal, for the record.

The ability to purchase alcohol is limited, in all 50 states, to those over the age of 21. And retailers, well, tend to train sales associates how to properly I.D. those who are purchasing alcohol. In Ohio, it's not just illegal to purchase - it's illegal for anyone under 21 to even drink alcoholic beverages, unless it's purchased by a parent or legal-age spouse.

And in Ohio college towns...

Trust me. If one girl rolls up with a shopping cart full of wine, and the girl behind her is underage, and there's even the slightest hint that they may know one another both parties are getting carded. And odds are nobody's leaving the store, 21 or not, with that much wine when an attempt to skirt the law is that, well, obvious.

If the clerk's in a really bad mood, well, they may even involve law enforcement. And those charges, in Oxford Fucking Ohio, even off-campus, can end up getting a student in a lot of trouble on-campus. Violations aren't just a civil offense; they're also potentially an academic disciplinary offense...

I keep shopping. But something's eating away at me.

I dunno - maybe it's being a good citizen, or maybe I'm just shocked that, well, apparently, there are people naive enough to believe the college myth that says Everybody knows we're drinking, so why hide it?

I keep passing these two chicks in the aisles and, well, they're still announcing to the world that they're planning this huge party, that so-and-so just turned 20 and they were, like, gonna get her so wasted...

Hmmm. Are they ... stupid? Brain-damaged? Too many days in the tanning salon, maybe?

No, I tell myself, they're probably just sheltered and don't know any better. Just fucking kids...

* * * *

Finally, I couldn't take it anymore. The school year hasn't even started yet, and some decent citizen is going to narc them out to the store's management, they'll end up getting in a lot of trouble...

I track them back down on the other end of the store.

"Hey ladies? You know, nobody's stupid here."

I'm smiling and talking as softly as I can. They try to play dumb. Ms. Tee crosses her arms over the logo on her chest. She's nervous and knows, well, she's wearing her underage status across her body.

The other young woman is not. She's as brazen as the best of them; a quality I'd find refreshing under normal situations.

"Excuse me. We don't know you. And this is for me. I'm buying it and she has-"

"Do you know there's about 20 of us 'Dumb Townies' walking around here who you've just announced to that there's gonna be a huge-ass party on _____Street where YOUR wine's gonna be used to get a fucking 20-year-old drunk?"

That shut her up.

But, trust me, it's better me being a dick about it than a cop. I don't have arrest powers.

* * * *

Look, I drank under the legal age. I'll admit it. Most people do, at least those who drink.

But I never, ever paraded around with my older friends, the ones buying for me, discussing my intent within earshot of everyone from off-the-clock municipal employees to store clerks and retirees. Some things require a clandestine approach and aren't meant for a fucking audience.

And yes, for the record, I think the 21-and-over laws of the land are complete horseshit, feel that the congressional blackmailing of individual states (there is no mandated federal drinking age; however, states without a 21-and-up law on the books lose federal highway funding) is, well, not helping anyone, and I don't care how much those Mothers Against Drunk Driving bitch, their statistics just don't add up.

I will not repeat my "Not Ready for Primetime" lecture because, well, everybody who's been on a college campus knows that, regardless of bullshit neo - prohibitionist laws, regardless of the number of lectures from advisers and parents and authority figures, the vast majority of underage drinkers are going to find ways to get their hands on booze.

But it's still illegal. While some elements of our society may give kids breaks, other concerned citizens still have the right to report crimes and cops still have to do their jobs.

And while I tend to give myself tend to give underage drinking a wink and a smile, well, I can't turn my back on someone pinning that sort of legal bullseye to their back.

* * * *

There's no law that gives a college student the right to plead I'm in College and this is what college students do, not a court in the nation that would accept that as a defense in the event of an alcohol-related death, not a jury in the world that would accept that as a defense if somebody left that party fucking blitzed, got behind the wheel, and killed somebody.

Pardon the cliche, but, hell, it's not hard to drink responsibly. And to behave responsibly, even as an undergrad in ratfuck Oxford Fucking Ohio. Just be smart about it.

Us grown-ups tolerate underage drinking because, well, we'd generally like to give people the benefit of the doubt and assume they're smart enough to handle it. Hell, most of us were when we were underage - we're still alive, right?

Some people, however, do everything in their power to prove that they can't handle it, assume that, well, their actions in college are somehow excusable, automatically forgivable to all.

But if you're dumb enough to wander around a store, as a legal drinker, with an underage friend, announcing to the world that you're planning on getting another underage drinker drunk enough to puke, well, nobody wants to read about another alcohol-related tragedy in the paper and somebody may say something about it.

* * * *

Oh, and using chapstick on the backs of your hands? To make it easy to remove those Sharpied black Xs ya get in bars and clubs when you're underage? You know, every door guy and bouncer I've ever met knows that trick.

Welcome back to college, kids. Let's smart out there, as well as responsible.

To borrow a phrase from that classic 1980s G.I. Joe cartoon...

Now you know - and knowing is half the battle.

- # # # -

THE OXFORD (FUCKING OHIO) DICTIONARY OF QUOTATIONS: Blog Awards, Deodorant for the Parts that Matter, Old Bigots and Drag Shows

"Well, I’m presenting it to another bad motherfucker who knows when it’s time to hit delete and when he has something worth posting, so without further adieu I present The Golden Delete Key Award to The Zenformation Professional."

- THE WOEFUL LIBRARIAN,
@ Your Library, Aug. 1

This really cracked me up when I read it - I wasn't sure if I should write a speech in the comments box, or if I should pull a Marlon Brando and have some former beauty pageant contestant dressed in Native American garb decline the award on my behalf as some sort of protest...

Seriously. No fucking clue what to do with blog awards.

So I'm passing this award on, to the wonderful Pia Savage at Courting Destiny, for choosing to wade out of the political gossip muck that most popular bloggers focus on these days and into a much more dynamic world of blogging focused to fiction, exploratory essays, and writings about living life to the fullest with a nonverbal learning disorder, surviving in a post-9/11 New York, and moving to South Carolina.

That takes a set and a half, trust me. There's more to life than just politics. But when one gets tired of writing about the liars, crooks, and thieves that govern us, well, the online armchair quarterbacks tend to be unforgiving.

And with Courting celebrating its fourth birthday this month, Pia deserves more than a blog award. With some of the nastiness she experienced from her political writing days, she's a living testament to the fact that, yeah, we need a blogger's equivalent of the Purple Heart...

* * * *

"And hey. Let's be careful out there."

- SGT. PHIL ESTERHAUS (Michael Conrad),
from Hill Street Blues, television series.

Recently, I've been spending quite a bit of time wallowing in my own 1980s childhood nostalgia, thanks to the first two seasons of this landmark television series now being available on DVD. No clue why the remaining seasons (the series ran on NBC domestically 1981-1987) have yet to be released. But, well, if you're too young to remember it, well, give it a shot.

I used to watch this show with my mother, curled up on the couch. Now that I'm older, wiser, and able to get some of the adult humor...

* * * *

"Touch that laptop, and I'll cut you, mister."

- A wayward, grad school shopping traveler,
Whilst crashing in the ol' Fortress of Solitude

Why is it that there are people who feel the need to tell me what I CAN'T put online? Especially when all they would have to do is explain to the men in their lives (I spent two nights sleeping between two women on a tiny full sized mattress) that, yes, we all slept in the same bed together because I don't have a guest bed or couch?

Jeez.

The alums from one of my alma maters are just as strange as the Local U. alums when it comes to worrying that I'll somehow use one too many euphemisms and start an argument over something that didn't happen.

And no, nothing happened. Though an apartment without air conditioning...

* * * *

"Look, chicks don't understand. Swamp ass and chafing are the two greatest threats to Mankind's manhood. Maybe not Womankind's womanhood, but..."

- DR. TAINTSTICK, whose idea to keep a second tube
of antiperspirant handy for the ol' scrotum
deserves a Nobel Prize

Seriously. Five guys sat around on the steps of an almost deserted bar a few weeks ago, holding an impromptu Swamp Ass Caucus. And yes, there are things about men women just will never understand.

For the record, Old Spice... tingles. But, working out or out on the trail, wow.

* * * *

"He's just a boy. I dunno. I think I'm ready at this point in my life for a real man."

- A 12 or 13-year-old girl, overheard at
The Oxford Summer Music Festival

Took me three hours to quit laughing. Kids are the darnedest things. Two young girls were bickering back and forth between themselves in an alley behind the bar I frequent.

* * * *

"You know, I'm sick and tired of a few queers ruining [the Local U.]'s reputation with stupid drag shows. No way in hell is it that popular!"

"It's one of Oxford's biggest tourist attractions, for a good cause, and, well--"

"I don't give money to THIS university to help faggots get outta closets!"

"Well, I don't give a shit about cold-hearted bigots, but I'm still letting you have your say..."

- Heated conversation with a middle-aged,
obviously drunk Local U. Alumnus last week.

This was the closest I've come to dragging a guy out of a nice restaurant and beating him within an inch of his white-slacks-and-deck-shoes life in several years. Normally, I can deal diplomatically with hatemongers of all sorts - Klansmen, Aryan Brotherhood and Christian Identity members, anti-Semites and Radical New World Zionists, Brown and Black Power types, etc...

The only thing that stopped me? His saint of a best friend from his college years, who reminded me that, yes, even off the clock I - along with the thousands of other employees of my greater institution - still represent the ideal of a diverse educational landscape that values all opinions, even unpopular ones. Fisticuffs two blocks from the Local U. campus would accomplish nothing, aside from possible arrest and a trip to the unemployment line for yours truly.

The Spectrum Drag Show, in recent years, has become one of this community's biggest tourist attractions. The AIDS charity events draw hundreds of people and thousands of dollars into Oxford, which helps the Local U., businesses, and the city itself in terms of public image and revenue. I'm proud, too, to call some of those drag queens friends - they really do make for some gorgeous ladies.

And hey, how many Oxford Fucking Ohio hetero bloggers pose for a quick pic with one of the drag show's founders, Barry from QueerCincinnati? Yeah, the guy's an out-and-proud Local U. alum - and has as much right to be who he wants to be in this town as your average straight alum from the 1960s, 1970s, or even 2008.

What good would it do to be involved in just another drunken brawl on the sidewalk, over someone twenty years my senior being unable to cope with change?

With true diversity comes tolerance. And with tolerance comes that understanding that everybody has a right to their own opinions - even opinions one doesn't agree with.

* * * *

"You can pretty much milk anything with nipples."

- TONE TANK,
"Only in America" [MP3],
The Black Six Sessions
[Free EP, ScumLife 2008]

This one lyric has been stuck in my head ever since I first downloaded this song a few months ago.

Tone Tank, one half of the Brooklyn indie duo Iller Than Theirs, has released probably one of the best rap tracks of 2008. And, well, the whole EP is completely free. Check it out.

Seriously.

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