Dear Local Celebrity:
The song playing during the opening credits was “Stoopid Ass” by Grand Theft Auto. Good idea. Let’s misspell Stupid and make it the theme song for a movie called, “Dude Where’s My Car?”
First seven minutes:
Ostriches floating in space: Check.
Fat dude pissing in houseplant: Check
Fridge full of pudding cups: Check
Attempted feline assassination by pizza slice: Check.
Terrier smoking weed from a pipe shaped like a terrier: Check.
And then? The Ween song. It redeems everything that’s happened so far. And then? And then? Aaaandddd thennnnnnnn? And then the (consecutive) lines:
“You didn’t hafta go all eggroll on that speakerboxxx.”
“Well I’m not the one who calls the Dalai Lama a fag.”
And then? And then I remember why I still can’t manage to sit through the whole thing every time I try:
It’s fucking stupid.
It’s awesomely stupid, but still. My idea of awesomely stupid is more Kids in the Hall-y. I feel restless. I flip the TV off and decide to go play my secret patio game.
So I walk down to the bar below your apartment. I have good reason to believe that if you look down through your window you can see the bar patio clearly, and who is on it. I don’t really smoke cigarettes that much yet. So what this means for me is that I have to idle idiotically on the patio, slyly trying to figure out which window is yours. The whole time, mind you, I’m assuming you’re standing at your window looking through the miniblinds at the crowd directly below while you listen to your own hit record and imagine us as your music video. There’s nowhere to sit, really, so I usually just fuck around on my Discman, fast-forwarding your sentiments three decades’ worth.
I try to go early in the evening so it’s still light enough out that I can get away with wearing sunglasses. I punch random meaningless buttons but behind my shades my eyes stare at the crumbly brick wall ahead of me and travel up slowly until they land on the spot where I imagine the second floor starts. My toes turned inward, my fingers fumbling with the buttons on my stupid little plaid hipster button-down shirt, I’m more Ally Sheedy with the Pixie Stix and less Phoebe Cates swimming pool scene, I know, but in my daymares I pretend you’d rather that for your MTV debut.
I’ll admit, the bar fun sorta wears off when, inevitably, you don’t come rushing downstairs, slowing down and forcibly regulating your breathing as you turn the corner into the bar, pretending you were coming to hang out anyway. So I always leave shortly after.
Not content to admit defeat, I tell myself your apartment window faces east, on the other side of the building, and I convince myself I’m not old enough to be in a bar. I’m not, in fact.
Jose knows I am 15, so he will only serve me Woodchuck Apple Cider because he says it’s just the same as juice. I resent him now, fifteen years later, because if I even smell Woodchuck I feel like I’m gonna upchuck. To be drunk on Woodchuck first in life before all other alcohol is to lead an increasingly miserable existence once you realize that things like whiskey even exist.
Since I am 15, it means I am boy-crazy, and Mel always finds me outside the bar where she knows I should not be, since it is a terrible neighborhood. She pulls me inside and points out a boy in the corner wearing a sweater with stripes similar to one I have, and I am immediately in love, of course.
But I never forget about you. You say not to look in your window, but I never learn.