by Dave Eggers
Although this family’s house has no plumbing, consistent heat source, or exterior walls, they do have satellite TV. I was tired today from all my reporting, so I watched a lot of CNN. I saw that a good friend of mine had won a jury prize at the Sundance Film Festival. I think about all the awards and honors I’ve won in my life, the trophies and ribbons, but in the face of all this Albanian poverty and hopelessness, they seem somehow meaningless now. You know what I mean?
I wake up early this morning and watch the village children play soccer with the bloated carcass of a cat. I’ve been here so long that this kind of thing doesn’t bother me anymore, so I join in. I score three goals and make a game-winning save. The children all gather around me and want to know about my life in the more bohemian sections of Brooklyn. I show them a picture of my girlfriend. “She is very beautiful,” says one of them. “Yes,” I say, “and very wealthy. She is a human rights activist who has also written three prize-winning novels.” Later, a man is impaled on a stake in the town square. I want to ask: For what crime? But I do not speak Albanian.
I am leaving tomorrow. The town has pooled its remaining money together, three dollars, to throw me a farewell party. I hug Grandma Ninotchka, my favorite family member, for a long time. She works twenty hours a day, six days a week, as a plutonium miner to feed her family. And spends her precious free time, what little there is, as a volunteer grave digger. “You have brought a beacon of hope into our terrible, terrible lives,” she says. “And God bless you for not stealing my oatmeal like the man from the New York Times.”
I am not prepared for the immense wave of emotion that I am experiencing. Nothing I went through in college, not even having dinner with two presidents, could have possibly prepared me for this. I cry silent tears, and pray for the people of this sorrow-ridden country, and for myself.
PART THREE
I HAVE SLEPT WITH 500 WOMEN
PERHAPS YOU THINK that it would be easy for me, an Ivy League graduate and published novelist who has a good-paying day job at a major television network, to find true love. But it is not. I have searched everywhere—Chicago, San Francisco, Seattle, Paris, Rome, and even, on occasion, Brooklyn—for the woman who would be the ideal match for my unique mix of intelligence and mild but endearing neuroticism.
Nothing has emerged. I have found no love. No one with whom to share my life.
Instead, all I have found is sex, and nothing but. I have slept with 500 women, maybe more, but certainly not fewer. No matter where I go, no matter what the occasion, I always end up having sexual intercourse with some woman. They are usually beautiful, intelligent, charming, and sophisticated. They generally think I’m pretty hot. We often delight in the curves of each other’s bodies. We always fuck like wildebeest.
But we never fall in love.
Just last night, for instance, I was at a party thrown by the chief editor at a major publishing house, who happens to be a good friend of mine. I hadn’t been there five minutes when I fell into conversation with a sleek, black-haired beauty, a prize-winning poet and ranking business executive who is also the director of a folkloric music festival in her native country of Peru. Sure enough, within an hour, we were fuckin’!
This morning, I turned to her and said, “Do you think we could ever fall in love with each other?”
“Love is for fools,” she said. “Ram me again, you hot stud! Ram me all day long!”
My diet of unhindered sexual pleasure grows less nourishing every day. Sometimes, I am plunged into depressions that cannot be cured, not even by massive doses of St. John’s wort. When I’m on assignment in, say, northern Spain, and the women of Barcelona are launching themselves at me like rockets, I want to scream, “Por favor! Leave me alone!” But I don’t, and soon enough I’m trapped once again in the pit of knives that more naive men call “the sack.” At times, only the slim, ephemeral dream that I will someday fall in love keeps me from shuffling off this wretched, tormented, sex-filled mortal coil.
I am tired of being propositioned on airplanes. I cannot tell you how many times I’ve been forced into illicit sex in public toilets. One grows tired of having an opera singer grinding on one’s face while a conceptual artist sucks mightily between one’s legs. It loses its charm.
Enough of sex! Enough fellatio! Do you hear me, women (and men) of the world! I don’t want to fuck you anymore! I only want your love. Love me, dammit, love me! Love, love, love! People of the world, hear my cry! I am your hobbyhorse no more!
POP QUIZ
Sean Condon
“Who’s That Girl?” Madonna
I’m not sure. Is it Rosanna Arquette? Or one of her sisters? It kind of looks like Rosanna, but why would she be hanging out here?
“Who Let the Dogs Out?” Baha Men
That little bastard Timmy from next door. But what can you expect with parents like his? I think the father spent some time in Attica or Raiford or somewhere like that.
“Who’s That Girl?” Eurythmics
I think it’s Rosanna Arquette. Or Patricia. Is there another Arquette sister because if there is maybe it’s her.
“Why Do Fools Fall in Love?” Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers
Well, it’s easier for them than us intellectuals. They have lower standards about pretty much everything. Food, lovers, cigarettes, everything. I pity fools, I really do. Hey, did I sound like Mr. T just then?
“Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” Pete Seeger
They were taken by truck at dawn to a wholesale market and sold at inflated prices to retailers who will in turn sell them at inflated prices to people like you and me. That’s pure capitalism, my friend, pure capitalism.
“What’s It All About, Alfie?” Dionne Warwick
It’s about growing up and trying to face your emotional responsibilities. That and chasing trim.
“If I Said You Had a Beautiful Body, Would You Hold It Against Me?” Bellamy Brothers
If I told you that while I do indeed have lovely contours the skin on my back is quite horribly scarred, would you still want me to hold my beautiful body against you? Unless you meant would I resent you for giving me a compliment, then I apologize and just forget that stuff about the scars.
“What Are You Doing Sunday?” Tony Orlando
Church. If I don’t have a hangover. But I’ll probably have a hangover.
“Will You Be Staying After Sunday?” Peppermint Rainbow
If I don’t go to church or have a hangover, I’m getting the first bus back to the city. Your parents are driving me fucking nuts. But I’ll probably have a hangover.
“How Is Julie?” The Lettermen
She’s well. She got that job at Morgan Stanley she was hoping for, and she and Jim have set a date, finally, and everything seems to be going really well for both of them. Although just between you and me, I think Jim’s still tomcatting with his secretary. Don’t tell Julie, though, it’d kill her. Oh, I almost forgot, she said to say hi.
“Why Didn’t Rosemary?” Deep Purple
Why didn’t she what? What sort of a question is that?
“Do You Love As Good As You Look?” Bellamy Brothers
You again?
“What Will Mary Say?” Johnny Mathis
We’ll break it to her gently, and hopefully she’ll be mature about it. But my guess is she’ll scream something along the lines of, “You bastards, how could you?” You know her weakness for clichés when she’s hysterical. God, this is gonna be awful. Let’s tell her tomorrow.
“Why? Why? Why?” Ray Smith
Ray, Ray, Ray—do we have to keep going over this? If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Because. And this has nothing to do with me and Johnny and Mary, by the way, so don’t get all paranoid.
“Why Can’t I Be You?” The Cure
Well, the position’s filled. Besides, you’re very good at being you. Not many guys can get away with lipstick the way you do.
“What Have I Done to Deserve This?” Pet Shop Boys & D
usty Springfield
You denied your sexuality for too long, Dusty.
“Can I Touch You ... There?” Michael Bolton
Not as long as you ... keep on releasing albums like My Secret Passion: The Arias. And that haircut you used to have is still kind of hard to forgive. So the answer’s no.
“Who Are You?” The Who
Do you want to know my name? Or, like, who I really am?
“Are You Experienced?” Jimi Hendrix
Not in the area you specifically require, but I’m a fast learner. I know people say that about themselves all the time, but I really am. Really.
“How Do You Talk to an Angel?” Heights
Very slowly. Most of them are kind of stupid.
“Who Can It Be Now?” Men at Work
Probably the UPS guy. They said they’d be here between noon and six. What’s it now—around four?
“Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Elvis Presley
I’m lonely most nights, Elvis. I just can’t seem to make friends here. I shouldn’t have left Ingrid back in Plaistow but, God, her parents were really driving me crazy. I hit the bottle pretty hard for a while because it was the only way I could stand to be around them. It’s just so difficult to meet people—normal people—in this city. Most nights I just sit at home watching TV or thinking about stuff. Sometimes I call a friend back in Plaistow and see what’s up.
“Do You Know the Way to San Jose?” Burt Bacharach
Yes.
“Where Did It All Go Wrong?” Oasis
I’d say almost immediately after “(What’s the Story) Morning Glory?” That’s an obvious answer, and quite glib, I realize, but it’s true. Boy, is it true.
“Will You Marry Me?” Paula Abdul
Well, I probably would if it wasn’t for the fact that you were once married to Emilio Estevez and I just can’t stand that guy. I’d be thinking about you and him all the time.
“Would I Lie to You?” Eurythmics
Well you’ve lied to me on numerous occasions before, so I wouldn’t be surprised. That bullshit about Rosanna Arquette being at the club that night with you and Madonna was just bullshit, and that’s a perfect example of the way you lie to me. Probably to everyone.
BAD NAMES FOR PROFESSIONAL WRESTLERS
Jeff Johnson
Linus
The Spiller
Lace
The Soup-Eater
Stilts
The Tailor
Mitochondria
Kimono Boy
The Really Tiny Moth
The Bulimic Cheerleader
Winston Churchill
Vasco da Gama, Jr.
Tickles
The Fig Wasp
Cookies ’n’ Creme [tag-team duo]
The Healer
El Wusso
The Precocious Feline
The Professor
Balsamic Vinegar
The Stooge
Diabetes
Warren G. Harding
The Wilting Zinnia
The Schoolboy
The Yearling
The Pediatrician
The Old Coward
Naomi
The Narcoleptic Magic Realism
EVIDENTLY, IT WAS LIVE THEN
Dan Kennedy
Sal Salbert (host, producer):
Oh, it was nuts. You think this stuff today is funny? You think the nighttime comedy programs these days are funny? [I start to answer, but he keeps talking.] We literally invented comedy television. We had one sketch back then that we did called “The Silly Italian,” and what I would do was come out on stage in an Italian costume, with the hair and all, holding a jug of wine and saying, “Mama mia ... maaa maaa mia....” The crowd just howled. They loved it! Then what I would do is I would wait a minute for them to stop laughing, and then I’d give them a long one. You’d see me waiting. You could always see it in my eyes. Carl used to watch me from the wings, and he knew it was coming. I’d get that look in my eyes and then I’d give them a real good long, “Maaaaaaaaaaaa ... maaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa ... miiiiiiaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!” And it was live back then! No videotape! No computers! No editing, nothing! So if you screwed up your line, well ... [shrugs and makes a “tough luck for you, buddy” face, because it was live].
´ ´ ´
Carl “The Doctor” Negel (head writer, 1950–1954):
My toes were always stubbed from kicking the wall in the writers’ room. I kicked it every time somebody forgot a line I had written. Everybody remembers the sketch called “The Silly Italian,” and when they recall it they always say, “Oh, yeah ... that was the Mama Mia guy.” Well, there were a dozen other lines Silly Italian was supposed to say, but half of the time all Sal remembered to say was the one line. So every time he didn’t say, “Bella! Marinara spicy meatball!” or “Who got a pizza on my stromboli!” I kicked that damn wall. But those were the days.... We were the ones who came up with what your generation recognizes as TV comedy, but the difference was, when we were doing it we had one take to do it in. It was all live back then, so if the actors missed the line ... that was it. No rewinding it to make it better. You couldn’t go crying to some director with a robotic camera like today. This was live TV, my friend.
[I ask what a robotic camera is.]
[Silence.]
[I mention that Saturday Night Live is also a live program.]
[Carl asks Sal why I’m a wiseguy, and they start repeating whatever I say, except in a high-pitched voice. As they do this, they’re cracking up, and me, I’m not laughing.]
´ ´ ´
Nan Breckenridge (writer, performer 1950–1952):
Oh, I don’t remember too, too much about the material back then, but it seemed like we had a good time and made a little money. That was more than I had intended to do, so you could say the show was a success.
[I politely ask her not to be so modest.]
Oh, I don’t know that I’m being modest. I just think that we did our job and that was that.
[I tell her that Carl and Sal claim it was quite a lot more than that.]
Oh, Sal this and Carl that. I distinctly remember thinking, “What is so brilliant about ‘The Silly Italian’? It’s base.” That sketch was really the beginning of the end for me on that show.
[I tell her how Carl and Sal made fun of me when I mentioned that Saturday Night Live was also a live program.]
Well, Sal thinks he’s the only comic to ever work live. I mean, if Sal says hello to you at Hamburger Hamlet on a Tuesday, he spends all day Wednesday and Thursday pointing out that it was live when he said hello to you and that if he had blown it, there would have been no editing that could save him from having said hello incorrectly. The live thing always gets me, because what line was Sal going to louse up so badly without the “safety net” of editing? “Mama mia?”
[She and I are both laughing at that one. I like Nan. Through our laughter, I add in a little comment about how when Sal and Carl were making fun of me it wasn’t even that funny. I say, “They could’ve come up with something better than just repeating everything I said in a girlish voice.”]
[I finish laughing, but Nan is laughing even harder now.]
Oh, actually ... that’s pretty funny because you do have that high-pitched voice, hon. You ... [laughing] do almost ... sound like ... [laughing harder] I mean, don’t take it the wrong way but ... [wiping her eyes, still laughing] Oh, my ...
[Pulls herself together and behaves like a grown adult for a moment.]
After I talked to you on the phone, I called Sal and asked him if the nice lady from the magazine had called them about doing an interview, and he had to tell me that Dan was a young man’s name! I said, “Well, somebody ought to tell the girl so she can change her name!”
[Starts laughing again and won’t stop. Whatever.]
[Meanwhile Sal and Carl have come in from the next room, and when they realize what Nan is laughing at, they start making fun of me again. Sal says this is just like how
they would laugh together in the old days. Talk turns to pitching networks the idea of a reunion show. Nan tries her hand at an imitation of me with a girl’s voice and points out that if they were doing this live, they would all have to keep a straight face somehow.]
[Switch off tape recorder.]
UPCOMING TITLES FROM GAVIN MENZIES, AUTHOR OF 1421: THE YEAR THE CHINESE DISCOVERED AMERICA
Paul Tullis
1939: The Year Brazil Landed on the Moon
Relying on third-hand oral tradition, some drawings in dirt with a stick, and a rock that a Santeria priest says is a piece of the moon, or “space-stone,” Menzies demonstrates that Armstrong, Aldrin, and the rest merely took a giant leap into the footsteps of a group of curious tourists from São Paulo. Lab tests as to the rock’s origins were inconclusive, but Menzies says that just proves his case. “Since the lab couldn’t identify it, the rock certainly must be from the moon,” he writes.
1879: The Year Sicily Invented the Microchip
“Silicon,” Menzies asserts, is a perverse Anglicization of “Sicily.” “The stuff grows like a weed on the slopes of Mt. Etna,” he reports. There’s something for everyone in this volume, including the conspiracy theoriest: Gen. George S. Patton’s belligerent insistence on conquering Messina before Britain’s Montgomery could get there during World War II was just a shield for an American plan to keep knowledge of Sicily’s achievement a secret from the rest of the world. “A little birdie told me,” says Menzies.
1789: The French Revolution Wasn’t Really French
Drawing chiefly on his own expertise as a connoisseur of vin de pays and his sister’s recipe for risotto, which has a lovely tangy flavor he can’t quite place but that goes nicely with the tarragon, Gavin Menzies contends that this whole business about the “French” Revolution “is totally a sham. It’s so obviously Portuguese!” “Liberté, egalité, and fraternité aren’t even French words,” Menzies boldly declares. “The Académie Française refused to rebut my findings, which just goes to prove that they can’t deny it.” In an appendix for the American version of the book, apparently deemed too astonishing by its original English publishers, Menzies adds that the British Isles aren’t really islands at all, but “tracts of land not as large as a continent, but surrounded by water.”