September 12, 2003, 1:37 p.m. Two days over deadline. Behind in not only this job, but all of the other part-time jobs that create this dubious, ever shifting “whole” of self-employment. OK, Colleen, get a grip. Don’t subdivide your anxiety; just concentrate on one thing at a time.
3:41 p.m. Staring at the screen for hours won’t help. Must…finish…column.…Oh, for crying out loud. It’s only 750 words. It’s not rocket science.
4:02 p.m. Friend calls. Says she’s sorry she didn’t “remember” to invite me to her birthday party. Well, take this one on the chin. Maybe she’s getting so old that she is having cognitive thought degeneration. Make note to send her flowers, an info packet from the Alzheimer’s Association, and a sample of Clinique’s total turnaround eye-repair serum.
4:24 p.m. Why did I quit smoking?
4:25 p.m. Maybe I should get my tongue pierced.
4:29 p.m. Partial list of things I hate: The Madonna–Britney MTV French kiss. (She’s old enough to be her mother! Bad! Wrong!) George and Laura Bush. (Pay-per-view should get those two to French kiss.) George Sr. and Barbara. (She’s old enough to be his mother! Bad! Wrong!) The Denny Hecker ads on MTC buses. (Did Franco Columbo inflate Denny’s head?) Cell phones. (If you get mad at the person you’re talking to, you can’t slam the phone down into the cradle for dramatic effect.) Bennifer, Pilates, and Mary-Kate Olsen. (Ashley seems like she might be OK.) “Mean People Suck!” buttons. (Some of my best friends are mean.)
4:49 p.m. My big show is coming up. Pantages Theatre, October 3, 4, and 5. Will anyone call for tickets? I think I remember the number. It’s (612) 673-0404. God, I hope they call now! (NOW!)
4:53 p.m. Maybe I can just write about odd stuff in the news. Like that sad, freaky deal with the bank robber/pizza guy who had the bomb locked to his neck. No, that’s not funny for sure. The only way that could be funny is if it were a scene in a Coen Brothers movie. Who would be good to play the sad, freaky pizza guy? Steve Buscemi? It would be more fun to see him being played by Tom Cruise. Smug bastard. Boom.
5:17 p.m. Maybe I should read The Rake for ideas. What are the other columnists up to? I wonder if they’re blowing the deadline too. What’s this—a new column? Sex & the Married Man? Dude. Men frequent any and all branches of the sex industry for one reason only. It’s business, baby. It’s a direct path to paradise that requires only an ID and a little cash. It does not require any outlay of personality, or social-emotional compromise that a relationship—even a one-night stand—would take. It is not for the sake of variety. If it were, there are plenty of social clubs for variety-lovin’ folk. Oh, but then a guy would have to go to the trouble of developing those relationships, huh? Or, more important, would have to admit to himself that what he really wants is not an exclusive relationship, but an all-you-can-eat trip to the booty buffet. Women aren’t frigid if they don’t condone this behavior. They aren’t necessarily threatened either. Think of it like business. Supply and demand.
C’mere. I’ll let you in on a little secret. Women can have sex anytime they want. It’s true! I could cram fried chickens into my mouth until my can was the size of a papasan ottoman—walk out my front door, and, within fifteen minutes, have sexual intercourse with a man.
Hell, there might even be a fetish site dedicated to papasan-sized rear ends. The point is, I could always be somebody’s prom queen. All women could. And we know this. Therefore we do not value sex above the other good things that life has to offer, like luxury hand towels, or artisan cheese. Or a hilarious one-woman show: (612) 673-0404.
Men, on the other hand, never know when or if they will ever get to have sex again. The booty business exists so that men can purchase what they have never been able to achieve on their own. Sexual sovereignty. So, Tiger, don’t kid yourself that your rabid libido is blazing a path to Dream Girls. It’s your innate fear of being left high and dry. (Thanks, Stuart. I owe you one!)
6:54 p.m. 742 words. Over and out.
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