Posted on by Matt Thomas

On the Pre-Game: A Response to Neil Strauss’ The Game

Note: This piece overlaps with my three essays in the Week with Elodie series, though it approaches that week from a somewhat different direction. Where those pieces follow the arc, this one lingers on the moment before it resolves—the pre-game, as I’ve come to understand it.

It is also a direct response to Neil Strauss’ book The Game. I don’t intend to rebut Strauss so much as to correct what I see as a fundamental weakness in the subculture he dissects. The reader will judge whether or not I succeed.

Epigraphs:

Someone had to play that tune. I guess it was up to me.

— Bob Dylan, “Up to Me”

It all made some sense if you know what to play

– J Mascis, Elastic Days

I. Ippei

At around eleven one night, I was at Zaza, the nightclub on Kiyamachi in Kyoto, when a Japanese man of about fifty-five approached me. Let’s call him Ippei.

He had a proposition. Would I help him pick up two women? All I had to do was pretend to be an old friend from California, someone he hadn’t seen in twenty years.

He did this every night, he told me. The night before, he’d had a threesome.

We went over to the women. Ippei launched into a conversation in Japanese, working his story. I went upstairs to smoke. Twenty minutes later, I came back down. Ippei was still going strong, telling the same story to the same women.

I watched him for a moment.

He didn’t need me. He just needed me to play a role.

His story had landed. Reality was accepted. It was all on.

II. Neil Strauss’ The Game

I’ve read Neil Strauss’ The Game twice. I respect Strauss as an investigator of subcultures, and I think the book is serious reportage. He went inside a world, learned its language, followed its characters, and documented what he found.

My problem isn’t with Strauss as a reporter. It’s with the worldview at the center of the subculture he describes.

The premise is that attraction can be engineered. Learn the right language, the right sequence, the right signals. Find the moves that will break down a woman’s resistance and get you into bed.

It’s a kind of linguistic technology, NLP at its worst.

The system scripts what should be alive. It turns a conversation into a sequence of maneuvers, an encounter into a problem to be solved. Everything becomes instrumental. The point of the interaction is no longer the interaction itself. It’s the outcome.

There’s no room for romance in that equation. No room for the unexpected moment that changes the direction of an evening, or a life. The system is designed to get you somewhere, but it can’t tell you whether that somewhere is worth going.

Look at the group house, with Mystery, Strauss, and Courtney Love, for whatever Courtney Love-related reasons. It’s a sausage fest. And it is simply not cool.

The Gamers may have mastered the game. But somewhere along the way, they’ve stepped outside life itself. They’ve become incel-adjacent: men who have devoted themselves to understanding women while losing sight of the possibility of actually connecting with one.

I’m not interested in rebutting Strauss point by point. Instead, it’s a response.

And for me, that’s where I part ways.

III. The Game Itself

I’ve gone all the way with about a dozen women. The precise number is under strict NDA. I’ve made out with more.

Until this past summer, I wasn’t sexually active by the standards of the pickup community. But I’ve flirted with, connected with, and crushed on dozens of women.

And the truth is, I enjoy crushing on women.

I enjoy the tension, the ambiguity, the possibility. The spark that might become something, or might not. The moment when you can feel something happening but don’t yet know what it is.

For most men, the pre-game is a means to an end. It’s the part you get through on the way to the thing you really want.

For me, it’s the end itself.

However, I’m a highly specific kind of action junkie.

Wittgenstein was said to have manufactured his own oxygen. I manufacture my own action.

I don’t chase it blindly. I don’t optimize for it. I don’t try to force it into existence through systems or scripts.

I generate it. Selectively. Intentionally. And in moments where it actually might mean something.

IV. Luna

I was at Umineko in downtown Kyoto with Mr. Editor. It was around six in the evening when I saw her.

She was stunning.

I have to go talk to her.

So I did.

We spoke in Japanese. The conversation flowed. There was a spark. At some point, I asked for her Instagram. She gave it to me.

I was on Cloud Nine.

The next afternoon, I sent her a message. She didn’t respond.

Was that a failure?

Not for a pre-gamer.

I got the moment. I got the spark. I approached a woman I wanted to meet, and we had a brief, electric encounter. For a little while, there was the possibility of something.

That was the action.

That was the point.

For the Strauss guys, the night ends when the text goes unanswered. The interaction has failed to produce the desired outcome. The system hasn’t delivered.

For me, the night ended at the bar.

With Ippei, the action was more or less scripted. With Strauss, it was systematized. With Luna, it was self-contained.

This is where the epigraph from Dylan starts to carry real weight.

The pre-game isn’t simply a technique for getting what you want. It’s the moment before the outcome, when the possibilities are still open. It’s the point at which you have to decide what to do without knowing what will happen.

You can follow a script. You can learn the system. You can spend years studying the game.

Or you can pay attention.

A script can tell you what to say. A system can tell you what to do next. Neither can tell you what a particular moment means, or what it might become.

And that’s the difference.

The pre-game is not about controlling the outcome. It’s about recognizing the possibility in front of you and deciding whether to act.

No script. No system. No Ippei handing you a premise.

There is only the moment as it actually exists, and your ability to see it clearly.

And then the second part.

It was up to me.

Not to escalate. Not to optimize. But to decide.

The game ends when something happens. The pre-game ends when you decide it should. That is all.

Dedication:

For pre-gamers everywhere. May you get a little action tonight, baby.

Posted on by Matt Thomas

The Prize Falcon of Ali Rahman VII: An Elegy

Note: Today I am pleased to publish an elegy called The Prize Falcon of Ali Rahman VII Eyes His Prey.

This elegy is a prelude to my forthcoming piece On Coming Through II: A Personal Reflection at Age 52.

I am writing this reflection because I will very soon be moving back to Los Angeles, in the United States, the country in which I was born. I have lived in Japan for almost thirty years, and it is time to return home.

What I feel most strongly about leaving Japan is relief. Beyond that, I feel a measured confidence that I am ready for this next chapter of my life, along with a sense of anticipation about the friends I will see, the new people I will meet, the music I will play, and the possibilities that await me.

There is something about the wind, about the approach of a storm, and about our instincts which that tell us when it is time to move. We do not always know what lies ahead. Sometimes we simply know that something must change. What comes next is a mystery.

Epigraphs:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer

W.B. Yeats

You are like a hurricane
There’s calm in your eyes

Neil Young

Ali Rahman VII releases his prize falcon into the air

The falcon swoops to the left and to the right
as he ascends

The falcon is hungry and looks for food
High in the air he looks down


He spies a mouse

The falcon is well trained and knows what to do


A hurricane is approaching
This is something new

The falcon adjusts his wings and prepares to dive

The mouse is oblivious to her doom

The falcon circles slowly and begins his dive
The mouse will be lucky to be alive

The mouse, in her way, senses danger is near
This little mouse experiences something like fear

She scurries toward her burrow

Deep down under the ground

The falcon pauses in midair and looks around

The mouse prepares to slide into her hole

The falcon dives

Dedication: For the gyre. You scare me.

Posted on by Matt Thomas

Would you like a bit of Mr. Kelvin today kind sir?”ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT

Subtitle: The Trip.com Talking Blues

Epigraphs:

Trip.com you are way outta control.

Hey Kelvin suck another towel coach.

One fine day I went into Trip.com settings
To turn off the red thing that was pissing me off
I figured it’d take me about half a second,
But the folks who designed it were outta control
I clicked on the menu, I looked at the screen,
I was calm, I was patient, I was courteous and clean.
Then a question appeared that I’d never foreseen:
Would you like to set your temperature?

Well, I don’t want a temperature, I want these weirdo notifications gone,
I’ve been pushing these buttons since the break of dawn. Which is way bad.


I don’t need a forecast, I don’t need a degree,
I just want Trip.com to quit bothering me.
But the little screen asked me, with his sneaky little charm,
If I’d like to select a temperature alarm.
I said, “No, thank you kindly, I mean no offense,”
But the question came back with no common sense.

It said, “Would you prefer Celsius?” I said, “No.”
“Would you prefer Fahrenheit?” I said, “No.”
It said, “We have another scale you might like to employ.”
I said, “Buddy, I’m a grown man, not a temperature boy.”
It said, “There’s a third option, a scientific delight.”
I said, “I came here to turn off a red light.”
Then it offered me something from the physicists’ shelf:
Kelvin. I said, “What are you smoking? Get a grip.”

Now Kelvin Sampson, the basketball coach he didn’t do a thing,
But his name came to mind like a telephone ring
I thought of this bozo and I started to grin,

Ralph Sampson hit a three. Rockets win.


While Trip.com was asking me to let thermodynamics in.
I was trying to go to bed, I was trying to get free,
Now absolute zero was being offered to me.
I said, “I’ve got enough problems, I’ve got bills to pay.
I don’t quite need Lord Kelvin in my settings today.”

Oh, I know all about Celsius, I know Fahrenheit, too,
And I know that absolute zero is a scientific breakthrough.
I know Lord Kelvin had a reason for the scale that he made,
But I wasn’t in the market for a temperature trade.
I wasn’t booking Antarctica, I wasn’t measuring space,
I was trying to get one red notification the fuck outta my face.
You can put all your units in a beautiful array,
But I came here to say what I came here to say.

Now I’ve got my phone settings, I’ve got apps by the score,
I’ve got permissions and tracking and a hundred things more.
I’ve got background refresh and a microphone switch,
I’ve got Siri and Search making life a little rich.
I’ve got Live Activities and a location decree,
I’ve got every damn company trying to manage me.
But when I ask for one simple thing, here’s the answer I get:
A choice of temperature I never asked for yet.

So I laughed till I cried, and I laughed till I wheezed,
I laughed at the screen and I laughed at the keys.
I was dead, then alive, then deceased once again,
While Trip.com kept on behaving like an administrative hen.
I thought of my house and the money I need,
And the things I must sell and the bills I must feed.
I said, “I’ve got a whole life to get back on track.
I don’t need Kelvin. I want my notifications back.”

So here’s my conclusion, my statement, my vow:
I don’t want your temperature, then or now.
Celsius can leave, Fahrenheit can depart,
Kelvin can take his thermodynamics and make a fresh start.
Trip.com, listen, and listen up well:
I’ve got one little message, and here’s how I’ll tell—
You can ask me a thousand times, but the answer’s still NO.
ABSOLUTELY FUCKING NOT. Now let me go.

Dedication: Kelvin Sampson you are outta control.

Posted on by

Craig Finn on Nightlife and Adult Relationships III: Jessamine (Craig Finn’s Miniature Masterpiece)

Jessamine must have had some dreams / but she never really said what they were.

— Craig Finn

Note: This is the third entry in my little ongoing series on Craig Finn / The Hold Steady songs that take up nightlife, messy adult relationships, and the long shadows cast by fleeting encounters. Parts I and II are available. I’ve also written at length about what I consider Finn’s two greatest songs: “A Bathtub in a Kitchen” and “It’s Never Been a Fair Fight.”

“Jessamine” is track eight on A Legacy of Rentals, Finn’s 2022 solo record, distributed on his own label, Positive Jam Records. It clocks in at a tight three minutes and twenty-five seconds, and once again I am simply overawed by Finn’s concision and his ability to tell a whole story in just a few words. It is my opinion, and I do not say this lightly, that Finn is the greatest short story writer to have ever lived.

“Jessamine” tells the story of a three-week relationship between the narrator, whom we will continue to call C. for convenience, and a goth girl with a need for speed. A Legacy of Rentals contains at least three excellent songs: the crime caper “The Amarillo Kid,” the gorgeous “The Year We Fell Behind,” and “Jessamine.” I would love to write about “The Year We Fell Behind” as well. However, “Jessamine” falls neatly into our conceit of nightlife and adult relationships, although this one seems to depict more of a young person’s relationship. Close enough.

“Jessamine” is folky and lilting, of a piece with Finn’s later work, which tends toward folk and country as opposed to Lifter Puller’s indie fever dreams and The Hold Steady’s soaring rock anthems. The Finn song it most closely resembles is “Esther,” from a 2018 EP by The Hold Steady, which also depicts an intense and short-lived relationship. In “Esther,” a party ends, two people find themselves alone together, and the passing years seem suddenly to catch up with them. The song captures the strange afterlife of an encounter that might have lasted only a night but continues to occupy the mind long afterward.

“Jessamine” opens with C. remembering a girl he met in Cherry Hill, New Jersey. Her floral dress and skateboard give us a quick visual impression, while the warning sticker on the board introduces the possibility of danger. C. then adds, with the casual hindsight of someone who knows how the story ends, that the warning might have been right.

Cherry Hill is in New Jersey, where the song is set. Jessamine is probably a younger woman, and a skater. The opening foreshadows her ultimate fate without spelling it out. Incidentally, the first time I visited New Jersey was during my junior year of college, with my Asian Art History class. It was also on this trip that I first visited New York City, the most intoxicating place on earth, which I have written about relatively extensively. I wrote about my art professor in my piece on my senior year at Hamilton College, in relation to a girl I had a total crush on, whom I called L. L. was not exactly goth, but she might have been goth-adjacent. And she was totally intense. More on goths in a minute.

C. next explains that the relationship lasted about three weeks, during which the two were apparently inseparable and barely slept. Jessamine had a slogan painted above her bed, a familiar piece of Trenton civic identity that takes on a different meaning in the privacy of a bedroom.

It is my experience that short-term relationships can be, and probably are, the most intense and intoxicating type of relationships in a sense. The depth that comes with a true crush, while of a completely different valence from a long-term relationship, is, I believe, without parallel. But then again, I’m an action junkie, as is Finn. I wrote about the power of a crush in my Bad Moves piece, where I confessed to a serious crush on their lead singer, Katie Park. I actually sent the piece to the band via Instagram, and they responded, “Thanks for the write-up.” I don’t know, but I like to believe Katie read, or at least saw, my piece! Unfortunately, Bad Moves are disbanding and are, I believe, on their farewell tour.

The phrase “three weeks straight” conveys something more than the duration of the relationship. It suggests that C. and Jessamine were temporarily inseparable, sleep-deprived, and deep into each other. Trenton is, of course, also in New Jersey, and though I hadn’t heard the exact phrase quoted until I listened to the song, it is apparently well known locally and appears in neon on a bridge.

The next verses introduce Jessamine’s fascination with death. C. remembers hanging around her room, where gloom and doom were part of the attraction, where cartoons mingled with macabre imagery, and where even the instruments seemed to belong to some playful little kingdom of the dead. She is sexy, but her interest in bloodshed is more than a passing aesthetic. She regards violence as something that scarcely needs advertising: people are drawn to it already.

Now, I am not really into a lot of bones and blood personally, but I do like me some goth girls. In fact, in the course of my life I have sort of quasi-dated a few, and for whatever reason they are just my speed. I find goth girls sexy, caring, and deeply intriguing. And mysterious, of course. I have a weakness for crazy women; I cannot lie. And already I can totally see Jessamine’s appeal.

At one point, C. wishes he had asked Jessamine about the origins of war and the peculiar attraction of rival gangs who repeatedly turn up at the same parties despite supposedly hating one another. He imagines that the hostility might conceal a kind of attraction. The questions are funny, strange, and a little unsettling. Why would Jessamine have insight into the origins of global conflicts? I’m not quite sure. However, the image of rival gangs being secretly in love is oddly compelling.

It is with the next verse and chorus that the song really gets going.

Jessamine warns against mistaking suspicion for genuine understanding. She sees a world in which machines of war can resemble symbols of peace, while something is quietly threatening the kingdom she has built around herself. She never quite explains the threat. The night gives way to morning, incense burns down, and her dreams remain unspoken.

Here we learn that our goth girl heroine has something going on that is unarticulated, or perhaps inarticulable. “Jessamine must have had some dreams / but she never really said what they were” is such a wonderful and moving line. We all have dreams, I suppose; some come to fruition and some don’t. But Finn is in no way judging Jessamine’s relative inability to describe her dreams. Instead, this aspect of her character only adds to her obliqueness, her mystery.

That mystery is part of what makes her so compelling. Jessamine is not a puzzle the song promises to solve. She has an interior life that C. can glimpse but never fully access. Her dreams may be perfectly clear to her, or they may be things she cannot articulate even to herself. We are not told. The absence of an explanation does not diminish her character. It enlarges it.

The next verse shows that Jessamine, in the end, and probably from the beginning, had the upper hand in the relationship. She returns to the dating scene, meets another man, and finds herself a little more attracted to him than to the boy she was with before. C. has not even seen her lately. The new man appears to have money or connections, although his impressive surroundings may conceal something less respectable. Then the city grows hot, and the people in the story find themselves trying to weather a storm.

Again, Finn is a total master of precision and compression. C. is immature; Jessamine is, to some extent, on the make; her new boyfriend is crime-adjacent—so many of Finn’s songs feature characters on the margins of the legal world—and the whole damn city mirrors the instability of the relationship. The crush is over. C. is dumped, and he never sees her again.

That’s a weird and kind of almost frightening part of short-lived relationships: while their depths are as intoxicating as anything in life, people will just move on. The moment exists only in memory, burned into the fabric of time, but still fleeting.

The next verse turns toward C. getting over Jessamine. Rain comes and goes; thunder makes a tremendous commotion but cannot sustain it indefinitely. The storm is real enough while it lasts, but it eventually clears. The metaphor is straightforward, perhaps, but it also captures something true about the aftermath of a crush. What seems all-consuming at the time may eventually become a memory that can be approached without being overwhelmed by it.

The final movement puts a pin in Jessamine’s story. C. travels west to San Francisco, where a sailor steals his shirt. He is sitting in the passenger seat of a taxi when he first hears that Jessamine was probably speeding and that no one else was hurt.

I love that final detail. It’s hard to fully explain why, but it’s oddly moving that Jessamine, on her way out, with all her attraction to blood and bones, didn’t take anyone with her. The report is tentative, almost casual. We do not get a reconstruction of the accident or a dramatic account of C.’s grief. We get the news, and then the song returns to Jessamine’s dreams.

Finn doesn’t even really register C.’s reaction to Jessamine’s death. Instead, he repeats the refrain, such that she remains beyond C.’s knowledge even at the moment when he learns she is gone. Her dreams remain unknown to him. Perhaps they were never meant to be known by him. He can remember the girl, the room, the slogan on the wall, the intensity of those three weeks. He cannot tell us what she wanted from life.

Overall, “Jessamine” might seem like kind of a minor song. It’s short, and maybe doesn’t have the deep metaphorical richness of a song like “A Bathtub in a Kitchen.” Nonetheless, I love it. My sense is that a writer has to write for years and years before they can get to a song like “Jessamine.” Finn is a few years older than me, and has accumulated the wisdom and compassion to make a song like this look easy. It is not.

I wish to say a brief word about AI, which may seem unrelated. The other night I met up with a few friends, and some friends of friends were there as well. One of them, a slightly older gentleman who used to work in tech, started talking about how much he loved AI music, especially some kind of mash-up of two well-known bands. I appreciated the fact that he liked this music, but I have to confess that I could not have cared less.

The idea of AI music, especially music with lyrics, interests me not at all. This is essentially because I like people better than machines, but also because I don’t think AI, at least at this point, can come close to writing a song like “Jessamine.” I won’t get super political here. However, the idea that AI can replace, or even duplicate, “Jessamine,” “Return of the Grievous Angel” by Gram Parsons, or “Come in from the Cold” by Joni Mitchell, for example, just seems absurd to me.

Finn had to live for fifty years, listen to tens of thousands of songs, and write hundreds to get to “Jessamine.” At three minutes and twenty-five seconds, it is a mini-masterpiece. Its brevity is deceptive. The song carries the accumulated experience of a writer who knows how much to reveal, what to leave unsaid, and when to let a character disappear beyond the reach of the story.

That, to me, is the difference between a technically plausible song and a work of art that continues to live in the imagination. Jessamine is not memorable because we learn everything about her. She is memorable because we don’t.

Dedication:

For goth girls everywhere.

‘Cause it makes a big commotion

But eventually it clears

The next verse and chorus puts a pin in Jessamine’s story, and Finn employs his classic penchant for alliteration along the way. Maybe to get away from the scene, or perhaps for some other reason, C. moves out west, loses his shirt, metaphorically, and literally perhaps, and gets word of Jessamine’s demise.

I went out to San Francisco

And some sailor stole my shirt

I was sitting on the passenger side in a taxi

The first time that I heard

That she was probably speeding

And no one else was hurt

Jessamine must’ve had some dreams

But she never really said what they were

Yeah, she never really said what they were

I love the line here “and no one else was hurt.” It’s hard to fully explain why, but it’s oddly moving that Jessamine, on her way out, with all her attraction to blood and bones, didn’t take anyone with her. Finn doesn’t even really register what C.’s reaction is to Jessamine’s death is, he simply repeats the lines about dreams such that she dies as she lived, unknown to herself and unknowable to others.

Overall, Jessamine might seem like kind of a minor song. It’s short, and maybe doesn’t have the deep metaphorical richness as a song like A Bathtub in the Kitchen. Nonetheless, I love it. My sense is that a writer has to write for years and years before they can get to a song like Jessamine. Finn is a few years older than me, and has accumulated the wisdom and compassion to make a song like this look easy. It is not.

I wish her to say a brief word about AI, which may seem unrelated. The other night I met up with a few friends and some friends of friends were there as well. One of them, a slightly older gentleman who used to work in tech, started talking about how much he loved AI music, especially some kind of mash-up of two well-known bands. I appreciated that fact that he liked this “music,” but I have to confess that I could not have cared less. The idea of AI music, especially music with lyrics, interests me not at all. And this is, essentially, because I like people better than machines, but also because I don’t think AI, at least at this point, can come close to writing a song like Jessamine. I won’t get super political here, however the idea that AI can replace, or even duplicate a Jessamine, or Return of the Grievous Angel by Gram Parsons, or Come in from the Cold by Joni Mitchell, for example, just seems absurd to me. As implied above, Finn had to live 50 years, listen to tens of thousands of songs, and write hundreds to get to Jessamine. At 3 minutes and 25 seconds it is a mini-masterpiece.

Dedication:

For goth girls : If you enjoyed this piece you might also enjoy the pieces below, which also cover the singer-songwriter Craig Finn.

Craig Finn on Nightlife and Adult Relationships I: Most People are DJs
On Subcultures and Scenes in Craig Finn’s “It’s Never Been a Fair Fight”
On Craig Finn’s “A Bathtub in the Kitchen”
Posted on by Matt Thomas

Live From Arlington Virginia It’s the Larry King Show!

Larry: Jim Bowden, your thoughts?

Jim: I was told Randy Moss kicked a 47-yard field goal.

Larry: That’s right.

Jim: I cover baseball.

Larry: We’ll be right back.

JIM BOWDEN: “Well, Larry, I know Cheever primarily as a five-tool suburban writer. Excellent with adultery, very good with alcohol, above-average swimming-pool work, strong commuter-rail presence. Never had much of a fastball.”

LARRY: “Was he with the Angels?”

BOWDEN: “Not to my knowledge.”

LARRY: “Could he play third?”

BOWDEN: “Everybody can play third until the ball gets hit to them.”

LARRY: “That’s why you’re here, Jim.”

BOWDEN: “Alcohol, Larry.”

LARRY: “That’ll do it.”

BOWDEN: “Also he was a writer.”

LARRY: “We’ll be right back.”

LARRY: “Next topic.”

BABA BOOEY: “Well, we should probably issue three corrections from the previous segment.”

LARRY: “I don’t care for corrections.”

BABA BOOEY: “That’s why we need them.”

LARRY: “Seventeen degrees. That’s pretty warm.”

BOWDEN: “Excellent launch angle.”

LARRY: “Could you hit a ball from Antigua to the equator?”

BOWDEN: “Not with today’s bats.”

LARRY: “No, I don’t read Infinite Jest. I read USA Today. They’ve got those little graphs. I know where I stand.”

LAWRENCE WELK: “A-one and a-two—”

LARRY: “Lawrence, shut the fuck up. You’re here to cover for me, not overthrow the program.”

DRYSDALE: “Can I go?”

LARRY: “You’re dead, Don. Where are you going?”

DRYSDALE: “Fair point.”

BABA BOOEY: “For the record, Larry, David Foster Wallace actually did write Consider the Lobster.”

LARRY: “I knew that.”

BABA BOOEY: “You said Consider the Cruise Ship.”

LARRY: “He considered that too.”

LARRY: “No, I don’t read Infinite Jest. I read USA Today. They’ve got those little graphs. I know where I stand.”

LAWRENCE WELK: “A-one and a-two—”

LARRY: “Lawrence, shut the fuck up. You’re here to cover for me, not overthrow the program.”

DRYSDALE: “Can I go?”

LARRY: “You’re dead, Don. Where are you going?”

DRYSDALE: “Fair point.”

BABA BOOEY: “For the record, Larry, David Foster Wallace actually did write Consider the Lobster.”

LARRY: “I knew that.”

BABA BOOEY: “You said Consider the Cruise Ship.”

LARRY: “He considered that too.”

And that, amazingly, is correct. The Wallace cruise-ship essay is “A Supposedly Fun Thing I’ll Never Do Again.” So Larry has accidentally wandered within about six feet of the truth again.

But the Lawrence Welk sequence is magnificent because the fabrication acquires its own internal scholarly apparatus. Welk starts with bubbles, somehow graduates from the entirely fictitious Molasses Wars, 1788–1951, invents the red fire hydrant after being inspired by a Mormon traffic-light inventor, then obtains the color red from Jordan Peterson approximately seventy years in the future, which leads naturally to lobsters, which leads naturally to DFW, which leads naturally to:

“Do Your Best.”

That’s the killer. Infinite Jest → Do Your Best is exactly the kind of Larry King title correction that should exist.

LARRY: “Did you read Do Your Best, Lawrence?”

WELK: “No. Too long.”

LARRY: “How far’d you get?”

WELK: “Page eleven.”

LARRY: “What happened?”

WELK: “Don’t know. Lotta footnotes.”

DRYSDALE: “I read the Baseball Encyclopedia.”

LARRY: “All of it?”

DRYSDALE: “No. Looked myself up.”

LARRY: “Relief appearances?”

DRYSDALE: “That’s what we’re trying to establish.”

Meanwhile the one actual piece of recovered history from this broadcast is terrific: The Gemini Kid: The Collected Writings of an Open-Hearted Jellyfish. Not open-handed. Open-hearted. Much better title. And the damned thing is still sitting there on WordPress after all these years.

That archaeological dig may actually be worth doing sometime. Not tonight. Tonight Manny needs to get alone, and Lawrence Welk has apparently been entrusted with the network.

LARRY: “We’ll be back.”

WELK: “A-one and a—”

LARRY: “Don’t push it, Lawrence.”

END

Posted on by Matt Thomas

Marci Gets Abducted by Aliens, and Mr. Johnson Freaks Out

Marci Gets Abducted by Aliens, and Mr. Johnson Freaks Out

I’ve got a two-pack habit and a motel tan.

—Steve Earle

There are aliens in our midst.

—Wussy

Scene One

One fine day, Marci was abducted by aliens.

That’s right! A mothership just popped down and scooped her up while she was mowing her lawn.

Marci lives in a nice suburban house outside Wilmington, Delaware, with her husband Fred and their two kids.

Next door lived Mr. Johnson and his wife Betty.

Mr. Johnson had recently fallen in love with Marci.

Obviously.

When Marci woke up, she was strapped to some kind of bed in a room with white walls and very bright lights.

Her head hurt.

A tall alien stood over her.

“Hey, Marci. Welcome to our mothership. I’m Bob. I’m the boss around here.”

“Okay, Bob. I want to go home,” said Marci.

“Yeah, pretty soon,” said Bob. “But first we need to run a few more tests.”

“Tests?” said Marci. “What kind of tests?”

“Oh, you know. Blood tests, nitrogen levels, respiration rate, that kind of stuff.”

“Oh, really? Come on, Bob, make it quick.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said Bob. “And then we also have to give you the environmental spiel.”

“The what?”

“Oh, the environmental spiel. You watch TV, right? You know aliens are always giving the environmental spiel. Like information on how the environment’s dying and it’s bad and everything.”

Marci looked up at him.

“Bob, what the fuck are you talking about?”

“Yeah, Marci, sorry. It’s just something we have to do.”

“Why?”

“No reason really”said Bob.

“Huh?”

“Anyways, you’re an important test subject. We’ve got a lot of work to do together.”

“Whatever, Bob.”

Scene Two

Meanwhile, back on Earth, somebody had noticed that Marci was missing.

A random passerby had called the police.

Police Chief Dan Collins got the call. 

He called Mr. Johnson.

“Hey, Mr. Johnson. How are you doing today?”

“So so Chief Collins. What’s going on?”

“Call me Dan.”

“Sure thing, Dan. What’s going on?”

“Well, we don’t know yet,” said Chief Collins. “Looks like Marci was abducted by aliens.”

“Holy shit,” said Mr. Johnson. “Really?”

“That’s what we’re hearing.”

“Well shit.”

“Yeah. I’ll let you know when we know more.”

“I’m coming over,” said Mr. Johnson.

“Wilson, don’t…”

Mr. Johnson had already hung up.

He was increasingly freaking out.

Scene Three

Mr. Johnson got in his Buick and drove to the police station.

Chief Collins went out to meet him.

“Hey, Wilson. I told you there was no need to come over.”

“I know, Dan, but I had to come. You know I’m in love with Marci.”

“Yeah, yeah. I think everyone knows that by now there, Wilson.”

“Yeah, I thought so.”

CRASH!

“Hey, Wilson, what the heck was that?”

“I don’t know, Dan. Some kind of car crash.”

“Shit,” said Chief Collins. “Let’s go take a look.”

They walked around the side of the building.

A Jeep 4×4 had run into the side of the police station.

The wall was slightly dented, but looked OK. 

A somewhat older man with long hair tied back in a ponytail and a salt-and-pepper beard climbed out of the Jeep.

He winced and looked around.

“Are you alright?”asked Mr. Collins.

“I think so,” said the man. “I’m sorry about the building.”

“What happened?”

“I was driving home and, well, I guess I ran into your station.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“Maybe just a little.”

“How much?”

“One or two, I think.”

Chief Collins knew this was bullshit, but he let it slide.

“Hey, Dan,” said Mr. Johnson. “I could really use a drink myself.”

“Maybe later. We got to make sure this guy’s alright

“What do you do?” asked Chief Collins.

“Well I’m Steve Earle and I’m a songwriter. Yeah, I write songs and stuff.”

“Well, that’s cool, Steve. Are you, like, famous or something?”

“Yeah, yeah, I guess you could say I’m kind of famous. I mean, I do okay.”

“Well, fucking A, Steve Earle. That sounds pretty cool.”

Steve Earle nodded.

Then he looked up.

About two hundred feet above them, a huge silver mothership was hovering in the sky.

Mr. Johnson’s face went white.

“That’s where Marci is.”

Steve Earle looked up at the ship.

“Marci?”

Then he looked at Mr. Johnson.

“Oh yeah, I know Marci. I think I can get her down.”

SCENE THREE

Mr. Johnson blinked and registered the fact that Steve Earle apparently knew his girlfriend Marci.

Steve Earle lit a cigarette and offered one to the two men. “You boys wanna smoke?”

“Hell yeah Steve Earle” said Mr. Johnson. In addition to freaking out Mr. Johnson was also just a bit stressed. 

“Thanks there Steve Earle. I’ll have one after we get Marci back.” 

Chief Collins was, after all, a professional. 

“Suit yourself” said Steve Earle. 

He walked back to his Jeep, opened up the back, and pulled out a heavy-duty tow cable.

“What’s that for?” asked Chief Collins.

“Getting things unstuck.”

Steve looked up at the ship.

“I don’t know guys” he said. “It’s just sort of hanging there. Let’s see if this works.”

He looked down at the cable and back up at the ship.

“What’s the plan, Steve?” asked Mr. Johnson.

“I’m just making a little fishing line for that there spaceship.”

“You can’t lasso a spaceship Steve” said Chief Collins.

“Well, I guess we’re gonna find out,” said Steve Earle.

Steve hooked the cable to the winch on his Jeep.

Then he slung the cable into the air. Somehow the cable caught around the middle of the mothership.

Steve Earle yanked the winch.

The cable tightened and the mothership began to descend. Slowly at first, then faster.

“Holy shit!” said Chief Collins, as he watched.

Steve Earle kept working the winch.

The mothership came down into an empty field behind the police station with a tremendous metallic WHUMP.

The ship was somewhat  damaged and a door popped open.

Marci stumbled out. She looked around and saw Mr. Collins and Mr. Johnson. 

Then she saw Steve Earle standing beside his Jeep with one hand on the winch.

“Hey, Marci. What’s going on?” said Steve Earle.

“Well, I don’t know, Steve. It looks like I just got abducted by aliens.”

“Yeah figures,” said Steve Earle.

Mr. Johnson was increasingly freaking out.

“Hey, Marci, how do you know this Steve fella anyway?”

“Oh, you know, Wilson. I’m a big fan of Steve’s, and I won this contest thing to have lunch with him.”

“Yeah, Marci’s a real riot there Wilson,” said Steve Earle.

“Yeah, okay, Steve. But, like, Marci—I mean, did you guys sleep together or what?”

“No, no, silly,” said Marci. “We didn’t sleep together. Anyway, I’m married, as you know.”

Steve Earle and Mr. Collins exchanged knowing glances.

“But I’m in love with you,” said Mr. Johnson.

“Yeah, I know,” said Marci.

“Also, I saved you,” said Mr. Johnson.

“No, you didn’t. Steve Earle did. How did you save me actually Steve?” she asked. 

“Well, I guess I just kind of lassoed the spaceship,” said Steve Earle.

“Yeah, we saw that,” said Mr. Johnson. “But that was a pretty weird thing to do.”

“Yeah,” said Steve Earle.

“You just lassoed it with a rope?” said Mr. Johnson.

“Well, technically it was a tow cable.”

Mr. Johnson turned to Marci.

“You had lunch with this guy. You drank brandy with him. He put you in a limousine. And now he lassoed a fucking spaceship and saved you, or something?”

“Pretty much,” said Marci.

“Jesus Christ, Marci.”

Steve Earle reached into the passenger side of his 4×4 and pulled out a mostly full bottle of vodka.

“Here you go, Mr. Johnson. This is the good shit,” he said.

“Oh, hey, thanks,” said Mr. Johnson. “This will really hit the spot.”

Mr. Johnson took a big slug, and then another.

“Hey, you might want to slow down there, Wilson. You have to drive home, right?” said Chief Collins.

“Well, I was hoping Marci could drive me home,” said Mr. Johnson.

“Jesus, Wilson. I just got off this totally random ass spaceship and you’re not even going to drive me home? What’s going on?”

“Yeah, what are you smoking there, Wilson? Something good, I hope,” said Steve Earle.”

“Hey, Steve. I’m not really smoking anything right now. I’m just drinking your vodka. Thanks again.”

“Yeah, drink up.”

Mr. Johnson passed the bottle to Marci who took a big drink. 

“You are gonna drive me home after all aren’t you W?” said Marci.

“No, he’s not,” said Chief Collins. “I’ll call you an Uber.”

Chief Collins pulled out his police cell phone and called an Uber.

A few minutes later, the Uber arrived.

The driver’s name was Jack.

Jack looked at the damaged mothership.

Then he looked at the dented police station.

Then he looked at Steve Earle.

Then he looked at Marci, Mr. Johnson, and Chief Collins.

He decided not to ask any questions.

Marci and Mr. Johnson slipped into the back seat.

Before getting in, Marci leaned over and gave Wilson a quick kiss on the cheek.

Mr. Johnson blushed.

“Hey, Wilson, you were really freaking out back there for a bit,” said Marci.

“Yeah,” said Mr. Johnson. “I guess I was. I’m just happy to have you home, honey.”

“I’m happy to be home too,” said Marci.

They got into the Uber and drove off together.

Steve Earle watched the car disappear down the road.

Then he turned to Chief Collins.

“Hey, Chief. That was quite a day, wasn’t it?”

“Sure was,” said Chief Collins.

He looked at Steve Earle.

“Hey, Steve, what do you have going on there? Some kind of motel tan?”

“Yeah,” said Steve Earle. “Something like that.

FIN

Dedication: For Marci. Hope you got home safe there babes. And for Chief Collins, Mr. Johnson, Steve Earle, and some guy called. Jack. You’re a bunch of bozos, but you’re still ok in my book. Finally got my Middle School French teacher Monsieur Dreyer. You’re getting all outta control again there sir and you’re a bit of a weirdo, but you still rule baby.