Never the Answer, Often the Question

First rule of Fight Club? Be scared of fighting and clubs for fights

A note on Business:

Thank you to everyone who has purchased subscriptions. I’m wildly encouraged by your support. There are those close to me—scientists would describe them as “members of my family”—who have shared well-intentioned skepticism of the long-term financial viability of Blogging.

It is in the spirit of spirited disagreement with these persons that I invite you, now, to subscribe here.

---

Reportedly, the orphans are intact

On one hand, it’s not extremely surprising that I’ve never been in a fight.

I was in chess club as a kid. I majored in creative writing in college. My hands? Soft.

I am frenemies with physicality, as a category of activity.

On the other hand—on the OTHER hand…

Sometimes I help women open jars?

Sometimes I help women open jars.

…Okay, so I’m really not the fighting type.

🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇

Once, after I helped my old roommate move furniture, she said, “You’re surprisingly strong.”

I was exceedingly pleased by this, enough to tell my friend JJ about it. JJ pointed out that it wasn’t a compliment.

I’m such a stranger to fisticuffs that 1. I would use the word “fisticuffs” and 2. The following occurred.

🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇

Several years ago I attended a storytelling event in Manhattan—sorta like The Moth, but much more informal. Even so, it was a large space and a large audience.

At the front of the room, a young woman was sharing a poignant and revealing story about her life. At least, I’m pretty sure that’s what she was doing. Along with everyone else in the crowd, I was distracted by the loud muttering and hostile laughter of a random man in the back.

The vibes from this man were unsettling. No one was sitting anywhere near him; no one was shushing him. His interruptions continued, to everyone’s increasing discomfort. The energy in the room approached panic.

I found myself doing frantic mental math. My stomach dropped as I scanned the crowd: most of them were young and most of them were women. Was I supposed to do something?

Ever play that game where you wonder whether you would be the person to run into the burning orphanage? To jump down onto the subway tracks to try to rescue someone who fell? Like, what if it was a baby? What if it was thirty babies?

Ever negotiate with the imagined God-figure of your choice about your unwillingness to rescue a hypothetical flotilla of loose infants?

(If your social media is to be believed, I’m imagining your imagined God-figure is Lizzo. I’m afraid mine is Sean Connery as James Bond. License to kill and all that.)

As part of my ongoing negotiation with the universe, I resolved myself to go talk to the unstable-seeming man.

🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇

As I walk over, I’m even starting to feel proud of myself. This stops the moment I get a closer look.

Dear reader, dude is built. Like, very strong. And seems even more volatile than before.

It is too late to turn back. I force myself to sit down beside him.

Riven with fear, I attempt to reason with him in a whisper. He ignores me and continues loudly trolling the event.

I’m in the grip of panic. What was my strategy, even? That’s right—my plan was, if he won’t be quiet, I ask him if he wants a cigarette. He would probably take a cigarette. I don’t have a cigarette but I’ll cross that bridge if I come to it. If this works, at least I get him outside.

I need to raise my voice and stop him from ignoring me. Fuck, okay, here we go.

🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇

What comes out of my mouth is, “Wanna go outside?”

His eyes flash. My life flashes before my eyes.

“Did you just say ‘Wanna go outside’?!”

🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇

“Wanna go ouside,” of course, is tantamount to “Wanna step outside?” And it is, I learned that day, not only in movies that “Wanna step outside” translates to “Let’s do hitting immediately.”

I saw the scope of my error instantly, which is to say, an instant too late; any ambiguity was removed by his reaction. For a moment there, he looked about as startled as I must have; the fight-or-flight response was unmistakable on his face.

When a movie villain is challenged to do battle, they laugh an evil laugh and welcome the puny challenger, relishing the chance for a scrap.

This was real life and the dude was no villain. (If I had to speculate, which I don’t, he just struck me as someone taking a vacation from his meds. Been there!) That’s what’s so striking when I think back: he looked as unhappy to be challenged as I was to have accidentally done the challenging.

🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇

None of which was helpful to either of us in that moment. I was about to get pummeled like a dusty rug, with no one to blame but my own catastrophic choice of words.

My memory of the crucial seconds are blurry, but someone appeared and saved my ass. I think it was probably my pal Spencer. It would be like Spencer to do that.

This person, probable-Spencer, materialized with—thank God—strong calm energy. I’m stammering something about cigarettes. Probable-Spencer either had some or bummed some and then the three of us are outside. The man of the unsettling vibes wanders away down 22nd street. The story-within-the-storytelling is mercifully concluded.

🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇

I’m afraid this blog might leave people with the wrong message.

As Barack Obama liked to say, I simp 4 drones let me be clear.

First: Orphanage fire safety? I support it. Without it, the New York Post would have way too much fun with “Too Hot For Tots” headlines.

Second, ask yourself:

Are you a woman with a jar?

Is it kinda stuck on there, the lid?

My efforts elsewhere have met mixed results. But I’m your man, jars-wise.

🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇🌂🦄🍇

I leave you with this screenshot of an email in which a reader describes their experience with Available for Parties:

SEE YOU NEXT FRIDAY, DEAR FRIENDS.