It seems like a good idea now but get yourself a box set, see the sorts of problems these people have, reconsider. You may think an ultimatum like, “I’ll stop stripping if we get married,” is a win, an endgame, altering sentence, the sort TV royalty might say, but imagine Don Draper, think that Mary-Louise Parker character in Weeds. They couldn’t give a shit if you stripped or didn’t and rightly so. Who considers changing careers when a man asks? Anymore.
I ask Jack, “Are these stories you’d tell our kids, are they stories you’d tell yours?” and Jack says, “Sure. I keep a bit of a diary. Dates, lists. Girls’ numbers. And I think I’d make a good storyteller when it comes to it.” But I think there’s probably more to it, that what I want alone is a school sized exercise book with other men’s initials on the front because it’s not just once you meet the one you’ll spend forever with, that you really think is it. I’ve met about ten now, maybe eighteen, an extra two if you count Caitlin and Karen.
“Even that story about Barney wanting to suck his own dick?” I ask Jack. “You’d tell our kids that?”
Jack asks, “If you could pick an Olsen twin, which would you pick?” like it’s a question he’s been waiting to ask that we all have an answer to, like, “What’s your religious stance?” or, “Do you like popcorn?” (which I’ve found to be more complicated than a yes or a no thing).
“Which one was in Beastly?” I ask, unsure of the difference after a certain point, although I’m familiar with the sliding scales of blonde hairdressers suggest now.
“The wrong one,” Jack replies, “But they recited Frank O’Hara in it, and Neil Patrick Harris was in it.” I know but it’s better to leave experts thinking they’re experts, unless you’re ready prepared for disappointed eyes and layered responses that prove you know less than they do. You definitely do.
“The song stuck in my head,” he says, he continues, “and I picture her face when I hear it.” I Google the lyrics but can only think of paint and wallpaper and Johnny Cash.