e-mail to a friend in needEl Duderino Rides Again
Predicament of the Week from November 2, 1998…
El Duderino Rides Again … and Again…Now in Second Place for All-Time BG P/W Appearances
Dear Breakup Girl,
First of all, I have no intention to break the record on serial Predicament of the Week (Brad). So I’ll try to keep this brief and relatively less colorful.
Second of all, you were accurate about the pitfalls of seeing life through tinted glasses. Very perceptive. However, I hesitate to peg Japanese Girl as one of those first decent meal after coming out from self-imposed exile. I don’t think I have loss my common sense to have fallen for someone who just happened to “step in.” JG is INDEED a truly righteous babe. My heart grins just thinking about her. It follows, of course, that I did not fall for the sake of falling.
And third of all, I don’t have a third-of-all, but still.
From my angst/metaphor ridden letters, you would not have gotten the impression that, in “real life,” I am basically this aggressive, devilishly mean, Newman/Brando-ish stockbroker. I don’t think I have split personalities, may be I’m just a bit more in touch with my feminine side, two hard-core feminist sisters made sure of that. Frankly, this affair with JG deserves more delicate consideration as opposed to one of those million dollar trade, where you coldly calculate your beta, stare at your candle-stick charts, and say “well, this trade “SUCKS,” lets cut it loose.” If it was that simple, with all due respect, my sentiment and prose wouldn’t have been this purple.
(This straight talk does not in anyway diminishes my respect for, and gratitude towards BG. But I digress)
Anyway, it’s not really like that, is it? I mean like how do you rationally reconcile the fact that a mean and nasty schmuck like me can feel completely vulnerable and soft in front of this woman? (It’s true, I so eat dudes like those in Glengary Glen Ross for breakfast and I’m so not purposely deprecating for the effect of juicing the script.) How then do you explain that a man, whose favorite phase is “that’s not my problem,” could spend hours mixing paint and rubbing them into the canvas to paint her portrait and then later argue with himself about hues in his sleep? How do you conjure the image of a normally serious adult who manipulates his facial muscles doing an impersonation of “The Boiling Pea Soup” to the beat of Harlem Shuffle, making a complete fool of himself in the process, for her amusement just to hear that glorious note of laughter?
How, pray tell?
.
