A Roast of (another) Author

28Sep08

I filled in for my good buddy HairGuy this week on his side of the blog ocean, and why shouldn’t I get credit on both sides?  Here it is, in the original glory it was intended:

I’m in Pullman, Washington at the moment with the Oregon Marching Band, helping to pep up the fans as we trounce Washington State, whose football team couldn’t successfully take on a leper colony. This puts me in an awkward position for updating, so I’ve asked my oft-mentioned friend, The Aspiring Leader to take over the reigns for this week’s entry. Please think of her as the cool substitute teacher who everyone always likes having – she’s in no way even close to being better than the teacher you have, but she’s a refreshing change of pace every once in a while. If you find that you like her change of pace, please do keep reading her blog, and if you don’t, well, I’ll be back on Wednesday. So without any further ado, go team business major!

It’s like this, only without the exotic spit-tender and the actual fire.  The pig is pretty spot on.

When HairGuy asked me to write a guest column, my first response was, “No way, you asshat. You constantly berate my work in a public forum, hang up on me when you’re in front of your friends, and have now sworn to have zero free time this year with which to shower attention upon me.”

But then I thought twice. With adversity comes opportunity, and the Pink Unicorn of Atheism knows that T and I have been nothing but adversaries since the day we met. Nothing short of a grease fire in my eye sockets could keep me from mocking his iniquity in the dating world, and only Inara Serra holding a meatloaf and wearing a marching band helmet could distract him from mocking my affiliation with the craft of business.

The good news for our friendship is that deep down, beneath the layers of blithe condescension and thinly-veiled ridiculing, we’re really the same creative genius. He simply executes his talents in more blatantly creative ways. We have a deal, actually. He promises to remain my friend until fame and fortune flow unto him like so many concubines at the foot of Xerxes, and I promise to let him crash on my couch when he resorts to burning blog posts for heat in the meantime. I’m banking on the fact that being a friend of “that funny guy who writes that one show I watch once in a while” will eventually pay for the extra hummus and diet coke rations.

Not only do I see future gain from my friendship with T, but there are plenty of immediate perks as well. Anytime I come over to his parents’ town home for a play date, I am fed delicious food and imbued with spirits of all kinds*, not to mention delighted with scintillating conversation that usual revolves around mocking their only child. However, the Capps clan is not to be mistaken for a peaceful tribe. I have fallen victim to their nefarious plots for dinner table domination many a time. One night, over bowls of cioppino and glasses of red wine, they played a secret game (at least unbeknownst to me) of Make Dinner Come Out Kristin’s Nose. After a particularly valiant attempt that resulted in a fair amount of coughing on my end, I put on a brave face and postulated that, “It’s not the worst thing I’ve had come out of my nose.” Quick as a fouled-mouthed whip, I heard, “Was it the Holocaust? Did the Holocaust come out your nose?” Never have I known T to pass up a chance to insult an endlessly persecuted religion (or Christianity, whichever be more convenient at the time).

*By the by, his hair only gets softer and shinier with every sip of cognac one takes. Future wife of Truman: do bear this in mind.

The first time I saw the preview for the Patrick Dempsey flick Made of Honor, I bounced gleefully in my seat while repeatedly smacking T on the arm and whisper-yelling, “That is SO going to be us! You HAVE to be my maid of honor!” to which he either exploded in fury and then immediately reassembled or simply sat in silent rage. If Buddha and the Dalai Lama ever did go ice skating in hell and T did fill a primary organizing role at my wedding, I foresee plenty of bite-sized peanut butter sandwiches, a DJ who’s a diehard fan of the Rushmore soundtrack, and dice on every table for the guests to roll their fancy dessert bonuses.

From a mutual hatred of organized athletics to differing opinions on the societal benefits of Sex and the City, our friendship is built on a foundation of metaphorical volcanic magma: when free time for lunch abounds and he’s batting greater than 50% on pickup attempts, the interactions are solid and the living is easy. And, when a butterfly flaps its wings in Malaysia, we have a bitch fight that ends in words like, “That? Oh, that’s what you want to go with? This coming from the guy (girl) who liked (hated) Punch Drunk Love.”

At the end of the day, I’m pretty certain I can say it’s worth it. I’ve managed to mooch the entire series of Firefly, most of Freaks and Geeks, and more MST3K than I can shake a stick at, and he’s gotten…well, I’m sure he’s told you about that.

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