Deliriously Happy Page 4

  One of our far-flung correspondents, Miles, writes from New Orleans, “I’m going to be in town in the near future, and I was hoping to finally meet this Leann I’ve heard so much about. Do you have her phone number or an address where I can write her directly?”

  No need for that, Miles. Just send your correspondence to Leann in care of this newsletter, and I’ll make sure she gets it.

  And finally, Reggie, of Oak Lawn, Ill., writes in and asks:

  “Larry, isn’t it time you got on with your life? It’s been nearly two years [sic] since Leann broke up with you [sic], and I hate to be the one to tell you, pal, but it’s over. O-V-E-R [sic].

  “But listen,” Reggie continues, “there are a lot of other chicks in the sea, my friend, and they’re yours for the picking. Go for it!”

  Well, Reggie, I don’t know quite how to answer that. It’s difficult to determine exactly what it is you’re driving at, since I’m afraid I do not share your bitter perspective, or your particular gift for playground aphorisms. So please understand when I suggest this: You know nothing about love.

  But thanks for the letter, Reg. Your “Larry Loves Leann” T-shirt is in the mail.

  My Heart: My Rules

  If this thing is going to work, and I for one am pulling for it, things are going to have to be different. Not different than they have been for us, certainly, because at the very least I hope we can agree that you and I are not yet an us (that being my sincere goal), but different than the way things have been for me, and I suspect have also been for you.

  We’re not kids anymore, so let’s be adults about this. The countless past couplings (and perhaps I am getting ahead of myself here, but I believe they should remain countless) that propel you and me into each other’s arms have taught us both, individually, that love, alas, does not conquer all, and that for these things to work, there have to be rules.

  My Apartment

  As we walk around my apartment, please note:

  1. This is my apartment.

  2. As the result of years of painstaking trial and error, the television, stereo, thermostat, refrigerator, toaster, and furniture in this apartment are all set at their optimal levels in every regard. Any attempt to adjust any appliance or object in my apartment will only

  a. result in them having to be reset, and

  b. introduce passive-aggressiveness into the relationship, which, as any book on the subject will tell you, is bad.

  3. In the closet here, and this is very important, are my clothes. No clothes that are not these clothes, or which do not hew very closely to these clothes in matters of style or substance, will ever become my clothes. They may

  a. reside in this closet for a while, leading to the impression that they are actively participating in my wardrobe, but

  b. in fact, will be there for display purposes only; and

  c. all non-me apparel, regardless of its source, will eventually end up in this closet way over here, where, if you see anything you like, help yourself.

  4. I have achieved a satisfying equilibrium between my desire for order and the seductive lure of chaos. Please do not upset it. (See 2.b, above.)

  5. I cannot accept responsibility for items of clothing or other personal objects left in the apartment, nor can I vouch for the provenance of any vesture or garniture you discover that proves to be neither yours nor mine.

  6. My lease forbids me from making an extra set of keys.

  Me

  Generally, there is only one rule about me: I am what I am. But over the years, a few areas concerning me have cropped up often enough that I feel the need to address them specifically.

  1. I have worn my hair long, short, left, right, straight back, and spiked. The particular style you see now is, unfortunately, the only one that works. Previous hair experiments by otherwise well-meaning individuals have ended in tears.

  2. I am ten pounds overweight. When I raise this issue, typically in the mornings or just before dessert, you should

  a. be aware that there is no correct response, and

  b. quietly go about your business.

  3. Do not touch me here, here, and especially here, even in jest.

  4. I have a medical condition that I may invoke from time to time to explain certain moods or behaviors. Do not be alarmed, as this condition

  a. is not fatal, in the medical sense;

  b. cannot be transmitted through sexual contact; and

  c. cannot be transmitted through oral sex.

  You

  Having insisted that I am what I am, it would be hypocritical of me to not let you be you. However, experience has taught me that you may, at some point, decide not to be you anymore. Should you anticipate such a transformation, I ask that you keep in mind:

  1. Your hair is perfect. There is no need for you to ever do anything interesting to it.

  2. However it is that you smell that way, continue to do so. Sudden shifts in the olfactory landscape disconcert me.

  3. If I should come to love you (See Us: 3.a, below), I will of course love you at any size. Yet I cannot love and respect someone who, by all appearances, does not love and respect herself. Accordingly,

  a. Do you really want to eat that?

  4. All of the above notwithstanding, I do not wish to discourage you from pursuing cosmetic surgery if it would somehow bolster your self-esteem, and would be happy to support you, in a strictly advisory capacity. (Brochures attached.)

  Us

  Someday very soon (here’s hoping!) you and I will be an us. We will be a much better us, I believe, if we adhere to two simple maxims: we are what we are, and que será, será. Regrettably, repeated inquiries on particular us-related topics in the past have prompted me to codify this general philosophy into a few, for the want of a better word, edicts.

  1. Even as an us, it is important that you and I remain you and me. This is particularly important with respect to our respective domiciles (See My Apartment); I suggest, therefore, that you and I endeavor to maintain the roles of host and visitor in each other’s residence at all times, even while presenting an us persona to the public. In other words,

  a. the host shall be responsible for maintaining an adequate supply of beverages and snacks in accordance with known preferences of the visitor, such beverages and snacks to be offered and served by the host in the traditional manner;

  b. in order to prevent a de facto living-together situation,

  i. the visitor shall not stay overnight in the host’s residence more than three (3) days in a row, nor more than four (4) days in any one seven-day period, barring an emergency at the visitor’s residence, including but not limited to: fire, painters, plumbers, an especially heinous crime within a two-block area, or mice, in which case the maximum stay shall be extended to not more than six (6) days;

  ii. combined overnight visits in either residence shall not exceed five (5) in any one week, nor fifteen (15) in any calendar month; and,

  iii. at the end of an evening in which an overnight stay is anticipated, that evening’s prospective visitor shall not suggest to the prospective host that they go “home” nor use a similar locution.

  c. In the event that a misunderstanding, altercation, or mood makes an anticipated overnight stay suddenly ill-advised,

  i. the visitor, and not the host, will implicitly acknowledge this fact by announcing, “Well, I’ve got to be going,” in a cheerful, non-recriminating manner, while

  ii. at no time will the host question the visitor’s motivation for leaving, nor use force to prevent his exit, or to hasten it.

  2. Intimacy will become all but inevitable over time; however, please note:

  a. it should not be confused with love, and

  b. may involve the release of emotional, historical, or medical information which is private and privileged, and should not be divulged

  i. to “best” friends over lunch, or

  ii. during family or police interrogations, or

  iii. before gatherings in
bars or at parties, even if said information is presented in a jocular fashion which “nobody took seriously.”

  3. Love is a funny, unpredictable thing, and as such follows a timetable all its own. If past experience is any guide, declarations as such are meaningless anyway. But the futility of love in a loveless world notwithstanding,

  a. should I come to love you (keep those fingers crossed), you will be informed

  i. first in writing, most likely in the closing of a letter or card, or perhaps on a balloon, and then,

  ii. orally, at some later date,

  iii. both these conditions being necessary to constitute a lasting and abiding love.

  b. Should you come to love me before I am able to make a co-declaration of same, you should

  i. exercise restraint in your declarations, as

  ii. more than three (3) unreciprocated declarations of love within a forty-eight-hour period shall be considered harassment.

  c. Any declaration of love shall be considered in effect and at full strength unless and until it is rescinded explicitly.

  d. Any repeated request for a redundant declaration of love, if granted, shall not then be vitiated on the grounds it had to be coerced.

  4. Previous loves, as much as we try to leave them behind, will inevitably show up at parties, funerals, and other social occasions. Should this occur, all I ask is

  a. a three-by-five (3 x 5) inch card, spelling out in clear, block letters

  i. his occupation and estimated salary,

  ii. a general description of looks and size,

  iii. the beginning and end dates of the relationship,

  iv. any emotional or physical “firsts,”

  v. reason for dissolution, and

  vi. whether you ever really loved him,

  b. such information provided with sufficient time for me to recuse myself from the proceedings with cause, and without causing a scene.

  c. Likewise, and happily, I will supply you with comparable information, should you request it in writing, and provided, in my sole estimation, you can handle it.

  5. I have been hurt; you have been hurt. I do not wish to hurt you. I trust you do not want to hurt me. None of this should be forgotten should any future hurt occur.

  Sunday Mornings

  I propose the following schedule and general guidelines:

  9:00 a.m. Awake, snooze, spoon.

  9:15–10:30 Breakfast.

  a. Coffee.

  i. Half-and-half should be available; low-fat or skim will be considered a violation of the spirit of Me: 2.b. No flavored blends, please.

  b. Bagels (host fetches), cream cheese, butter, etc.

  c. Fruit (in season).

  9:30–12:30 p.m. Sunday New York Times.

  a. In five piles: Unread, You’ve Read, I’ve Read, Both Read, Coupons.

  b. No reading aloud.

  c. Host commandeers the crossword but

  i. makes an attempt to include the visitor in the crosswording process, even if she can do all of it herself.

  ii. No dictionaries.

  12:30 Sex, showering, as mood permits.

  Miscellaneous

  From my experience in previous situations, I have learned a few things which, God willing, can prevent any future us from becoming the emotional baggage that burdens any subsequent us you or I may pursue separately.

  1. Preexisting cat(s; up to two) will be tolerated, provided you do not insist they become an active third party in the relationship. Should you not now have such a cat, but consider acquiring one in the future, I would appreciate:

  a. the right to peremptorily challenge up to three prospective names; and

  b. verbal assurances that said creature will be nurtured from a pool of affection and attention created especially for it, and not from other sources.

  2. Absolutely no dog sharing.

  3. My medication does not interact with alcohol, and while we’re on the subject,

  a. I only drink to forget those aspects of my past that might otherwise impede our ability to form a lasting, loving us.

  b. I know my limit.

  4. From time to time I may disappear for several days, physically and/or emotionally.

  a. This need not concern you.

  b. Under no circumstance call the police.

  5. If your name is Katherine, Kathy, Kate, Cate, Kat, Kay, Sweetie, or Punkin, it might be wise for me to call you by your middle name, or a third, mutually agreed upon moniker. One possibility: Nancy.

  6. One night four to six months from now, we may go out to eat, see a movie, come back to my apartment, make love, watch some TV, go to bed, and you will awake in the middle of the night to find me weeping.

  a. It will be nothing.

  b. Ignore it and go back to sleep.

  7. Please refrain from talking during sex.

  Before you say anything: don’t say anything. I know what you’re going to say, and I agree: it would be so nice if we were young and unbruised again and could rush in like fools where, as adults, we know better than to tread. This is not to say I am not all for this. I just think that if you and I must dance once again into that dark, warm room filled with spiders, we ought to step carefully; and I want to know ahead of time that no more than a handful is playing violins behind their backs.

  Oh, and one more thing: I don’t dance.

  Ask the Eight Ball

  Will Marissa and I ever get back together?

  Will Marissa and I ever get back together?

  Will Marissa and I ever get back together?

  Will Marissa and I ever get back together?

  Will Marissa and I ever get back together?

  Glee

  Portrait in Evil: My Story

  It’s not easy being the bad guy. The public hates you, and no wonder, fed as they are a steaming stream of media bile that maliciously misrepresents all your plots and machinations. Adults, in turn, poison the minds of the young, who every day joyously play-act your murder. All you have are your minions, who do your bidding, sure, but out of fear and not out of respect or, dare I say it, love.

  Little do people realize that under the mask, beneath the armor, lie the beating hearts, the transmogrified flesh and isotopic blood of a creature who was once very much human, just like them. If they were to take a moment to peer through that translucent skull and into that superevolved brain they would find more than dark schemes and deadly schemata and vast enemies lists; they would discover, deep inside, tucked behind some new torture notions, the tiny, sad boy with the freakishly large head who only wanted to be good but was turned bad.

  This is the story I wish to tell. The story of the Dr. Cranius I know. My story.

  I will begin with my origin story, not the ridiculous tale told in comic books and by Nancy Grace without regard to libel laws but the true telling of my humble, tragic beginnings: my miraculous birth to a poor, single dry-cleaner who lost her pelvis as a result of the delivery and was therefore ruined for other men, dooming me to be raised without a proper male role model. Very little is written about my sainted mother other than that I eventually killed her; nothing is known of the love that shone through her revulsion, or her heroic struggles to pay for all the appliances her precocious toddler dismantled, or the punitively expensive custom protective headgear. This is the woman I want people to know. Perhaps then they will understand why she had to die.

  The hard child is mother to the man, the poet wrote, and I was a very hard child. Hardened, by the playground taunts of Big Head, Giant Head, Huge Head, Humungous Head, and, eventually, Colossal Head. Hardened, by an educational system unable to distinguish genius from madness, and forced to ride the little yellow bus with the drool patrol. Hardened, every day at school, a diamond in a coal mine, my brilliance blinding eyes unaccustomed to the light, destroying principals unwilling to cede power to their superior.

  I dropped out.

  It was never my intention to turn evil. At first, I was simply trying to survive—hawking my scientif
ic papers on the streets of Urbana, performing calculus tricks down by the boardwalk, busking π to the centillionth on the subway. I often went hungry.

  And so there was a certain situational or perhaps cosmic irony in the fact that it was my determination to use my prodigious gifts for the greater good that led to my current profession. Frustrated by the many cretins and tomfools I encountered in my daily life, I devoted myself to elevating the public to a level worthy of discourse. The result was Dr. Cranius’s Brain Liquid, a mental-energy drink that combined the best of ancient oriental botanicals with a secret boost of radiographically induced evolution. I brought the product to PepsiCo in late 1993, and they rejected it after merely tasting it. Of course, less than eighteen months later these fiends announced Josta, a pale imitation of my drink without any of its mutagenic qualities.

  Even then, I resisted the lure of villainy. Rather than contaminate this interloper with retarding agents, which would have been very easily done, I redoubled my efforts to beat them to market, which resulted in the drink lab accident that made me the Dr. Cranius I am today: stronger, smarter, albeit a little insane, and, yes, evil.

  The middle section of the book will concentrate on what it is like to be the reigning supervillian of Urbana, going behind the headlines and news bulletins to reveal my day-to-day struggles. I can’t go out to a restaurant without a legion of half-assed heroes crashing my table before the salad even arrives. I run through minions faster than I can replace them. I can’t get a cab, going uptown or downtown.

  I will also lay out my plans for global domination, and I think readers will be surprised how reasonable and pleasant a Dr. Cranius reign would be. I believe this section will guarantee me a spot on the all-important Jon Stewart show, or failing that, The Colbert Report.

  On the advice of my agent, I will also not stint on “the dirt.” While I cannot reveal the details here, I have information about Red Hawk and his young ward, Chick, that is certain to make the tabloids. As for myself, it is eternally true that a certain kind of woman is attracted to a bad man, and I have had more than my share. I will provide a list of names, and why they had to die. I also have a very funny story about Jen Aniston.