coffee, having a doughnut, and watching television all at the same time. I was like some sort of many-armed Indian god, the Vishnu of self-avoidance. IfSinbad’s ship were sailing past my cave and his crew looked in, one of them would say, “It is the beast with many arms. We should kill it.”
Sinbad would reply, “No need. He is dangerous only to himself.”
It wasn’t enough. I didn’t have any drugs or alcohol, or else it would have been a very different party. It was my first attempt at sobriety. It didn’t stick that time but I eventually got it.
It was just a sad, desperate situation.
Then something amazing happens. This show comes on television and it’s about gorillas. It’s about people helping gorillas in the jungle. Helping gorillas find better living environments. Helping the gorillas to have better lives in their gorilla worlds. As I watched I felt moved. It was one of those moments that seemed beyond coincidence, like my purpose was unfolding before my eyes. Those moments usually happen when I am annihilated with enough despair to think, “Oh, my God! That’s what I should be doing. I should be out in the jungle with a shirt with a lot of pockets and a pith helmet helping monkeys.”
I had to stop myself before I started making the phone calls because I didn’t want to scare my friends. “Guess what? I’m quitting comedy. No, gorillas. I’m helping the gorillas now. No, I’m fine.”
I’ve had moments like that before.
Then the screen fades to black and the title IVAN’S STORY comes up in white letters. It was about this sad gorilla in this concrete environment. He had no toys and he’d been there for twenty years. Just an old, neglected gorilla at a roadside attraction zoo, not even a real zoo. One of those places you see billboards for along the highway in the middle of nowhere: GAS, FOOD, SEE A LIVE GORILLA . And he was just sitting there in what appeared to be a cell, tapping on the wall. I thought maybe at a different time it was a much more passionate display of anger but years and repetition had rendered it an empty existential hobby.
I realized why this suddenly seemed so important. I was Ivan. I was disappointed, despairing, and tired of fighting. I was in a cage of my own making, unable to get out. People would pay to see me and leave sad and disappointed. Then I realized Ivan didn’t have porn.
I switched the channel to the filthy menu. Now everything was going. It was just awful. Hotel room porn is the worst. I’m not delusional. I know I’m not watching healthy people. But porn is comforting. Yet another empty victory in the war against self. When it’s over, the instigators of the battle are still fucking on the TV, mocking me.
Then I stopped and considered myself sitting there on my bed, surrounded by my elaborate array of empty existential hobbies. And I thought again about that abandoned monkey, and actually had a bonding moment with him. We’re really not that different from monkeys. What’s the difference? Pants? What’s the difference between grunting and “Oh, email.” If Ivan had a monitor in his little cell he’d see me just sitting there flaunting the full range of distractions that pants-wearing civilization offers us. A Discman, a laptop, a remote. My cell.
It was awful. I turned it off and I went to sleep. The next morning I had to get up and do morning radio at six o’clock. I get there and I’m all covered with a fine film of sugar, cum, hotel room air; it’s just disgusting. My hair is fucked-up and it’s all just hammering into me the truth: that I once thought I was going to do something great in this life and it isn’t working out.
Chuckling Dumbfucks in the morning on Hot one hundred point who gives a shit. With morning radio there’s always a guy with a regular name and then the Something Man. So I’m sitting there with Bob and the GasMan thinking, If Rimbaud were alive he wouldn’t have had to do this …
“So Artie, you’re
Sinbad would reply, “No need. He is dangerous only to himself.”
It wasn’t enough. I didn’t have any drugs or alcohol, or else it would have been a very different party. It was my first attempt at sobriety. It didn’t stick that time but I eventually got it.
It was just a sad, desperate situation.
Then something amazing happens. This show comes on television and it’s about gorillas. It’s about people helping gorillas in the jungle. Helping gorillas find better living environments. Helping the gorillas to have better lives in their gorilla worlds. As I watched I felt moved. It was one of those moments that seemed beyond coincidence, like my purpose was unfolding before my eyes. Those moments usually happen when I am annihilated with enough despair to think, “Oh, my God! That’s what I should be doing. I should be out in the jungle with a shirt with a lot of pockets and a pith helmet helping monkeys.”
I had to stop myself before I started making the phone calls because I didn’t want to scare my friends. “Guess what? I’m quitting comedy. No, gorillas. I’m helping the gorillas now. No, I’m fine.”
I’ve had moments like that before.
Then the screen fades to black and the title IVAN’S STORY comes up in white letters. It was about this sad gorilla in this concrete environment. He had no toys and he’d been there for twenty years. Just an old, neglected gorilla at a roadside attraction zoo, not even a real zoo. One of those places you see billboards for along the highway in the middle of nowhere: GAS, FOOD, SEE A LIVE GORILLA . And he was just sitting there in what appeared to be a cell, tapping on the wall. I thought maybe at a different time it was a much more passionate display of anger but years and repetition had rendered it an empty existential hobby.
I realized why this suddenly seemed so important. I was Ivan. I was disappointed, despairing, and tired of fighting. I was in a cage of my own making, unable to get out. People would pay to see me and leave sad and disappointed. Then I realized Ivan didn’t have porn.
I switched the channel to the filthy menu. Now everything was going. It was just awful. Hotel room porn is the worst. I’m not delusional. I know I’m not watching healthy people. But porn is comforting. Yet another empty victory in the war against self. When it’s over, the instigators of the battle are still fucking on the TV, mocking me.
Then I stopped and considered myself sitting there on my bed, surrounded by my elaborate array of empty existential hobbies. And I thought again about that abandoned monkey, and actually had a bonding moment with him. We’re really not that different from monkeys. What’s the difference? Pants? What’s the difference between grunting and “Oh, email.” If Ivan had a monitor in his little cell he’d see me just sitting there flaunting the full range of distractions that pants-wearing civilization offers us. A Discman, a laptop, a remote. My cell.
It was awful. I turned it off and I went to sleep. The next morning I had to get up and do morning radio at six o’clock. I get there and I’m all covered with a fine film of sugar, cum, hotel room air; it’s just disgusting. My hair is fucked-up and it’s all just hammering into me the truth: that I once thought I was going to do something great in this life and it isn’t working out.
Chuckling Dumbfucks in the morning on Hot one hundred point who gives a shit. With morning radio there’s always a guy with a regular name and then the Something Man. So I’m sitting there with Bob and the GasMan thinking, If Rimbaud were alive he wouldn’t have had to do this …
“So Artie, you’re
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