To The People Living Vicariously Through Me

Hey, folks! You may have noticed that this blog went up early on Monday as opposed to Sunday as usual. It bothered you, and it bothered me. I was late because I was watching eight hours of live standup comedy, a decision so terrible that I’m already writing it up for Wednesday’s blog. So just know that my tardiness is giving you a crackerjack midweek update. Look forward to it.

And now, back to your regularly scheduled Hair Guy!

This picture becomes relevant in a few paragraphs. Until then, it's just Han Solo, making this blog cooler.

I’ve been away from home, in one sense or another, for the past six months now. Of course, ‘home’ is something of a nebulous concept, but by my definition, home is the place where my box of Pop Tarts is, and where there is a toaster to heat up the Pop Tarts should I feel in the mood for That Sort Of Thing, and where there are old friends with whom to eat the Pop Tarts and reminisce about Pop Tarts we’ve eaten in the past.*

*It’s not that I’ve got a raging boner for Pop Tarts or anything, it’s just that they really fit into my rock n’ roll lifestyle because they’re basically the most passive food in the world. Cereal takes too long, what with the milk and the pouring.

One thing that people kept telling me before I left was that they were living vicariously through me. To be honest, I’d say at least half a dozen people have beamed at me and said, “God, Truman, it’s so exciting! I’m just living vicariously through you.” I mean, Mike said it, for God’s sake, and he’s made it clear in the past that he thinks it’s gay to use a word with more than three syllables.

Living vicariously – that means basically they want to experience everything I experience, from afar. Think of it as a really passive version of Avatar, I guess.

This puts an awful lot of pressure on me, having to live for multiple people besides myself, because as a general rule I seldom do interesting stuff. To those of you for whom I am living right now: Congratulations! In the past 24 hours, we have watched half a season of Mad Men, fixed the toilet, and invented a name for a drink.*

*Vodka + root beer = Mrs. Beer. Copyright Truman Capps, 2010, all rights reserved.

Please don’t take this as me being critical of your choice of vicarious life buddy, because I’m quite honored to be doing this for you. It’s just, if I had to pick somebody to live vicariously through, I’d pick somebody who did cool stuff nonstop, 24 hours a day – somebody who’s such a dude of dudes that he even sleeps in a badass way.

Who would I pick to live vicariously through? Well, Han Solo, naturally – that’s everyone’s answer, whether they know it or not (although I was not pleased a few years ago when Lucas reedited the movie so that the guy I’m living vicariously through just sits there while Greedo shoots at him). Second place, though, would probably go to Richard Branson, pictured below, for reasons you will understand when you see the picture.

I’m not really into parasailing, but under these circumstances I could learn to love it.

On the rare occasion that some opportunity arises to do a cool thing, I’ve been trying recently to say ‘Yes’ as much as possible and just do whatever it is, so long as it doesn’t involve heroin or watching Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull. Some of this is out of concern for the various people living vicariously through me, and some of this is borne out of the insanity that comes from not seeing the sun for two months.

Last night, for instance, my cousin Gene and I went out to have some burgers and see The Other Guys. When we left my apartment, there was a house party in full swing across the street – people were piling out of cars, techno music and splashes from the backyard pool echoing through the neighborhood. When we got back four hours later, the music was still thumping and people were still milling around.

Gene pulled up at the curb near the house and as we discussed our plans for next weekend, a girl staggered up to the window and knocked on Gene’s window, which he rolled down.

“Do you guys need any help or something?” She slurred, hopefully.

“No, we’re fine. I’m just dropping my cousin off.” Gene explained, gesturing to me.

“Oh.” She said. “So, do you want to come to our party?”

I considered the situation – walking alone into a complete stranger’s house. Best case scenario, there could be some cool snacks, and maybe somebody there would be Neil Patrick Harris. Worst case scenario, the party could be an elaborate hit organized by Mara Salvatrucha, the world’s deadliest gang.

“Sure!” I said, hopping out of the car. I bade Gene farewell and followed the girl as she stumbled up the driveway into the house.

To start out with, some girls look a certain way when you’re looking at them through a car window on a dark street, and then a different way in a well lit area, and seldom is the difference an improvement. Also, while this house party may have been cool earlier, by the time I arrived it was a largely empty house, floors strewn with empty Coors cans and crushed Cheetos, the remaining 15 guests clustered in the far corner of the room, shouting to be heard over aggressively bad techno music blasting from the speakers.

My host stumbled and swayed, explaining with the elocution of a stroke victim about her job as a tax preparer in Long Beach, then struggling to describe the workings of the Long Beach Red Bull Flugtag she had attended that day, in spite of the fact that I told her I had been to one before and knew what it was all about.

She would stop, periodically, and just stare at me, and she had the look on her face that people have right before they ask if they can touch my hair, which is creepy enough when people I’ve known for years do it, let alone anonymous, trashed party girls. I made furious, brutal smalltalk in hopes of delaying that question, and at one point, when the music abruptly stopped as someone fiddled with the computer, my voice was briefly the loudest thing in the room.

I was immediately aware of everyone else in the room staring at me, these people with saggy jeans and spiked hair looking at me and sincerely wishing that I wasn’t there almost as bad as I did.

Fortunately, at that point I got a call from my imaginary girlfriend, one of the calls where the phone doesn’t ring loud enough for the other person in the noisy room to hear it, and I apologetically explained that I had to go before walking out, telling my imaginary girlfriend that I loved her, congratulating her for her 2006 SyFy Genre Award for Best Special Guest, and that I would be waiting outside for her to pick me up in her time traveling De Lorean.*

*What, your imaginary girlfriend doesn’t drive a time machine? Well, I guess I’m just lucky.

I strolled back across the street to my apartment, my imaginary girlfriend having done her duty, and settled in for another evening of video games and roaming Wikipedia. I don’t know where that party was going to go, but I’m pretty sure the people I’m living vicariously for would’ve hated it just as much as I did.

Truman Capps actually shrank the Richard Branson picture just a bit, just so that when his parents and 3rd grade teacher read this blog they don't wind up getting a facefull of naked supermodel.