During a recent phone call by a person who wishes to remain anonymous*, I acquired my newest favorite absurd story. Enjoy!
Being a north easterner to my core, I see and feel the geographic and cultural differences upon arrival.
It is so flat. (Note to self: next trip, you'll need a bike in addition to the convertible.)
I realize how much I like cacti.
The weather really does live up to the hype.
There are a lot of homeless people. I live in NYC, but even still. It doesn't compare to this. Maybe I'm just noticing it more here because it's so flat and because the weather is so nice. And because of the cacti.
The people here are very nice. There seems to be a lack of cynical assholes for sure. After a series of bad-taste jokey jokes delivered to my car rental associate, I realize that I am the cynical asshole that just infected the land of good vibes. After some reflection and introspection, I further conclude that it has everything to do with the difference in weather.
I decide to go see the Stanley Kubrick exhibit at LACMA.
It's amazing. I spent an entire day devouring all the information I could from the exhibit. I am a Stanley Kubrick expert now, and it feels good.
The following day, one of my friends who lives in L.A. and knows I'm in town, Kathy, hits me up to hang out.
"We should go to the Stanley Kubrick exhibit at LACMA."
This was the moment that would change everything. Well, not everything. But it would change everything about the next day.
"Yeah! That would be great. I've been wanting to see that exhibit."
I'm not sure why I lied. It was a useless lie. Not unlike the million other useless lies I've told over the years.
* * *
Like the time I told a friend I was experienced in psychedelic drugs, when asked. Followed by the time I declined psychedelic drugs to the same friend because I was scared. Because I had never ever taken a psychedelic drug before.
* * *
Like the time I went to dinner party with friends of an ex who I knew I'd never see again. When the host asked me my name, I answered honestly. But when asked what I do for a living, I am suddenly a guitar player. I'm not sure how it came to that, but there it was, resting on my lips, "guitar player. Professional." What was so bad about being a designer? Apparently, it was just too honest.
"Really?! You play the guitar? That's amazing! What do you do?"
"Oh. Just lessons."
"Wow, okay. Where do you give lessons?"
"I give... lessons... at a music store."
"Really? Which one? I know every music store in town!"
"You do? Well then, Lower East Side."
"Lower East Side, Lower East Side... nothing's ringing a bell... what's the name of the place?"
"All Music. The name is 'All Music'."
"Okay. Cool. I'll have to stop in sometime and check it out. Hey- hold on one sec, will ya? I'm going to run and grab us some guitars, and maybe we can a play something?"
It was then that I nodded, turned around, walked up the steps to the bathroom, and locked the door. After an hour of being sick, my girlfriend came up to check on me. I told her I would not come out until the guy with the guitars went to bed. And of course I would have to break up with my girlfriend.
* * *
Again, I have no idea why I couldn't have just said, "I actually already went to LACMA yesterday, but I'd still love to see it again tomorrow." But by the time I had already not said that, I was on to the next course of lies.
"Great. Pick you up in the morning?"
"Yes. I'm a morning person."
On our way to the museum, I am already very uncomfortable driving down familiar roads and looking at familiar sights that she is now pointing out to me. As we look for parking, I tell her to turn the corner and check for cheaper lots in the back. She does, and low and behold. The cheaper lot. She gives me a look as if to say, "Nice. Sure you've never been to LA before?"
We walk inside. I gasp. It felt like the right thing to do.
We meander from piece to piece, stopping to read all the same information I'd read the day before. I play along for a few pieces, but begin to panic a bit at the thought of having to maintain this level of feigned curiosity throughout the largest museum in the western hemisphere. I loosen up a bit, and walk ahead of her.
She catches up and says, "Incredible."
"I know. He began his career when he was 17..."
We move to the next piece where I'd forgotten I'd procured that little fact a day earlier from the museum placard that read, "Kubrick began his career at the age of 17."
She looks at me. "You're a pretty big fan, I see. You really know a lot about him."
I lie-smile.
We continue this way for the remainder of the exhibit. She tells me she'll be right back; she has to use the restroom. I watch her look around, searching for restroom signs. I tell her that it's down the hall, just beyond the Japanese exhibits, and hang a right. Or at least I think. She smiles with raised brow.
I tell her I'm hungry, and she offers to buy me a sandwich. I decline and tell her that I'm not very impressed with the food here- er, not impressed with the food at museums in general. All Museums. Like All Music. I dodged the bullet again.
An entire day was spent conserving a needless lie. And yet it was not a new feeling; being trapped in such idiotic dedication, that is. And it probably won't be the last time. I do believe I'm perfecting my craft. -as told by "anonymous".
*When gaining his permission to post this, I read it aloud to him.
"So, can I? Do you mind if I post it, or do you think there's any way 'Kathy' will read it?"
"Dera, don't use my name. I really like her and her friendship, and I can't believe I've managed to not screw it up. Yet. Besides, I can picture myself forgetting you wrote it and telling her to read your blog. And then she'll read it, and I'll have to tell her that I forgot to mention that I had another brother. Who went to LACMA to see the Kubrick exhibit. And wow, he's such a liar."
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