Tales of Zimm
This is the blog of Harvey Zimm, a Eugene, Oregon video store clerk who exist solely in my own mind. This is just the sort of literary experiment that I think sounds great after one too many Nyquilitas. We'll see how things develop.
August 6, 5:20 PM
My Girlfriends
I've been in more than my share of romantic entanglements. This would imply that someone out there has been getting less than his share because of my over-zealousness, which is a nice why of saying that I've probably fucked your girlfriend. Though I'm now settled down into a monogamous relationship with the woman I'm not supposed to mention by name on this blog (Sally), I was at one point akin to Casanova or Don Juan or any other history's great man-whores.
Cathy Branson was my first. Our parents were friends and we were born around the same time. When we were infants they would let us roll around on the carpet next to each other. They said we looked cute together, but in the end she dumped me for a Winnie the Pooh plush toy. Last I heard they were married and living in Cleveland. She's put on weight and he just got laid off from his job at the factory and has had to do unlicensed mechanic work for a used car dealership to make ends meet. They're going through counseling.
About eight years later, I started hanging around with this chick named Cassandra who was in my elementary school class. I shared a Capri-Sun with her, but when I tried to snap her training bra she lawyered up on me. She was all like, "What the fuck you think you doing?" and I was all "Well damn, bitch, you don't want the attention then don't dress like a ho" and then she was all "You ignorant. I dress any damn way I want." In the end she contracted herpes from a jazz band flutist and I never spoke to her again.
High school was the pinnacle of my lovemaking prowess. There was Tammy, the sweet, Christian minded bit of tail whose cooch was harder to get into than Fort Knox. There was Lisa, the flirtatious band-whore who looked striking as she paraded across the football field in her Sgt. Pepperesque uniform, clarinet seductively in hand. There was Amy, the wonderfully alternative strumpet with the Wicked Witch style socks and the multicolored hair, beautifully confident in her sexual appeal and blissfully unaware of her utter lack of an original personality. I had the distinct and highly refined pleasure of being denied sexual intercourse from all of these women, though my experience in touching bra-clad bosoms is unrivaled.
I'll leave out the story of how I lost my virginity, as it is both brief and trite.
And then came college. I spent a glorious-albeit-frustrating year living in the freshman dorms, my second floor room sandwiched between floors containing a veritable bevy of gorgeous, sexually adventurous women who wanted nothing more than to sleep with any male, of any species, other than myself. This is not to say that I did not see my own share of action. There was Karen, the adorable horse fanatic who looked like a slightly more effeminate Harry Potter and who was shocked, SHOCKED mind you, that any man would want to stick his penis inside of her before marriage vows had been spoken. There was my "spring fling" with a classmate from a folklore course who began our relationship by attempting to get me to sign a Greenpeace petition. A few drinks and some awkward, hasty sexual encounters later she informed me of her intention to travel to Australia with a slightly beefier and tanner male surfer whom she would later dump for a communications major from the University of Melbourne.
Which brings me to my current love interest, the unnamable Sally. We met in a German film course run by a spittle-flinging feminist with a penchant for anarchy and revoltingly ham-fisted political messages. Through our quite, unobserved mockery we found a common ground, and through our mutual caffeine addiction we found an excuse to converse outside of class. We carried on like this for some weeks until I decided to make it clear, in no uncertain terms, how much I really wanted to bone her. To my surprise and continuing gratitude, she did not call the police, but instead took my proposition into account. I believe she even took notes, and used the conversation where I had made this proposition as the basis for a psychology paper.
Eventually I did wear down her icy demeanor through my twin tactics of grace and engaging conversation. When those failed I employed my second set of twin tactics: Scotch and vermouth. Where that failed, whiskey and a funnel would usually succeed. Many was the night were Sally would lose her inhibitions and join me in an act she would have the pleasure of regretting in the morning.
Now, in our post-baccalaureate years, we live together in something approaching conjugal bliss, minus the legal obligations and expensive jewelry. Will we marry and do right by one another under the eyes of God and the State? It remains to be seen. I still feel as if I cannot be tied down, though I live in simple monogamy. I may one day feel the need to through off the yolk of this relationship and allow other women to enjoy a disappointing, forgettable encounter with moi.
But don't tell Sally. I'm not sure I could bear the ridicule.
March 1, 2:17 PM
Retail Therapy
Sally and I (Sally being my girlfriend who I'm not supposed to mention by name in this blog) went book shopping today. Always a mood-lifter. Went to the Smith Family Bookstore in downtown, big ol' used bookstore that has managed to absorb a surprising amount of my income over the years. The impetuous for this trip was that we both had a day off and some cash that hadn't been wasted yet (savings accounts are for suckers). We walked the many miles to the store, despite my wheezing and complaints. Too much air and Sally won't let me smoke when I'm standing next to her. Something to do with her weird cancer phobia. In any case, the inside of the bookstore filled the bill for me. Used bookstores have an intoxicating aroma. It's like gasoline huffing for intellectuals, only without the headache (not that I've ever huffed gasoline. I was strictly a paint-thinner man myself. My secret was to put a little airplane glue in the bag as well, for that added spice).
We were each working an esoteric angle today. I picked up an obscure Arthur Koestler (which means anything by Arthur Koestler that isn't "Darkness at Noon"). Sally went for Richard Hofstadter's "Anti-Intellectualism in American Life," though she only picked it up because Susan Jacoby (whom Sally adores) wrote a book that references it. I totally called her on it, ha ha snort. I grabbed some John Fowles, she grabbed some David Foster Wallace, which somehow led to the following exchange:
Me: "DFW, eh? Is that the one he wrote with all the simpering footnotes or the one with the annoyingly pointless abbreviations?"
Sally: "I apologize for wanting to read something that recognizes the existence of post-modernism. I bow to your superior taste.
Me: "No need to get prissy. Just because I mocked Thomas Pynchon that one time, all of the sudden you cast me as some sort of literary Luddite."
Sally: "You said some very nasty things about "Gravity's Rainbow" for which there was no just cause. Hypocrisy, in any case, as you admitted to liking "The Crying of Lot 49"."
Me: "People with funny names babbling about the postal service? What's not to like?"
Sally: "I still think you would like Don DeLillo if you actually read him."
Me: Yeah, well here's my impression of Don DeLillo: "Hey everybody, I'm Don DeLillo!"
Sally: "That's actually pretty good."
End of conversation. Victory: Zimm.
We took our purchases to some fancy-ass coffee place a few blocks down and had a pleasant few minutes peeling off price stickers and pasting them to the bottom of our table. It was a perfect Eugene moment. Literature, pretentious artwork on the walls, overpriced yet delicious coffee, overcast skies. Bliss.
February 18, 2:45 PM
A Brief Conversation With Rick
This is a brief transcript of a conversation I had the other day with Rick, a guy I work with at the video store. This came about after Rick had just finished renting some rom-coms to an exceptionally attractive college-aged lady. As soon as she left the store, he stepped over to me and pointed her out as she walked to her car.
Rick: "Damn, will you take a look at that? She has got one nice ass on her."
Me: "Yeah. That's nice."
Rick: "Mmm. I would totally hit that. I love a girl with a nice round butt."
Me: "Yep."
Rick: "Uh huh."
Me: "Hmm. You know, she poops out of there."
Rick: "Gross man."
Me: "Just thought I would point it out."
Rick: "Yeah, thanks for that."
Me: "Sort of takes the magic away, doesn't it?"
Rick: "That's just gross, man. Really."
Me: "I can't help speaking the truth."
Rick: "You don't need to be pointing that sick shit out to me. You've got a sick mind."
Me: "I also expel excrement from my anus like the rest of humanity. I don't know what makes you so special."
Rick: "You don't need to talk about it though."
Me: "Whatever."
Rick: "Okay then."
Me: "'k."
Rick: "Good."
Me: "Does put a different perspective on your porn collection though."
Rick: "Aww, dude! Fuck you! Dammit to hell!"
Me: "Just trying to help a brother get a new way of looking at things."
Rick: "Shit."
Me: "Exactly."
Rick: "Why are we even having this conversation?"
Me: "You're the one who pointed out some woman's anus. Don't blame me for where that took the conversation."
Rick: "I don't know, I feel real good blaming you."
Me: "It's an interesting subject, isn't it?"
Rick: "No, it isn't."
Me: "If you think about it, poop is the great leveler."
Rick: "I don't think about it."
Me: "Evokes a sense of empathy."
Rick: "Not listening."
Me: "I mean, it really is difficult to feel an inordinate amount of animosity toward anyone when you think that they engage in the same bodily functions as you and I."
Rick: "Example."
Me: "Well, I don't think either of us likes Rupert Murdoch all that much, as a person or a businessman."
Rick: "That's a given."
Me: "However, I can still emphasize with him on some basic human level because he has, as we all do from time to time, experienced diarrhea. At some point in his life he had a moment in which he started pooping and couldn't stop for awhile."
Rick: "That is an interesting point."
Me: "Kind of comforting, isn't it."
Rick: "No."
February 11, 12:20 PM
Unemployment is a State of Consciousness
I've had a fair number of jobs in my less than quarter century in the temporal plane. Many of these jobs were concerned food service or some form of over-the-counter retail work. These have been of little consequence. Much more important to me are the wide variety of jobs that I have created for myself. Having a new job is simply a state of mind, augmented with a business card and a willingness to provide your services without expecting anything so lavish as a paycheck. That's why there are real jobs.
My first fake job came about when I was around the age of eightish and I fancied myself a real pro at spotting Sasquatch. An attempt to become contracted with the local branch of the US Forest Service to keep an eye on the local bigfoot population was unfortunately fruitless. My friends and neighbors rebuffed my attempts to go freelance, and sadly I was forced to look into other fields.
The halcyon days of my fake employment opportunities occurred about a decade later when I realized I was pretty good at masturbating. You could almost say I had a knack for it. Being the good-natured soul that I am, my first thought was to use this gift for a respectable charity. However, I failed to receive any sponsors for my Jack-a-Thon ("Together let's whack out prostate cancer") and my efforts attracted no attention from the public at large.
After that, I had a series of minor fake jobs. I found that whenever I was feeling down about my real job, having a fake one to supplement would cheer me up some. Order a few business cards, take out an ad in the classified and go into business for myself. Why be a simple cook at a pizza joint when I could be "Harvey Zimm, professional Werewolf Therapist"? Why settle for being a bookstore clerk when I could be a freelance riot instigator? Sure, the pay was negligible, but the cocktail party conversations were so much more memorable for all involved. I even had my brief flirtation with celebrity, in particular the time I attempted to become Colin Farrell's stunt ass (I was never able to get in touch with his agent, however I did receive an offer to be Will Ferrel's stunt genitalia, but I turned it down. I didn't want to be typecast into strictly comedic roles). Currently, I work in a small video store, doing the Lord's work by putting the collected works of Jean-Claude Van Damme on the recommendation wall. However, should you ever need the services of a homeopathic necromancer, you know where to find me.
January 29, 4:50 PM
The First Entry
How does one start these things? Why does one start these things? Is it bad form to start of this endeavor by questioning its value? Isn't this sort of self-analysis somewhat like a toilet bowl, the thoughts swirling round and round, signifying nothing? Except that flushing a toilet ends with clarity and a state of calm, where as this sort of pontification makes me look like and over-intellectualized fruit case, which I guess is close enough to the truth, so it probably isn't an entirely dishonest way to start.
I have to admit that starting this blog was not my idea. It was the idea of someone very close to me (in the sense that I have stuck parts of me inside of parts of her, though what parts and where I will leave for you to guess) and who shall remain nameless as per her request (for those of you who know me, it's my girlfriend, Sally).
The influence of this anonymous person (Sally) has led me to join the vast ranks of bloggers (or is it "bloggni"?) spewing out their thoughts to an uncaring, unfeeling world. The general purpose is to in some way reveal my true self to other people, thus separating my personality from the thick, unyielding layers of irony that I have cloaked myself with since I was just so high (I'm holding my hand at the 4'5" level, for those of you who lack the technology to see me right now, you neophytes). I have little hope for this endeavor, as my sense of irony is in many ways like a symbiotic entity that has quietly consumed my psyche. I fear that if I, much like Spider-Man before me, were to separate from my symbiotic companion, it will attempt to take over another, darker personality and then become my nemesis.
I suppose a brief introduction of myself, the one who has written these words and deemed them worthy to toss into the vast, swirling ether of the Internet. My name is Harvey Zimm. I am a college educated retail employee with no hope of a real career and a girlfriend who enjoys performing minor psychological experiments on me (this is not as weird as it sounds and she has a perfectly good reason for doing this, i.e. that she's a total bitch). I enjoy fine wine, preferably consumed through a funnel. I enjoy movies about emotionally distant father figures and I believe I have a deep insight into the mental state of my cat, Rooster (Rooster is not amused right now, I can tell). I generally vote for whichever politician has the best name (Barack Obama has my vote this year. The man is so inspiring that I think he eats dreams and shits hope). My favorite book is the one about dragons.
I think that is enough bloggery for now. Please direct any appreciative donations to the charity of your choice.
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