Posts Tagged ‘pathological liars’

Gah. Some People.

Wednesday, July 10th, 2013

So the other night my friend implored me to go along as her wing woman.

Well, that’s not how she pitched it, but that was the bottom line.

Seems some guy had approached her at a Starbucks earlier that day because of her beautiful eyes and then wanted to buy her a drink later that night for business reasons. She initially told me she thought I’d find him interesting, but once I heard the sentence I typed right before this one and she said she wasn’t interested in him and was suinternet_fist_bumpre it was “just business,” my Spidey sense was more of the “are you sure this is a good idea?” variety.

In other words, I felt obliged to go and make sure she survived.

So after about 15 minutes one thing was clear:  there is nothing this guy hasn’t done… in his feverish imagination.

You couldn’t tell him anything – “I cooked professionally for a few years” – without him interrupting, insisting on a fist bump and screaming out, “No way! Me too!”

I should have  mentioned carrying triplets as a surrogate and having an affair with Bill Clinton, but sadly such a great idea struck late.

Anywho, dude put the “noxious” back in obnoxious.

He created all by his lonesome a new pet peeve for me: do not exclaim  “I like her already!” more than five times and over the span of nearly two hours. You can only say that once or twice before it loses its punch, son.

Meanwhile, if you care, among his seemingly endless list of achievements he (allegedly) has:

  • Written for the New York Times as a journalist for 15 years.
  • Hosted a show about the New York Yankees for 8 or 10 years (seems to be true).
  • Have filmed a documentary about Afghanistan for the History Channel (seems to be true).
  • Saved a local theater in New Jersey with the help of Stephen King.
  • Received scads of national  press for that ^^^ feat.
  • Wrote a play based on that Stephen King dealio (the plot of which shifted drastically in each retelling – a mere five minutes apart and during which he seemed to have no idea he’d already told the story until I interrupted and told him so).
  • If that’s not enough, said play was submitted to a playwright competition by friends behind his back which it – of course – won and then was performed at NYU and some other places. What are the odds!
  • Had someone in L.A. randomly find that play years later and now he has a series on USA Network in the work. He may also have a Lifetime movie based on his play “Stephen King’s Red Tape” but I kept spacing out and considering running for the door, so I’m not certain whether I heard that or imagined it.
  • Be working on an explosive documentary about Hawaii, which he also promised to give me all the details of so I could write about it (and I think I was offered a role in it at some point as well) because if HE wrote about this explosive government traitorous behavior stuff, that would bring a lot of attention him being a former NYT journalist and all. Riiiiiiiiiiiiiight.
  • Has a book coming out soon about some nurse in the room when Kennedy died. I’m assuming it’s fiction. Clearly he’s a natural-born storyteller.
  • Been recruited for some kind of journalism career in Hawaii
  • Been recruited as a television writer in Hollywood, but turned it down to…
  • Produce a show for his dear friend Katie Couric. He was her right hand and maybe wrote the show and acted as her therapist and picked out her wardrobe and who even knows how pivotal he probably was. Why would he make something like that up?
  • Written (produced) film screenplays.
  • Started and runs a business making medical videos (this also seems to be true and the “business” he had with my friend, who is a nurse.)
  • Beaten the shit out of several Taliban – he was  a former professional wrestler or boxer or something… allegedly – with his bare hands to the degree that they staged a series of drive-by shootings to kill him in retaliation. What can he say? He’s Bruce Banner and you wouldn’t like him when he’s angry.
  • Been arrested and done time upon landing back at JFK for said beating up of Taliban activities: 15 armed marshals were waiting and all cocked their guns as he came down the escalator with his movie-making posse. Imagine that.

Whew!

How unfair that life has bestowed upon one man such talent! And endless amounts of time to get all this done considering he was probably in his early 50′s.

Oops. Can’t forget my favorite…

  • He (allegedly) went to a reading by Mary Higgins Clark and waited in line for her to sign a book for him. She asked what he wanted her to write and he (allegedly) said, “Something good. PLEASE something good.”

She (allegedly) asked what he meant and he (allegedly) claimed to have said, “Well, you’re an okay writer and all, but your stuff could be soooooooo much better with a good editor.”

Apparently no one loves to be insulted by a delusional asshole quite like Mary Higgins Clark, so she naturally hired him to write  a series of sex scenes in a book with “Halo” in the title (he couldn’t quite remember the name) and edited a couple others for her to the tune of $137,000… and then told me I’m wasting my time and that’s what I should be doing.

I mentioned that would be lovely, but I don’t know Mary Higgins Clark, which is how I got the “go to a book reading and humiliate the person” advice.

That’s ninja level, bromoney.

I’m not sure I’m ready.

You probably won’t be surprised to learn that he felt I was wasting my time with a lot of things.
I should be writing screenplays (that’s where the money is! Do it! Now! You’ll be rich!) and for TV (that’s also where the money is! It’s easy! Get out of print and journalism! It’s all about TV!) and maybe even plays. I definitely should have my completed books all over bestseller lists. I should quit any and all other writing I’m doing (that at least keeps me alive and my pets in kibble) because it’s all about my vanity of seeing my name/byline (I snorted out loud at that one. Puh-leaze) and how it’s not even my style (not true in the least, at least not with my restaurant reviews which I care terribly about and pour tremendous love, energy and effort into and are every square inch “me”) and I need to believe in myself and it’s that easy and if I write a screenplay I just need to believe and do what I love and the money will come and I need to BELIEVE and it doesn’t matter what anyone else thinks as long as I BELIEVE and blah blah blah cocaine is awesome.

Did I mention he’s married and here on Maui to renew his vows after 10 years?

And it was going on 11 p.m. on a school night at this point and his wife was nowhere in sight?

Yep.

So why am I telling you about this boob?

Well, first off, because he thought I was 26 and when I balked, he assumed that meant I was 30 and kept saying I “didn’t look a day over 22.” (Note to self: park self in that restaurant when feeling low.)

Also, because he inspired me to get up this morning and commence rewriting a book I’d made a new year’s resolution to redo but hadn’t yet started.

How did he manage that?

Well, because one thing is clear: if a psychopath like that can make a documentary about Afghanistan and be a on-air broadcaster and somehow run even a marginally successful medical video production company and be married for ten years and somehow even get that person to want to renew their vows to his egomaniacal ass, then I’m crazy to think I don’t have a really great chance of either pulling this off with my own work/novels and finding a good relationship or at least lambasting an elderly but successful writer into letting me write sex scenes for her for outrageous sums of money.

Hell, it’s a no-brainer.

Sure, I kind of want my hour and a half back, but at least it has got some other wheels turning in my head.

I do not believe for one instant he has the millions of connections at Harper Collins (Esther! You gotta talk to Esther!) and whatever he claimed – next to nothing he asserted can be substantiated via the Interweb -  and I would never give any of my work to him out of fear he’d plagiarize it, but I am in some weird way provoked to try a little harder.

Clearly this guy has made *some* traction with his life and he’s balls-out crazy and possibly a pathological liar. I have no excuse not to at least get a documentary and Katie Couric under my belt.

So there you go.

Lemonade From Lemons 101.

p.s.

Despite bragging for an hour and a half about his wealth, mansion, Mercedes so rare there are no others on earth, he didn’t pay for my friend’s drink…let alone mine.

But you probably saw that coming.

Gah. Some people.

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Musings from Spaceship Earth

Saturday, June 28th, 2008

I recently read that Buckminster Fuller (who I barely knew existed a few brief months ago, and now have a full-blown fascination with after somehow running across his “almost suicide” story and thus learning of his subsequent astounding feats of thinking, imagination, and innovation) opposed teaching children about “sunrise” and “sunset” because the earth itself is satellite in motion, a beautiful spaceship. I think somehow that the pervasiveness of such ideas as the sun ‘rising” and “setting” ties back to the world of ancient myths and the need to see ourselves as the center of some great play. On the other hand, we are all stars of some great play – our own story – no matter how mundane or commonplace it may seem. To the best of anyone’s knowledge, we only get one shot at life and being human, and we may as well make the most of it.

 

Last night I was watching a re-run of the final episodes of Project Runway Season three. After Jeffrey wins, he says something to the effect of, “It’s all just vibrations. It can be anything you want it to be,” and I was struck that I’d never heard him say this before. Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure he said it the four or five times I watched it previously (yes, I am a total Project Runway fanatic, and I don’t mind watching and re-watching episodes I’ve already seen before, as is the Bravo way), it’s just that this time I heard him. Once in a while this reality, this fact of quantum physics, hits me and the truth that this computer keyboard feels hard to me, but it’s really just atoms - just like I am – trips me out. If I start thinking about that kind of stuff too much, my brain boggles. I do believe it’s true; I just haven’t had much success harnessing those atoms or vibrations in my favor. On the other hand, as I’ve come to learn from therapy, until we heal our shit, we continue to pull the same pre-programmed patterns (and toxic people in different bodies) our way. It’s our subconscious’ efforts to “get it right,” only it doesn’t work.

 

Anyway, back to Jeffrey, even though he had some jerk moments, I thought he was one of the more fascinating people to come through the Project. I always like to see people who have struggled and hit bottom bounce and come back bigger and better than they may have been without the struggle. Although I’m happily, gratefully not an addict, I always watched him and hoped he might inspire someone else at an extreme low point to realize that there are reasons to push beyond their troubles. Plus, the neck tattoo was a bold statement, no?

 

The other reason I love that show is that I absolutely marvel at their creative and technical prowess, and it is a skill that completely eludes me. When I was a Brownie I made a wrap-around skirt. Rather than go to the fabric store and get something nice, my mother dug out this hideous chunk of army green wool and saved herself $1.35 on something that was actually attractive. Hell, for all I know it was an army blanket. Anyway, I proceeded to fashion the world’s ugliest wrap-around skirt from this stuff, with the help of the Brownie leader. I probably got a badge, which was no doubt the only upside of the experience. In addition to being heinously ugly, the skirt had an unfortunate habit of coming open, as is the way with wrap-around anything and why one needs a safety pin if you’re not in the mood to flash airport security (or whomever).

 

I also went through a heavy-duty Grateful Dead period where I would make tons of hats and sell them before the shows. I remember more than once someone would ruthlessly diminish the quality of my work – the lack of liner or finish work on the inside, what have you – but then buy one anyway. I had some semi-good stuff going: cat in the hat hats before they were ubiquitous, jester hats (ditto), big floppy engineer’s hats that I would often do in psychedelic velvet and one and two-tailed “dragon” hats. I suppose in hindsight the belittling was a bargaining tactic, but at the time it always made me feel like a hack…so I suppose it worked. I don’t recall exactly, but I probably sold the hats cheaper than I wanted to the people that demeaned me the most. Pretty pathetic, no?

 

Meanwhile, I’ve had a couple dreams that I was on Project Runway. It pretty much always goes the same way: I realize I’m on the show, and I have no business being there. I’m somewhat baffled as to how I even got on, but here I am trying to create fabulous fashion despite having little talent and no skill. Maybe this is what having multiple personalities is like? You suddenly ‘come to’ wondering “how the hell did this happen?” but you decide to play along because it’s more alarming to admit you have no idea which end is up.

 

 

Anyway, I’m on the show, and I’m a train wreck. I’m like Elisa, sewing everything by hand, only not nearly so well. And yet somehow I’ve made it through the first few eliminations, which is only making my stress worse! I know I have no business being there, yet somehow I am. Just typing this, a theme of “deep down feels like a total fraud” or some such thing is becoming apparent.

 

Meanwhile, and in my own defense, I do make a mean last-minute Halloween costume when called upon, although this is less about sewing than creative thinking. I used to be a manager, and as a relatively young manager, I enforced some arbitrary rules I thought were “fun.” For instance, you had to dress up on Halloween if it fell on a weekday. Sometimes when I watch “The Office” I feel a little uncomfortable because I think I was on the borderline of being Michael, only without the self-awareness. Again – and thanks to therapy – I’m fairly confident if in a management position again, I’d be a little less of a fruitcake.

 

Back to Halloween, if you worked for me (or for someone who worked for me. Oh yes! Believe it or not, at more than one company I made it well into middle management. Once upon a time, I was burning a trail to the top. Now, not so much, but perhaps more on that later. Or perhaps not…) Anyway, if you worked for me and you showed up without a costume on, I would fashion one out of what I could find, and I was not beneath tossing paper trash out of a black trash bag (just paper trash, I swear) and fashioning a “California Raisin” (a.k.a. lose five pounds of water weight in one afternoon) or a toilet paper mummy. Those were the days…

 

Meanwhile, to get started on the story of my original walkabout, in addition to the loser from the Howard Johnson’s pool previously mentioned, let me set the stage for my frame of mind. It was the summer of 1992, and I was 19 years old, and burning a hole through my “Achtung Baby” tape. I had just finished my freshman year at the University of California at Santa Cruz, and – long story short – I wasn’t going back. I had transferred to Emerson College in Boston to pursue a creative writing degree (how far off that path I’ve gotten in sixteen years!) and to be with my high school sweetheart.

 

At least that was the plan in June, when the school year ended. However, by early July it had become pretty darn clear that he was a pathological liar. I don’t know the clinical definition, but if pathological lying can be defined as lying when there was no need, and when the truth would be just fine, then that was David. Half the time he had me thinking I was going crazy, swearing that conversations had been had, postcards sent, or events occurred that I simply couldn’t recall.

 

When it all came out – including such revelations as the reason he always seemed to have a last-minute emergency on the rare occasion that I needed help in the form of him driving, was because he didn’t know how to drive – I remember sitting on my dad’s couch, looking at him, and thinking, “WHO ARE YOU!?” Seemingly everything had been fraudulent, deceitful, untrue, or a plain old lie. Worse, more than once he’d let me think I was losing my mind. Thus, it should come as no shock to you that despite the fact that I had rearranged my whole life to be with him, the relationship ended.

 

Needless to say, when you’re that age, it’s not uncommon to think that your first love is going to last forever, and the cold reality check hit me hard. I was pretty lost. I think I really believed that we would move to Boston (he had – allegedly – gotten into Berklee College of Music. He was a very, very talented musician and artist, so I have no doubt he had the potential and they would’ve been lucky to have him, I just don’t know if he ever actually bothered to fill out the admission forms) and live the rest of our lives together. With the end of our relationship, I felt completely lost in the world, and somehow the whole country seemed too small. Thus, when I met the douche bag at the pool and he put the idea of “finding myself” in Europe in my head, it seemed like a perfectly sane idea….

 

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