FREE! PLEASE TAKE

This is free writing -- I wrote it for free, and that's what it costs you to read it. You may have, at some point, read or seen something that I was paid to write -- you may have even paid to do it, and, in some cases, I apologize for that. This is different.

This is a place to put short pieces that don't really fit anywhere else -- a writer's Island of Misfit Toys, which we all have, but usually it's hidden in a desktop folder marked "Miscellaneous Stuff" or jammed into an Eddie Murphy movie. In either case, it's not doing what writing is supposed to do: engage and entertain people.

I hope this engages and entertains you, for a few minutes at a time. If you like it, keep checking it out -- and tell your friends that it's worth every penny.

TED 

"If you want someone to grab a beer with, I may not be that guy," Cruz said at a Republican debate in October. “But if you want someone to drive you home, I will get the job done and I will get you home."

Hi there! Good evening! My name’s Ted. Wilkommen to mein auto.  I “ought-o” warn you, though, that the music selection is not up for debate. But if it was, I’m pretty sure we’d still end up listening to Smooth Country. Ha-ha, just joshing. I’m very sure. I’m an unbelievable debater, ut patet per the fact that I’ve convinced you that you aren’t allowed to choose the music. Of course you are! You’re paying for the ride! Listen to whatever you want: Smooth Country, Christian, or Country.

Look at your faces! You’re, like, “Uh-oh! Who is this guy? Some kind of Borat?!” Well not to worry: my jokes stop where decency starts. So relax, buckle up, and enjoy “Cruz-ing” to your destination.

You gals have fun tonight? Great, that’s great. And you know, it’s wonderful that you didn’t try to drive yourselves home. So many young ladies of your generational cohort lack that kind of personal responsibility, I’ve found. Not that I know many, per se, but you hear things. You hear things, and you form opinions, and I’m one who believes that an opinion, once formed, is un-amendable, like our Constitution should’ve been.

Speaking of which, you’ll find copies of our founding documents in the seat back pockets.  I think it’s important to remember where we came from so that we know where we want to go back to. Yes, I just ended a sentence with a preposition, and, no, I’ve never been to prison. Ha-ha! See, I’ve been told my intellect can be intimidating, so I like to pepper my speech with colloquialisms and shibboleths to put people at ease. I hope it’s working on y’all, ‘cause Daddy’s driving for tips!

Anyhoo, that was quite a busy club I picked you up from. Quite the scene. I’m guessing there was some imbibing that took place this evening? And young lady in the rear passenger side, that’s not a guess. Sister got sloppy, am I right, friends? Maybe had a couple too many, maybe danced suggestively and polyamorously? Oh, you all did? I must say I find that troubling.

Well, yes, technically I guess it’s quite literally your “fucking business,” but I’ll leave the profanity to the profane and the pornography to the New York City artists and simply posit that it is a fact undeniable that the family is the bedrock of our society, and every cocktail spilled on the floor of a seedy night club stains that hallowed ground. Every dance floor dry hump erodes it. Every booty shake is a seismic event, rattling the windows of our nation’s ideal, heteronormal, two-parent, two-child home. So I ask you ladies-

Okay, this traffic is horrible, and Waze wants me to take the expressway. You good with that? Super. And look at this: wide open. Even if it’s a little longer, I always like to keep moving forward. That’s just how I am. High school, had to get to Princeton. Then – boom! – onto Harvard Law. Forward, Ted, forward. Clerking for Rehnquist, getting elected Senator, running for President, winning the Iowa caucus…

Yep, that’s me. Corn King of the low information evangelicals. And then, well, you know the story: we eventually got to the states with black people and lesbians and dangerous percentages of college graduates. One thing led to another, Heidi invested my Super PAC money…a squidge too aggressively, bless her heart, it happens, no anger. Well, there was a little anger. Things were said.

But forward I go, as I always have. And can I tell you, I’ve never been more at peace. I mean, I genuinely like driving, it’s a hoot meeting new people, and the flexible hours help keep me out of the house “at least four nights a week,” per Heidi. Bless her heart.

How’s the temperature back there? You want me to turn up the- Whoa! Okay, okay, check out this guy in the Camry. Don’t all stare at him! Just be cool. You generally see a lot of turbans in this part of town? I know I don’t. Do me a favor and read me Mohamed’s license plate so I can call it in. Really? And what part of protecting America do you object to? You see, ladies, just like the many abortions you’ve no doubt enjoyed, freedom isn’t free. Men like me have to fight for it – either with military service or blistering oratory, the two being of equal manliness. And do you know how we fight for your freedom?

Oh go back to sleep, rear passenger side, I’m not talking about walls. Okay, actually, I am, in a sense – but not big, beautiful, border walls.  Freedom requires smaller walls – like wells, sort of – around everyone who doesn’t have the correct American beliefs that Jesus had. That’s how you protect freedom: by limiting it, aggressively, for millions of wrong-thinking people.

Well, center back seat, that’s easy. An example of  “wrong thinking” would be putting on those hooker heels earlier tonight and going, “Yeah, these look good.” But here I go, blazing away with my verbal six-shooters. You just got me all riled up, and I went back into campaign mode. Mea culpa. So… what’s up with Serial? Do you listen to it? Is it good?

…And here we are at your destination. You’re right, rear driver’s side, it’s not your home. It’s a police station, and I’m sure you all deserve to be here for something: wacky weed, oral copulation, just let the desk sergeant know. I’m going to go hit the Civic Center. There’s a concert letting out soon, and if I time it right I bet I can rip two fares, easy.

And ladies, remember, no matter what our differences, I believe we can – no, we must – reach across the ideological divide and find common ground… in giving each other five stars. Good night, and God bl- whup! There’s a call. Gotta jam.

 

Secrets of Magic, Revealed!

You may call me the Hooded Magician, and yes, I know it’s more of a Florida Marlins hat than a hood, but you get the idea. And see? I’m tilting my head down so the brim covers my face, for effect. A magical, hooded effect.

If I wasn’t wearing this hood—hat, whatever—you might recognize me from the community of magic. Not the actual Community of Magic, which has to approve you, and it’s all politics—it’s like, you’re friends with AbracaDebra or you’re not—but the more general community of magic (i.e., normal, cool people who live in a community and do magic, even if they’re not officially “licensed” by Her Royal Highness and her court of ass-kissers).

Shunned (and, I think, feared) by the magic establishment, the Hooded Magician has worked in the shadows. Two shadows, specifically: a nine-year-old’s birthday party last year, and Baubles, where I do a little show in the back on Tuesday nights. It’s not “official,” so don’t call and ask them about it, but I pay for my drinks and they know I’m doing it.

Anyway, while working in those aforementioned shadows, I have been a cypher, a mystery, and also a freelance Web designer. But now, tired of being held back by the Community of Magic (the official one), I am coming into the light to destroy them by breaking the Magician’s Code and revealing the secrets of magic’s greatest illusions, which I’m pretty sure I figured out.

Levitating Woman

A sleeping woman appears to rise from a table. The magician passes a metal ring over her, proving the absence of wires. Then she is lowered back to the table.

A thin hydraulic platform, painted black to match the Magician’s clothes, raises and lowers the woman. It’s controlled by hidden floor pedals, and an S-shaped arm connects the platform to the lifting mechanism, allowing the metal ring to appear to pass smoothly over the woman. So, basically, it’s a table that goes up and down. Hey, AbracaDebra, you want to impress me? Make that mole on your face disappear.

Tearing/Repairing a Dollar Bill

The Magician folds a dollar bill twice, then tears off a corner of the bill and throws the torn piece away. When he unfolds the bill, it has no holes in it.

Though the Magician appears to rip off a corner of the bill, he only makes a small tear, then folds the flap back and out of sight. After pretending to throw away the “torn” piece, he secretly flips the bent flap back into place as he unfolds the bill, so that the bill appears to be intact. It really is ripped, though, as a pack of nine-year-olds will be happy to point out to you. Pointing and laughing, like little assholes.

Dove from a Hat

An empty hat is shown to the audience, then placed on a table. The Magician waves his arms above the hat and, moments later, a small dove flies out of it.

Haven’t done this one myself, but magic, like Web design, is all about problem solving, so I have a pretty good guess. While showing the hat to the audience—what is known as “misdirection”—the Magician palms a dove egg that is (important) just about to hatch. As he places the hat on the table, he drops the egg inside, where it cracks on impact, hatching a baby dove. The dove, looking upward for its mother, sees the arm-waving Magician and instantly learns how to fly.

Cups and Balls

Using three cups, the Magician does a series of maneuvers, making the balls appear, pass through the bottoms of the cups, jump from cup to cup, and disappear.

Cups and Balls is one of the foundational tricks in magic. Harry Houdini believed that no one could be considered an accomplished magician until he or she had mastered it. And it’s hard to master, especially with a bunch of kids yelling that they saw you put the ball in the cup before the trick started. Or that “Emma’s parents couldn’t afford AbracaDebra!” You can find Cups and Balls pretty much anywhere, but you have to practice. A lot. Like, more than you think you need to.

Disappearing Elephant

A handler leads an elephant onto a stage and centers the beast between an Ionic column and a Doric column. When the Magician says the magic words, “Colossus, begone!” the elephant disappears.

Knowing the difference between a Doric and an Ionic column is not critical to being a magician; however, it can set you apart as a Web designer. As for the reveal, it has been said that there is no difference between making small things and large things disappear—but come on, we’re talking about an elephant. That’s pretty freaking big. So the key to the trick must be that, in the days leading up to the show, every single audience member has been approached by the Magician at home or at work, where they were hypnotized and commanded not to see elephants after hearing the phrase, “Colossus, begone!” (Note: I, personally, would also command them to regain their elephant-seeing abilities after hearing the phrase, “Colossus, return!” Also, when they hear the word “applesauce,” maybe they should feel compelled to hire a new Web-site designer. And when they hear “AbracaDebra,” they should throw up.)

Saw a Woman in Half

A woman is placed into a rectangular box, which is then shut. The Magician takes a large tree saw and “cuts” the woman, and the box, in half. The two sections of the box are pushed back together and a sheet is draped over them. When the sheet is removed, the box is opened, and the woman steps out, whole.

This is going to shock you: there are actually two women—and they are identical twins. (Note: the illusion requires that one of the twins hate the other very, very much. Also, it can only be done once.)

AbracaDebra Keeps Getting Hired for Birthday Parties and Corporate Events

A not-as-hot-as-she-thinks-she-is Magician, with a laughably cluttered home page, keeps booking work in the Greater Tampa area, at the expense of other Magicians.

This is the biggest secret in the magic community, and if anyone can figure it out please let me know.

The Vanishing Handkerchief

The Magician places an ordinary handkerchief into her hand, then closes it. When she opens her hand again, the handkerchief has disappeared.

Wait, how did she do that? I mean, the handkerchief was there, and now it’s not. Where did it go? I was looking at her legs, which aren’t, like, the best, but I guess they’re all right for a magician. But what happened to that handkerchief? And why does she smell so nice? And how come she never remembers my name? (It’s not like she doesn’t recognize me—I’m always wearing the same hat!) O.K., hold on—WHERE DID THAT RABBIT COME FROM? Holy crap, AbracaDebra is so good at magic.

Illustration: Library of Congress.

Originally published in Shouts & Murmurs, NewYorker.com, March 21, 2013

And the Nominees Are...

Now that awards season has begun again, it is time for the Academy of Kirk Rudell Arts & Not-Very-Good-At-Sciences to recognize and honor his finest work from the previous year. And last year was one of exceptional performances by Kirk Rudell. The range of his acting in various social situations was so broad, yet so packed with nuance, that it is difficult to choose just one stand-out. For the Academy’s consideration, then, are five finalists for Performance of the Year, Kirk Rudell:

The Rainbow Loom
When his daughter shows him a bracelet of colored rubber bands and asks what he thinks of the “pattern” she has “invented,” a father must reach deep into his soul – or risk breaking her heart. While Rudell shows us that he sees the rainbow loom bracelet for what it is – a simple, somewhat half-assed pattern that is clearly not as good as the one Clementine gave her dad, which has FOUR starburst clusters woven into it – he gives his daughter the unearned validation she has come to crave and expect when he manages to say, with utter conviction, “Wow. That’s...that’s really good.”

Pipe Dream
A homeowner (Rudell), and a plumber (played by either “Roger” or “Raja,” it was hard to understand him), stand over a clogged toilet – two men from very different worlds who have come together to bear witness to a tragedy. And Rudell, better known throughout his career for being able to convey a reasonable level of intelligence, convincingly acts like a complete fucking idiot as he insists that he has no idea how the toilet got clogged with flushable baby wipes and cat litter.

Grease Monkeys!
A vulnerable Everyman’s car won’t start, and he is thrown into a roiling cauldron of self-doubt and also missing a morning of work to deal with it. While the entire performance garnered raves, the scene in which Rudell confronts the repair estimate is a tour de force. The auto mechanic (“Melky,” or possibly “Mikey”) has offered a number that Rudell assumes is high, just because. The tension is palpable, and Rudell lets it build before he looks down at the engine of his car, understanding absolutely nothing about how it works, and adopts the vaguely-Southern accent that is his default when dealing with people who can build and fix things. “Ah’m not en- TIRE-ly sure ‘bout the plugs, m’self,” he says. And suddenly the tension is shifted onto Melky/Mikey, who, confused now about what sort of a man Rudell is – handy? Southern-ish? alarmingly insecure? – knocks $35 off the bill.

The Second Most Dangerous Game
A man (Rudell) spends an excruciatingly long drive upstate trying to convince his girlfriend that he didn’t mean to imply that he finds Lindsay Lohan still a little bit hot, in an I-mean-obviously-she’s-broken-but-still-kind-of-what’s-the-word-not- intriguing-but-look-it’s-not-like-I’d-want-to-have-dinner-with-her-or-anything- because-what-would-we-talk-about-certainly-not-all-the-things-you-and-I-can-talk- about-I’m-just-saying-objectively-there-are-things-about-her-that-are-sexy-insofar- as-our-culture-defines-that-word-plus-sometimes-the-drama-is-exciting-even-if- you-know-it’s-totally-unhealthy-I-love-you. A tragic, heartbreaking character who Rudell seems to be asking us to pity as well as despise.

Garbo Walks
A man, traveling alone, lands at LAX and approaches a mob of paparazzi... who are not waiting for him, because he is not famous. A lesser actor, a healthier human being, would have just walked past the photographers, but Rudell made the fascinating choice to stop, to pull on a baseball hat, and then to affect an air of “Uch, not this again” while refusing to make eye contact with the paparazzi. “You may not recognize me,” he indicated with every annoyed step, “but now you’re thinking that maybe you should.” His complete immersion in the role was all the more stunning for the fact that it was a performance for no one. Not one of the paparazzi was fooled. But genius demands no audience. That’s an expression, right? 

Instructions for the Babysitter

• ·      First of all, make yourself at home, help yourself to anything in the fridge, and have fun with Cooper.
• ·      Jenny and I should be home no later than 11pm – our date nights aren’t as crazy as they used to be (when we used to just call them “nights”!)
• ·      Cooper’s bedtime is 8pm, but if he’s behaving (which he usually does!) you can stretch it to 8:30.
• ·      Cooper is allowed to watch tv before bed. He may tell you he’s watched all of the Paranormal Activity movies. He hasn’t. Don’t let him.
• ·      Emergency numbers are by the phone. The most important one is Cooper’s pediatrician. Not that you’re going to need it, because nothing is going to happen, but if something does, just leave a message for whoever’s on call tonight. (Then call us, obviously!)
• ·      If Dr. Mansour calls you back, that’s great. We love him. If it’s Dr. Stein, he can be…tricky. Like one night last year Cooper had a fever, and Stein called me back – and right away I hear restaurant noise in the background, so I obviously have his full attention (not) – and he tells me that it “isn’t an emergency” and that fever care “is covered on our web site.” Ooh, thanks. My kid can’t sleep, and you’re handing me off to Seth the Cartoon Stethoscope? Yeah, no. So if you get Stein (which you won’t, because there won’t be any emergencies) maybe say “vomiting blood” to make him put the wine list down, then tell him the real stuff.
• ·      Our cell numbers are by the phone, as well. Do not hesitate to call if you have any questions or concerns. I know you may think, “I don’t want to interrupt their date night.” But lately the only thing you’d be interrupting is us fighting about kindergarten applications. Please call!
• ·      Regarding the fridge: again, help yourself to anything except don’t open the crisper drawer on the right. Don’t open it and don’t adjust the humidity setting, which is precisely 55%.
• ·      Don’t be discouraged by the rut that Jenny and I seem to be in. It’s just that, as a relationship evolves, it changes. “Ripens” is a word someone told us recently, and when you think of it that way, it’s a good thing. The fruit that’s all passion and unscheduled date nights? That falls off the tree early and gets pooped on by bears. The fruit that learns to be a respectful partnership lasts. Ripens.
• ·      Cooper may tell you his name is Evelyn. It’s not. That’s his middle name, which was also Jenny’s dad’s name. We did it to make the old man cool with us getting married after Jenny was already knocked up, but we agreed it was never going to be, like, used. So guess who started calling our son “Evelyn” after her dad died? Doesn’t sound like a very respectful partnership thing to do, does it? But guess who’s an “insensitive asshole” for thinking that your son introducing himself as Evelyn at the Branches School evaluation didn’t, you know, help? Guess why it was suggested we could use some date nights?
• ·      Wait a minute, you go to the Branches School, don’t you? Do you like it? Do you know Pamela in Admissions?
• ·      Wait a minute, is Pamela your mom? Now that’s a crazy coincidence!
• ·      After Cooper has gone to bed (by 8:30, tops!) feel free to watch anything on tv. Don’t bother checking out our DVR, though – we probably watch totally different shows. And I’m not sure why that Spanish woman’s exercise infomercial got recorded, or how it ended up in the Top Gear folder, or why it’s paused at “Las Nalgas,” which apparently means “The Butt.”
• ·      You may find Cooper to be precocious. He’s always been very verbal, and while he plays well in groups, he likes to be what is called a “pivot.” But he also loves imaginary play and is very task-oriented, so we’re sure you’ll have fun with him!
• ·      Would you feel comfortable mentioning that last bit to your mom tomorrow? No pressure, it’s just that I’m sure Jenny and I will be in a better place once this school crap is settled.
• ·      Did we discuss your rate yet? We were thinking $20/hour. Let me know if that’s…enough.
• ·      If you do open the crisper drawer, which would be odd because I think I’ve been pretty clear about you not doing that, you will note that I buy a special kind of kale called “Brain Fucker.”
• ·      Please CLOSE THE GODDAMN DRAWER
• ·      See you later! Have fun!

Everest

Expedition Journal of the First Man Who Wasn’t on the List to 

Successfully Get into that Hot New Club Downtown

7:30 PM: Tonight is the night that I make my attempt on Everest, the hottest, most exclusive new club downtown that I read about in Time Out. My research indicates that it is located at Varick and Hester, but it is unmarked on the outside and, apparently, indescribably amazing on the inside, even though (or because?) the space used to be a toddler gym. I am not on the list, so I must take every possible precaution if I am to have the kind of night that I dreamed of having when I moved to New York nine years ago and not just another blackout session at Ryan’s Ale House.

8:15 PM: I awaken from my “disco nap” feeling refreshed and ready to begin preparations.

8:20 PM: Not knowing when I’ll next have access to clean drinking water, I fill a bottle and force myself to chug it. The water hitting my empty stomach reminds me that I have not eaten dinner, but I accept the rumbling as a totem of my hunger to succeed. It will drive me through any obstacle tonight. It will get me into the club. I need this hunger.

8:22 PM: I eat a Clif Mojo bar. I’m still a little hungry, though, so all of the above still applies.

8:25 PM: I floss until my gums bleed, then set my Sonicare to “pot scrubber.” When I am done, there is no trace of the Clif Mojo bar. There is no trace of anything I have ever eaten in my life. My teeth are 32 blank slates on which new adventures will soon be written.

8:40 PM: Shower. I do to my body what I did to my teeth. I will have to throw the washcloth away, I think.

9:00 PM: Time to gear up. I give thanks to whatever higher power gave Zappos the higher power to get these raw denim jeans to me overnight. They are stiff and strong, like social armor for my lower body. As I pull on a pre-distressed, “vintage” Ramones t-shirt and confirm that it is similar to one from my Pinterest board, Cool People in Clubs (private), I take a moment to think about the ones I am leaving behind: the bros and dudes who are content to spend their nights bar-crawling the well-worn trails of the Upper West Side. Tonight I will party in the thin air that they will never breathe, and I will carry with me their undreamt dreams. Also some gum, lip balm and a condom.

9:25 PM: I grab my motorcycle jacket and motorcycle boots, neither of which will ever be on a motorcycle, but tonight that is my secret from the City.

9:28 PM: My right boot hits the sidewalk – a small step for a man, a giant leap for that same man, whose recent mole removal (benign) reminded him that he only will only live once, so why can’t that life be special and maybe spent with obscure European royalty? It can. It will. Let’s do this.

9:38 PM: On the train downtown, I check Maps and my chest tightens as I realize that Varick doesn’t cross Hester. Like, at all. This has been a small but perhaps critical oversight in my planning. I get out at Varick and Canal and make my way up the urine-soaked stairs to street level. I know that Everest is downtown, and that is where I am. I shall walk until I find it.

10:10 PM: Eating a slice of pizza. Have been walking for 30 minutes, and need to replenish my carbohydrates. Also, I now understand why they are called “motorcycle boots” and not “walking around boots.” While I apply an icy cold can of soda to my feet, I Google image search “Everest” and, predictably, find a lot of pictures of the mountain. Next I try “club Everest” and get more mountain pictures, plus an Ecuadoran soccer team. I pound the table, startling a nearby pigeon. Then I try “club Everest New York” and retrieve a piece of promising data: a photo of Sean Lennon leaving Everest just last week. I enlarge the photo and study the background for clues as to its location, but it’s hard to make out any details in the glare of the Chinese writing on all of the buildings.

10:20 PM: On a hunch, I am walking towards Chinatown. I have jammed pizza napkins in my boots for extra cushioning, and I am wondering – as I often have – whether, on balance, Sean Lennon is lucky. I mean, on the one hand, his dad died tragically when he was little. But on the other, he’s really rich and famous even though he doesn’t seem to do anything. Would he trade the fame and money to have, like, a regular alive dad? I think he would. The blocks slide past...

11:00 PM: I believe I have found Everest! Stumbled upon a long line of very hip-looking people snaking out of an unmarked storefront. I slide into the line and shuffle forward with the rest,  allowing myself a moment to smile at the adventure I am about to have and wondering if, by the end of it, any of these strangers will have become friends.

11:08 PM: It was a cronut bakery. I ate two and was able to replace the blood- soaked pizza napkins in my boots with clean cronut paper towels. Walking again.

11:09 PM: It’s getting late, and as the raw denim does a cheese grater thing to my inner thighs I am aware that I am redlining on my ability to dance tonight. Desperate, I Google “club Everest New York address” and discover, immediately, that I have been within two blocks of the club for the past forty minutes. I now know what it is to feel exactly happy and sad.

11:20 PM: This is it. Clusters of girls in short skirts and guys in tight shirts. The low throb of bass behind a tinted door. I am so close! And yet here is the most dangerous part of my journey, for I must traverse the red velvet rope, which is guarded by a headset-wearing giant who holds a list – a list that I am not on. How to make my approach? The choice is critical.

11:21 PM: I walk straight up and tell him I’m on the list. It’s a high-risk play, and the feeling is dizzying. When he says he can’t find my name, I act very “annoyed.” Uch, I hate it when this happens, which it rarely does, because I am always on lists is what I indicate with my eyebrows as I ask him to check the list again. He does and (of course) still can’t find my name. So...we’ve reached a decision point for you is what I indicate with a shrug. I am a guy who gets in is what I indicate with my motorcycle jacket and boots and Ramones t-shirt and raw denim jeans. I am a guy who gets in.

11:22 PM: I have not gotten in. The door guy said it was “list only,” so I have retreated to a base camp on the opposite corner, where I am pretending to text Sean Lennon and indicating frustration at this unexpected delay.

11:28 PM: Another opportunity presents itself: a group of five girls and two guys, moving with purpose towards the velvet rope. They look like list people. I must act quickly.

11:30 PM: Back at base camp. I attempted to walk in with the group, but the door guy blocked me and asked them, “Is he with you?” They turned, and I smiled at them -- a smile that clearly explained I’m supposed to be in there, too, but there’s been some sort of misunderstanding. If it were me on the list and you trying to get in, I would totally hook you up. “No,” said one of them. “He’s not.” Then they disappeared inside. I am now fake-texting again.

11:42 PM: I attempt another head-on assault. Taking advantage of a lull outside the club, I sidle up to the rope, my body language indicating submission and camaraderie. We are both working men, I want the door guy to understand. We spend our lives serving at the whim of others, enforcing rules that we didn’t write and may not even agree with. I attempt to make small talk – “Crazy here, huh? It never lets up for you” – so that he knows I see him as more than just a means to an end, a rope-lifter. I am not a guy who gets in, I indicate with my foot as it stubs out an imaginary cigarette. I’m sorry I lied to you about that earlier, with that shrug thing. It was wrong of me, and I understand why you turned me away, because in that moment I was just like all the others – the jaded, spoiled “list people,” the ones who barely look at you as they strut past, night after night. Well I won’t be here night after night. This is my one night: that is my truth, and I put it in your hands, to do with as you like. Brother.

11:43 PM: What a fucking dick. Johnny Steroid on his little power trip. So how’s it work? You finish your shift at Wendy’s and just keep the headset on? This is what I indicate as I do a pull-up under some construction scaffolding on the adjacent corner at Base Camp Two. I wish the motorcycle jacket was made of a more breathable fabric. I think I am getting dangerously dehydrated.

12:07 AM: Attempt to bribe door guy. It goes poorly.

12:25 AM: Have given up. I am tired and hungry and thirsty and humiliated, and I will need help pulling these boots off my swollen, bloody feet. But first I will go uptown to Ryan’s Ale House and drink Funky Monkey pilsner until I throw up on the foosball table.

12:25 AM (addendum): The most beautiful woman in the world is walking towards me. Each of her parts is like the dictionary entry for what that part should look like. My broken mind struggles to figure out how to indicate that I belong on the same planet as her. I see a Ducati motorcycle parked in the street and think, finally, Thank God for this motorcycle jacket and boots. I swing a leg over and straddle the bike, as if it is mine. I believe she glances at me as she walks past. I’m not sure because I’m looking away, into a vague middle distance, like a man who cannot be tamed. After she has passed, I hear a voice, clear and strong in the night: “HEY! WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING ON MY BIKE?!”

12:26 AM: The Ducati owner has me cornered at Base Camp Two. Startled by his voice, I tried to get off the motorcycle, but my chafed thighs and battered stump of a foot failed to clear the seat. So, basically, I kicked his bike over. There is nowhere to run – and, really, no physical ability for me to run at this point. The only thing left to do is stand and fight.

12:31 AM: I am tasting my own blood. I was, I think, expecting a little more circling and taunting before the punching started. Now, Ducati guy is gone, and Ryan’s Ale House feels very, very far away. I think I just need to close my eyes for a bit...

12:38 AM: Awakened by the door guy shaking my shoulder. He asks if I’m okay and if he can help me – maybe call me a cab? I look at him through my non-swollen eye. “You can let me in,” I croak through split lips. He smiles a little. Brother.

12:39 AM: The door guy has helped me across the street. He lifts the red velvet rope for me – for me! – and invites me in. He also tells me I should ask for David at the bar, because David can give me some ice wrapped in a towel. I give him a nod, indicating thank you thank you thank you thank you. I walk through the door.

12:40 AM: Dear God it’s more beautiful than I –

End of journal.

Adapted from "Everest 2013 Expedition Journal," originally published in Shouts & Murmurs, NewYorker.com, July 9, 2013

36 Hours in My House

An unpublished story from the archive of the New York Times Travel section.

Nestled between identical townhouses, behind the service road, on the West Creek side of The Creeks, is my house. Often overlooked, due to the preponderance of identical Model II-B houses on the back (or “damp”) slope of West Creek - and also, perhaps, due to its proximity to the septic pumping station - my house can nevertheless provide a weekend of cultural and gastronomic delights to the adventurous traveler.




Friday
5 p.m.
1. Sightseeing with Jed
There’s no better way to explore the neighborhood around my house than grabbing the Wet Wipes and taking Jed for a walk. Ignore the growling – Jed’s a good dog, he’s just getting old (my wife had him before she had me - you'll probably hear her say that a few times this weekend.) Head upwind from the septic pumping station and enjoy the yard signs for various Republican city council members. As you approach the “flats” of West Creek, take note of the Model II-A houses, which are basically the same as mine but have detached garages – especially popular is the Christmas display at “That Asshole’s House” (42 West Creek Road, seasonal only). Be sure to turn around at the guard gate, though, or you’ll be in East Creek, which has Model I houses that are so big I’m pretty sure you can see them from space. And even though we pay our HOA dues in West Creek, and we’re human beings, God help you if you accidentally step onto East Creek.

6 p.m.
2. Art Walk
Back at my house, a small but vibrant art scene thrives in the hallway between the dining room and the guest bathroom. Below the smoke detector is a watercolor I did in college that my wife has called, “kind of creepy, isn’t it?” Continuing on, you’ll pass early works from my children, Michael and Audrey. Now fourteen and twelve, you can see traces of their current sullenness in these collages and turkey hand tracings. Be sure to leave plenty of time to take in the world’s largest private collection of my wife’s self-portraits. If you’re Facebook friends with her, you’ve already seen them. And if you’re Andrew from her office, you seem to really, really like them. A lot.

8 p.m.
3. That’s-a-Pizza!
You won’t go hungry in my house, where the kitchen provides snacks 24/7, although I’d rather you didn’t snack within 90 minutes of dinner, because, come on, you’re not going to die. Whether you choose the casual breakfast nook or the more formal dining room (we’ll just scoot the pile of mail off the table and fold those towels, which we’ve been meaning to do anyway), you will be treated to a surprisingly eclectic and international menu. Start with the homemade pizza, featuring a light and tasty disc of crust that has been thawed for hours, then microwaved for thirty seconds, then fifteen more seconds, then covered with sauce, cheese, and your choice of toppings (except mushrooms, because Audrey says she’s allergic) and finished with a secret blend of spices (insiders claim one of them is cinnamon!) Not to be missed.

10 p.m.
4. Cinema Paradise, Yo
Thanks to a recent renovation of the family room, my house now features what CNET crowned “the Most Underrated Mid-Range Flat Screen TV” of 2011 – you’ve never experienced movie night like this before! As long as you’re okay watching Sherlock Holmes: Game of Shadows again, because the wife and kids always are. No worries if you’re not, because a second screen is just a short walk away, in the master bedroom, where we swore we’d never put a TV, because a bedroom is for two things – sleeping and hoo-ha – but after nine years of marriage I guess it’s for three things.

Saturday
8 a.m.
5. A Taste of Paris
Though breakfast options abound, nothing will fuel you up for a busy day better than my famous French toast. Slices of white bread, battered to perfection, sprinkled with a secret blend of spices (cinnamon!), then cooked also to perfection. I know I should make it with challah bread, and I wish I could, but the local market doesn’t have much of an ethnic foods section.

9:30 a.m.
6. Swim, Batter-Batter!

After a hearty breakfast, it’s time to burn some calories driving Michael to baseball practice and Audrey to swimming, while my wife goes to her Pilates class. We’ve talked about divvying up the kid-driving on weekends, but yes, the baseball field is pretty close to the sparkling new rec center pool (guest fee, $8), and no, I don’t know what it’s like to lose your body giving birth twice.

1 p.m.
7. Lunch on a Roll
If you dare to venture off the interstate, the drive back from baseball and swimming can be a scenic delight. While Michael and Audrey sit silently in the back, their smell filling the car, their brains practically leaking into their headphones, dig into the bag of almonds you brought from the house and zone out to the trees whizzing by. About halfway home is an office park that I've been told "might be" architecturally "pretty good." It is certainly shiny. Though no tours are offered, the view from the parking lot is free – and worth every penny.

5 p.m.
8. Walking the Dog Again
Yeah, some days you’ve got to kind of tug that last bit of shit out of Jed’s fur. That’s why you bring the Wet Wipes.

7 p.m.
9. Far East, Not So Far
Sometimes at my house, you go to the food; but sometimes, you can let the food come to you. The menu drawer in the kitchen – next to the cabinet door that doesn’t close all the way because there’s something wrong with the hinge – offers a host of delivery possibilities. Try the Jade Garden, which features authentic Chinese, Japanese and Thai cuisine. Close your eyes as you bite into the mu shu pork, yellowtail sushi or shrimp pad thai, and you’ll swear you were in Beijing, Tokyo or the capital of Thailand. All without leaving the comfort of my house.

11:30 p.m.
10. Live from New York...
Theater lovers won’t want to miss Michael’s interpretation of Saturday Night Live, which is performed during commercial breaks. He does impressions of characters from the show, then creates elaborate scenes where they interact with characters of his own creation – it’s a hoot. My wife and I are pretty sure he’s high, but it’s really the best Michael we get all week, so we just kind of roll with it.

Sunday

8 a.m.
11. A Peaceful Farewell
Long before the rest of the house is awake, call the Pilates studio to confirm that my wife actually had a class yesterday. Then pour yourself a coffee and the half-sip of orange juice that one of the kids thoughtfully left in the carton and head out to the back deck. This is my house as the casual visitor never gets to see it – birds chirping over the occasional low hum of the septic pumping station; soft breeze rippling the sagging badminton net; a neighbor’s wife gardening in a bikini top, as if in answer to a silent prayer. In this moment, my house is truly a destination.

If You Go
Make sure to make a left at the entrance to The Creeks. The guards for East Creek seriously are dicks.