This is the longest post ever. You might want to read it in installments. Or not at all. Whatever.
Originally, this was a post about my oldest and dearest friend Ari Hyman. That’s his name: Ari Hyman. Remember it. One day, he’ll be a famous director.
Anyway, this post was all about him and his habit of sneaking into newscasts under assumed identities (see below—he does it quite often, this wasn’t the first time) …
…but then something occurred to me. How about if, instead of writing about friends, I let them write about me. I mean, after all, whenever they read the blog and the many kind comments that follow, they always say things like “If only they knew…” and “I should tell them…” Fair enough, so today’s the day I open the floor to a few of the people who know me best. Do your worst.
First up, Grant Stoddard. Writer. Friend. Brit.
(NOTE: This picture was taken after I spent all day furnishing an APT with stuff we’d found on the street for Grant.)
—Yes, he stuck it out with me in Finland, and yes, he spent 16 hours helping me move furniture this weekend for an assignment I got for New York Magazine, but being friends with Jake is never really fun at the time. I mean, sometimes it is, but mostly it’s just awesome in hindsight. Whenever I say "remember when we did..." he can take over and enthrall an audience with a ripping yarn with one of our tumultuous adventures. They’re great stories, but at the time I wanted to feed him his own heart.
—Jake professes to being more famous than me at least once every time we hang out, often without provocation. Apparently he was on some TV show that I never watched. Incidentally, this was in 1997. To put that in context, that is probably before you had an email address. Seems ancient, right?
—Jake has gotten me lots of work, took me on a press trip around Europe for free, sings my praises to anyone who will listen, and yet has never read one paragraph of my writing. I think he does it to spite me. Even when he makes me money, it’s like he does it just to prove a point.
—He is also taller than me too. I think that’s done out of spite as well.
—Jake is a sensitive flower. But like a flower, he needs attention or else he will die. Advice; Don’t try and email your friends and family to help you out when you are stuck in Helsinki after having lost your passport. Instead, you need to be telling Jake what a great guy he is. Laugh when he exposes himself for like the 50th time and make oooohs and aaaaahs when he pulls something monstrous out of his nostril. Otherwise, as far as he’s concerned, you’re not being appreciative.
—Jake is obsessed with everything Jake. His hair, his dick, everything. In fact this very website is a testament to his unwavering self-obsession. No one is MAKING him rub gold glitter into his junk to show it to the world. I mean, for Christ’s sake! What the hell are you doing?
Next Erin Ness. Photo editor. Poker player. Friend.
(NOTE: As Erin was too busy to make a list, I decided to call her and type out her answers while she talked)
—“First time I met you, after telling my exciting poker story (she went to the World Series of Poker and thinks it’s the coolest thing ever) you said, ‘Wow, you must really love yourself?’ isn’t that like the pot calling the kettle black.”
—“You criticize my fashion sense. You say I wear mom jeans. All I have to say is Orange jumpsuit.”
—“You say I have clammy hands. And I don’t. I don’t have clammy hands… I’m starting to realize, you do a lot of insulting. I think you think it’s funny.”
—“Everything I DO or say, I have to worry about ending up in your blog. You’re typing this now, I know you are, I can hear it in the background.”
—“You hardly have a job, so you call me 50 times a day to update me on everything that goes on. Even right now, you’re badgering me to come up with list. I have things to do.”
—“The window of opportunity to talk about myself is only like 30 seconds. I don’t know if it’s A.D.D. or your ego, but we talk ‘Jake’ a lot.”
Now Carrie Bronstein, er, Rathman now. Older sister. Mother of Oscar. Friend.
(NOTE: See the face mask in her hand? I had a cough and she wanted me to wear it around Oscar. It was a cough. Come on.)
—God forbid there is a lull in the conversation (Jake cannot take any form of silence), he’ll just shake your hand. I don’t know why he does it, but it’s not uncommon for him to shake someone’s hands every time they stop talking just cause he doesn’t have anything else to say. It might be a compulsion. It has only been through careful mediation that he’s been able to curb this habit some, allowing him and my husband to now talk to one another, since the hand shake thing was the bane of my husband' existence.
—I am grateful that Jake has working arms so that he can continuously take photos of himself at arms length. Otherwise that job might fall on me. I would guess that he does this on average at least twenty times a day.
—Jake has a habit of adding his name to the gifts I buy. Fair enough, he chips in. But then when the gift getter asks where WE go it, he gets frustrated if I answer, even though HE would have no idea.
—Jake should carry mints or get the retainer removed from his mouth.
Lastly Adam Winer. FHM Editor. Former subordinate—currrent superior. Best Week Ever talking head. Friend.
—He had his back waxed, but rather than leave the strips of hair-filled wax at the grooming place he brought them to the office. Then left them on my desk. Nice.
—He once spent $150 on a new pair of shoes, then he decided he didn’t look good in them. So he gives them to me—even though I was vaguely indifferent to them and they were two sizes too large. Then he asked me to pay for them. Thanks.
—He broke up with his girlfriend and went into such an emotional funk that I had to spend two months doing most of his work for him.
—He e-mails me pictures of his semi-erect penis then gets confused when I say that I don't want to look at them. Where’s the confusion there? Strange.
—Despite being a "professional writer," he spells at approximately a fifth grade level, so helping him with a story means spending a third of my time scanning the text for words he’s sounded out. Like the time he wrote about Spring Break bikini contests and referred to college students as "collage students" throughout the 2000 word piece. Great.
—He makes fun of my father who is paraplegic. Fun.
—He asks me to write this entry for his blog, despite the fact that I’m already behind on three features for a publication that is read by more than three people read and actually pays me money.
—He once got an all-expense paid trip to Jamaica to film an MTV reality show, then called every day because he was bored. He’d sit on the line for prolonged periods of time and demand that I entertain him, despite the fact that he was the one in the tropical island paradise, and I was the one in New York doing extra work because he was gone. Cool.
—He once decided he liked my desk more than his own, so he announced would be taking it over on March 3, 2002. He was so adamant about this that he actually wrote it on the desk in question (“Dear Bitch, this desk is property of Jake Bronstein, clear out by March 3rd, 2002 or suffer the consequences.”) This is despite the fact that he has no power over office seating. I’d like to note that as of May 2, 2005, he is still not sitting in this desk. Sucker.
Well there you have it, the world’s longest post. Wont happen often. Sorry about that. Also, my apologies to my many friends who will no doubt want to add to this list in the days ahead. Maybe you could just kick me in the nuts instead. And I think you now know more about me than you ever wanted to, so I can put an end to that theme. Ho-ray. It was liberating in the beginning, dull in the middle and painful at the end. Oh well.
