YOU asked for it
This morning (way too early I might add) I received a voicemail from a Baylor friend of mine with whom I reconnected a few nights ago. I was going to come up with a clever name for him for the blog, but after today's phone call, he has now been dubbed Narc, not for his ability to sniff out drugs but for the flower which bears his name.
I met Narc 11 years ago in Brooks Hall (was it Brooks?), staring at his reflection in the mirror he usually kept hidden under his bed. The reflection he saw, however, was not a physical one (he would've been appalled by the NoZe he saw in the mirror); instead, it reflected his intellect, and he loved to ponder that. His best friend and roommate was my boyfriend at the time, and Narc, though unabashedly enamoured with me, kept his feelings to himself (literally) and fell in love with his own reflection--well, at least the one in his magic mirror.
Unlike the Greek youth who also shares his name, Narc's Echo never made advances toward him (at least not in real life--maybe in his fantasy world); nevertheless, he spurned his feelings for her anyway, and this is why he's forced to live a life of solitude, pining away at the shrine he's made for her in his darkroom and retreating back to his mirrored intellect, his safe ZoNe.
Now a fledgling photographer (trading the pool for a lens), Narc only uses his French degree to woo women into bed with lines like, "Quel type de fromage vous fait veut à minuit," and while he generally succeeds (heaven knows why), he still returns home in the wee hours of the morning to sleep near his Echo shrine with mirror in hand. It's a sight that would bring tears to one's eyes: poor thing in fetal position, mirror curled up beneath his runny NoZe, one hand reaching out to touch the sorority buttons he stole from her, candid snapshots, Breakfast at Tiffany's poster (because she reminds him of Holly), and the pilfered gum wrappers he thought might still contain a drop of her saliva--a sad, sad sight.
We had dinner on Tuesday and then spent the evening drinking Caucasians and watching Groundhog's Day and KOTH Season 6 while listening to the Kimday Mix and quoting lines from Lebowski (for a second there, Prax, it was like hanging out with you). Like the Black Widow that I am, I got him sufficiently snockered with smooth tasting drinks and tucked him in on my couch (wait a minute, Prax, are you sure it wasn't you?). Nothing of Crankvalue to report, but it was nice to reconnect with an old friend. I planned to post something, but there wasn't much to report that would fit the crankiness of the blog; I mean it was just your typical evening of drinks and Lebowski, and my readers are growing weary of such tales. I guess I could've posted about all of the friends we had in common: my anger infested ex is now a pastor (WTF is up with THAT??); another friend finally came out and then went right back into the closet, but his career is taking off, so I guess that's a plus; another friend quit writing Penthouse letters and is now successful in politics somewhere (don't worry Mouse, I won't come forward with your secret). I guess that would've made for an interesting post, but I've been too busy to do so.
This morning, however, when I received the complaint via voicemail that I hadn't written anything about him on my blog, I felt the need to dub him with his new name and give him his own little post. Sorry, Narc, it doesn't live up to the third leg of the trifecta you see in me (vitriolic humor)--I haven't had my espresso yet.
Smooches, dear, and I hope to hang out again soon! :-)
I met Narc 11 years ago in Brooks Hall (was it Brooks?), staring at his reflection in the mirror he usually kept hidden under his bed. The reflection he saw, however, was not a physical one (he would've been appalled by the NoZe he saw in the mirror); instead, it reflected his intellect, and he loved to ponder that. His best friend and roommate was my boyfriend at the time, and Narc, though unabashedly enamoured with me, kept his feelings to himself (literally) and fell in love with his own reflection--well, at least the one in his magic mirror.
Unlike the Greek youth who also shares his name, Narc's Echo never made advances toward him (at least not in real life--maybe in his fantasy world); nevertheless, he spurned his feelings for her anyway, and this is why he's forced to live a life of solitude, pining away at the shrine he's made for her in his darkroom and retreating back to his mirrored intellect, his safe ZoNe.
Now a fledgling photographer (trading the pool for a lens), Narc only uses his French degree to woo women into bed with lines like, "Quel type de fromage vous fait veut à minuit," and while he generally succeeds (heaven knows why), he still returns home in the wee hours of the morning to sleep near his Echo shrine with mirror in hand. It's a sight that would bring tears to one's eyes: poor thing in fetal position, mirror curled up beneath his runny NoZe, one hand reaching out to touch the sorority buttons he stole from her, candid snapshots, Breakfast at Tiffany's poster (because she reminds him of Holly), and the pilfered gum wrappers he thought might still contain a drop of her saliva--a sad, sad sight.
We had dinner on Tuesday and then spent the evening drinking Caucasians and watching Groundhog's Day and KOTH Season 6 while listening to the Kimday Mix and quoting lines from Lebowski (for a second there, Prax, it was like hanging out with you). Like the Black Widow that I am, I got him sufficiently snockered with smooth tasting drinks and tucked him in on my couch (wait a minute, Prax, are you sure it wasn't you?). Nothing of Crankvalue to report, but it was nice to reconnect with an old friend. I planned to post something, but there wasn't much to report that would fit the crankiness of the blog; I mean it was just your typical evening of drinks and Lebowski, and my readers are growing weary of such tales. I guess I could've posted about all of the friends we had in common: my anger infested ex is now a pastor (WTF is up with THAT??); another friend finally came out and then went right back into the closet, but his career is taking off, so I guess that's a plus; another friend quit writing Penthouse letters and is now successful in politics somewhere (don't worry Mouse, I won't come forward with your secret). I guess that would've made for an interesting post, but I've been too busy to do so.
This morning, however, when I received the complaint via voicemail that I hadn't written anything about him on my blog, I felt the need to dub him with his new name and give him his own little post. Sorry, Narc, it doesn't live up to the third leg of the trifecta you see in me (vitriolic humor)--I haven't had my espresso yet.
Smooches, dear, and I hope to hang out again soon! :-)
Labels: Narc
posted by Cranky at 2:07 PM
1 Comments:
Narc? At least I don't blog. Though you misquote my intriguing French, I cannot deny the cheesy subject matter. My 'complaint' was more of a curious inquiry pursuant to Cranky's promise - made over some deceptively sweet but highly intoxicating cocktail - that she would have at me on her blog. Though it came a couple days late, Cranky keeps her word. I certainly can't complain now. I am missing you already, Cranky!
- Narc
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