Sleep Talkin' Man (13 page)

The little people are taking over!
Better break out that secret stash of rainbow pencils.
That’ll keep them busy for a while.

The zero is the same. It always will be. It never changes. Zero is zero…. One? Huh, he’s just a lonely cunt.

If I can’t have legs, none of you can have legs. Simple as that.

I can juggle babies. It’s the baby juggle!
It’s just so tricky when they’re on fire.
One up, two … oops! I need another baby.
Another baby!

GYM: nothing more than Goddamn Yucky Masochism.

I don’t wanna go down the slide.
It’s too high. Far too high.
Wheeeeeeeeeeee! … I feel sick now.

It’s not about believing or not believing in God. No, no, no.
It’s about not giving a crap.

Fluffy bunny + twitchy nose + big ears = great stew.

I’m gonna kick you so hard, your nuts are gonna look like Christmas balls. Now give me back my wings!
And the tiara.

I’ll have you, Blackbeard. And then I’ll have your beard. Mmmm, I love stealing beards.
Be the Pirate Beard of the Bearded Sea.
Arrrgggh. And all of you follicly challenged people can be on MY crew. And everyone with beards will quake with fear!

OK: Jump position! Goddamn it, why do the jellyfish always get it wrong?
“Oh, I’ve got my own built-in parachute.”
So fucking what, get the basics right, dickhead. Otherwise, you’re out of the free-form team. Bastards.

Of course I’m wearing my thunder pants.
It’s Thursday. Friday is frilly pants day.
Don’t forget!

I’m not angry with you. I’m just pissed off you were classed as a viable embryo.

Tell me, what are vampires wearing this season? Anyone? Anyone?!

I know I said I love you, but I love me more. Accept your position in my life.

Stupid-fucking-cunty-bollocks-expialidocious

Oh, hamsters don’t give love like guinea pigs. No, no. Guinea pigs are a love package, all wrapped up in little squeaks.

I’ve got a new show, and you’re gonna be the star. It’s called, “People I Like to Throw Under the Bus.”

I call this cake Death By Icing.

Ninjas, they’re just pussies in pajamas. Samurais, now that’s where it’s at.
They’re the fucking bollocks.

This is a totally sparkly tiara moment!

“Now it’s time to suspend reality … from its fucking neck.”

“Just imagine,” I often think to myself excitedly, “what Adam would be capable of if he could summon STM at will. WOW!” Other times, I think, “Just imagine what Adam would be capable of if he could summon STM at will. UGH!” In a sense, STM demonstrates the extreme best and worst that Adam has to offer. He’s Adam at his most clever and creative, and he’s Adam at his most narcissistic and unscrupulous. Both of these extremes, I think, can be explained by the same phenomenon: lack of inhibition.

Because, really, that’s all STM is: what remains, or is allowed to emerge, when all of the inhibitions that govern so many of our behaviors are stripped away. First of all, you get purely unfettered creativity. With no fear of failure, no concern for consequences, no judgmental internal
editor, the mind is free to fly and allow for the best of itself.

But let’s not forget, inhibitions do us at least as much good as harm. Sympathy, empathy, and morality—in short, our conscience—act as inhibitors against an entire focus on the self. STM is all about me me me. He takes what he wants, does what he wants, says what he wants, with no limitations imposed by the consideration of others. Such freedom allows for a capacity for cruelty that would make most of us shudder.

And this seems to bring us full circle. Who else do you think of when I say “unfettered creativity, self-absorption, capacity for cruelty”? Yes, children! Here we are, back at the theory that STM is basically a child, with an adult’s vocabulary and knowledge of the world.

I can’t help but wonder what sort of world we would live in if everyone’s inhibitions were stripped away. Imagine our entire global society made up of STMs. Would we be so much more scientifically, technologically, artistically, culturally advanced than we are now? Or, would we
each be so busy wallowing in our own awesomeness and joyfully delivering cutting put-downs that we wouldn’t have gotten around to inventing the wheel?

TOP TEN

STM Insults

10
“It’s easy to confuse your ass and your face. They’re basically a hole that spews shit.”

9
“It’s amazing how you can smell so bad, but still be alive.”

8
“Why don’t you stand in fuck up corner. You can stay there ’til, I don’t know, I-don’t-give-a-shit-about-you ’o clock.”

7
“I’d rather be afflicted with permanently infected hairy ass grapes than be subjected to another minute of your drivel.”

6
“Listen to you? I’d rather listen to the sound of me sucking out the juices of a corpse through its anal sphincter.”

5
“Scientists in the future will completely struggle to work out how you were ever classified as an intelligent life form.”

4
“You know, I really think you should audition for Britain’s Got Talent … at being a cunt. You’re a shoo-in for a winner.”

3
“Watching you think is like watching a cat shovel shit with two broken paws. Painful, but I just can’t stop watching.”

2
“You, sir, are the used sock on a teenager’s floor. Nothing more.”

1
“I’m sure you’ll be thrilled and ecstatic at the thought of going out with me. But look at it from my point of view: Leeches attached to my testicles and a mass of flesh-eating caterpillars and ants over the rest of my body, gorging themselves on my flesh. A slow and ultimately painful death. So I hope you can see my point of view. It’ll be a no to going out with you. Now run along and poison somebody else’s life.”

Harder is NOT a good safe word.

“That’s the problem with the food cupboard. There’s too many places for zombies to hide.”

Letter to Sleep Talkin’ Man

It’s around two a.m. and suddenly I am wide awake (or so I think). I sit up quickly, squint my eyes to see where I am, and then start walking around the room picking things up and examining them. Then I turn to my partner and, holding up an object for him to see, say, “Look at this, we have exactly the same one at home!” He tells me to get back in bed, that I’m sleepwalking, but I ignore him. “No, REALLY, look at this, they have all the same shit that we do … and they put it in exactly the same places!”

Matt C.

Warwick, RI

“I got to make myself some gin. Lots and lots of gin. Gin helps … everything.”

One might think that alcohol would bring out the STM in Adam. Both states—asleep and inebriated—are times when people tend to be free of inhibitions, so it would be logical to assume that the same subconscious personality might emerge in Adam during each. Not so. Drunk Adam is cheerful, soppy, and downright adorable.

As I’ve mentioned, a side perk of having a recorder going every night is that I occasionally catch stuff other than sleep talking, such as Adam on an inebriated roll. Here is an excerpt from a typical Drunk Adam monologue, in which I was already in bed and he’s just come back late from an evening out with new clients. You’ll need to imagine this in an English accent with wild swings of modulation and volume:

“I have been told by somebody I have met FOUR OR FIVE HOURS AGO what a wonderful amazing woman I married.” (I ask, “Well, how would they know?”) “Because I TALKED about you FOR HOURS! I TOLD them how you make me FEEL, what you DO for me, how amazing you are with OTHER PEOPLE, and ANIMALS, and you’re just YAAAAAY! … And, ummm … what was I talking about? …”

And so on, for the next twenty minutes. This is a pretty good representation of almost every conversation we have on the rare occasions when Adam is drunk.

And yet, there may very well be a germ of commonality between STM and Drunk Adam. Case in point:

Gin, so extolled in the quote above, played a noteworthy role in our wedding. It was the night before the big event. The last of our out-of-town guests had drifted off to their hotel rooms, I’d sequestered myself with my matron of honor to paint my nails and do other pre-wedding girlie things, and as the midnight hour struck, Adam
had the sudden nausea-inducing realization that he had not given a moment’s thought to his speech for the big day. He dashed to his room and grabbed some hotel stationery and pens, and went in search of a bright comfortable place to work. Ah, the hotel bar, perfect! Before he knew it, the friendly bartender had placed before the groom-to-be a nice fresh gin and tonic, on the house. This turned out to be the first of many free-of-charge G & T’s the bartender would bestow unto Adam that night. Getting himself steadily sloshed, Adam delved, he delved deep, for the perfect words with which he would convey to all of our loved ones the overwhelming joy and passion in his heart on this most meaningful of days. And thus he began writing his wedding speech in the only writing implements he had been able to dig up, his five-year-old daughter’s coloring markers. Bolstered by gin—and the ability to change hue every time he needed fresh inspiration—Adam composed the most touching, most hilarious, most goddamn kick-ass speech I have heard at a wedding, ever. Segueing seamlessly between heartfelt displays of emotion
and parody of his loved ones (his opening, for example, is a reference to my well known, over developed passion for organization; my wedding planning spreadsheet was a fourteen-tabbed display of shock and awe), he had everyone gasping with laughter, and crying into their napkins. It went, in part:

Having lived with Karen, it is impossible not to pick up on her many intense and infectious traits. For me in this moment, it would be, most notably, the spreadsheet. At first viewed with dim regard as the tool of necessity for the gray accountant, I have since been known to stare in awe at the filtering of data, the formation of formulas, and the ebb and flow of our ever-mutating to-do list. And so it came to pass that my speech was born in a spreadsheet.

The speech, as my father explained to me, should be simple. Mention your wife, thank your mother. Mention your new in-laws, thank your mother. Mention your kids, thank your mother. The other important thing to remember is to avoid the minefields of inappropriate comments. So, in this spirit, I will try to avoid bringing up that mother-in-law is an anagram of Woman Hitler, and how excited I am at having new in-laws, especially ones that live 3,500 miles away.

Patti and Skip: Today your daughter has taken on a husband. Before you run out of the room screaming with unbridled joy at your release, I want to thank you. Not simply for today, but for your continued help, support, and advice. I only

knew you for, quite literally, five minutes when I asked your permission to marry your daughter. Little did either of you know, this would lead to her immigration to a tiny island of ex-colonial powers and strange accents. For that, we must thank the Department of Homeland Security.

Mum and Dad: How can I ever thank you enough. Ah yes, by moving out of your home. Seriously, you have been an incredible support to me. When faced with an adult child moving back with a fiancée in tow, numerous children sleeping over on a regular basis, losing the sole use of mum’s car, and feeding the five thousand, never once was I questioned, never a raised eyebrow, always an “of course” and “what more can I do.” I salute you.