The Maestro

I know some famous people - people so famous you never heard of them. I’m friendly with an artist. I don’t get what everybody is looking at, and I’m not sure they do either, but there are plenty of them in line, ready to pay for it.

Some people don’t think much of him, but they don’t know him. That’s just the way some people are around here. If you’re good at anything, fuck you. You wrote a book? You made a movie? You think you’re somebody or other? Other is more like it. If you’re a creative type around here, you better be a looser if you expect to be loved.

This guy barely has to lift a finger. It’s true that he’s driven by his ego. Who wouldn’t be? He showed me a check. It was pretty old fashioned as moments between friends go. You don’t see many checks these days. It was like a relic – and no small relic at that.

His friends say he’s too cool. They accuse him of trying too hard, especially when they’re mad at him, which is usually when they can’t get enough. Despite being so cool, he has a lot of friends. This is because he isn’t cool at all. He’s as warm as toast. That’s what’s so cool. Who doesn’t love toast?

He told me, right to my face, that he hated sandwiches. Cheesesteaks, hoagies, combos, anything called a panini. He wants his food separate, which I can understand. He has never taken one bite of any sandwich I ever made, nor set foot in here, which is not to say I never fed him. We just eat at home and I keep the meat separate.

He stays home a lot. The truth is, this guy hates people. He hates them for the same reason he loves them, which is why they love him. And hate him. I call it Radical Ambivalence, which is a clinical term. Everybody wants to go too far, including him, which never works out. It’s what put Jesus on the cross. So my friend is like a shut-in, unless he’s surrounded by people who want to crucify him.

He spends a lot of time in his studio, up near where I go. A lot of people visit him there, from all over the world. It’s a magnet for oddballs and creative types who come to see what’s going on. I went and I couldn’t figure it all out. The actual work was going on someplace else, or so he said. He tried to explain it all to me and I said: if you say so. Then we took a nap and later I barbecued some dry-curried lamb, which I served with a remoulade, grilled eggplant, and corn on the cob.

I’ve known him since we were chimps, looking for women. He still wants nothing but love, which is the first thing he admits. It has little to do with sex. He’s very smart, and he assumes the same of you. He asks questions. You can imagine why we love him. He tests your ability to apprehend his meaning, his intentions held just out of reach. Or so you think. So you reach.

He’s convinced that I actually get it. This is where he’s delusional, at least in my case. I’m not cool enough or smart enough. Plus, I’m colorblind. I can stare at something for an hour and still not have a clue where blue ends and purple begins, which in my line aren’t colors you see very much. But it seems we’re both willing to ignore what I don’t see, which is the best thing about our relationship and maybe all there is to get.

Obesity

I have a certain loved one who's put on a few pounds, and I'm not talking about me. He tells me he's losing weight. Every time I see him he looks bigger, yet he drives the conversation by talking about how many pounds he's taken off. He's usually filling up a Kaiser roll while he's telling me.

My problem is: I love to feed him. This is true for everybody I love. In fact, when someone I love wants to hurt me, they’ll simply refuse my food, which hurts. I’m not alone here. Mothers all over the world understand my pain. Yet most of them have prevailed in their struggle to overcome rejection. Take a look around.

This isn’t so true in Italy, where conceit trumps all. Don’t get me wrong. They eat like pigs. But they’ll starve themselves back into their clothes so they can attract the opposite sex as long as life allows. The vaunted Italian diet involves bouts of extreme hunger, followed by an eating binge, which contributes to the storied Italian temperament. Add their mothers and you have a stereotype.

None of this is true in my family. My mother-in-law never cooked a meal in her life, unless she was on vacation and under duress. My own mother was always hiding the food, or doling it out in rations, like when she was a child during the Depression, forced to shop and cook three courses for 20 ingrates every day. She hated food.

In my family, I’m the anomaly, even though I’m completely normal, at least according to me. My in-laws think my cooking is quaint and somewhat eccentric, as if I enjoyed ironing and was able to deliver a perfect shirt. Whenever I cook for my in-laws I get the feeling a chicken must have in the farmer’s arms, all cozy as he pets my thigh.

On my side we have a lot of eaters - like the Depression is over from one day to the next. Overeating is not the acceptance of a mother’s love, but a continuous rebellion, which can’t be very healthy. One thing is for sure - nobody is losing much weight around here. And who’s in a position to think about it when it’s time for lunch?