Minneapolis, MN "music; drink me"

The grim interim between Christmas and New Years is upon us, a week of returning the failed gifts from estranged relatives, of counting the days before school resumes. And for me, a final state of limbo before I unite with the van, the road, and the small talk one only engages in with gas station attendants. It’s during this time of year that my attention is usually drawn towards a resolution, the wrapping paper of the New Year, carefully chosen merely to be crumpled and tossed aside by mid February.

The easy ones don’t apply. I don’t smoke. I don’t need to lose weight. I recently gave away 90% of the belongings I may have been placing too much importance on. I’m outside more than I am in front of a television. I don’t find myself overusing the word “like.” Regular drinking binges in the solitude of a hotel room seems like a Bukowski novel I’m unwilling to be a part of. I am sufficiently mediocre. Comfortably boring. But today a short, disgruntled call solidified my quest.

A fellow colleague phoned to vent about a gentleman who swims in the same industry pool. He’d be the one with the swimming trunks that always find themselves clung awkwardly mid thigh, revealing the bluish tint of skin you feel uncomfortable seeing but you're unable to pull away from. You wonder how he’s so comfortable being a close talker with no shirt on, how old he was when he got that tattoo of the flames surrounding a yin-yang. How is he married with kids and you are alone? That guy. The conversation revolved around That Guy officially breaching the echelon of annoyance and moving into nemesis territory.

Bingo.

I remembered a Klosterman short in which he discussed the importance of both having and identifying your own personal nemesis and archenemy, the unique differences of ones relationship with each.

“You kind of like your nemesis, despite the fact that you despise him. You will always have drinks with your nemesis. You would attend the funeral of your nemesis, and -- privately -- you might shed a tear over his or her passing. However, you would never choose to have a cocktail with your archenemy, unless you were attempting to spike the gin with arsenic. If you were to perish, your archenemy would dance on your grave, and then he'd burn down your house and molest your children. You hate your archenemy so much that you keep your hatred secret, because you do not want your archenemy to have the satisfaction of being hated.”

When I had originally read his book IV, it took all but three seconds and I knew exactly who mine would be. Now, two years later, I have neither. The dedicated hatred of my archenemy moved when she did.

So the quest begins for my new El Guapo. For some reason, I think they’ll be Texan.