Author Archives: Joel Derfner

Last night was the first night of the musical theater writing class I teach at NYU. All of my clothes were in the hamper, so I had to throw together an outfit at the last minute from whatever I could find; I ended up making very felicitous choices, and I looked really good.

After class, I got to E.S.’s apartment and we had the following conversation.

E.S.: You’re totally the hot professor.
Faustus: I do look good in this outfit, don’t I?
E.S.: All the girls probably loved you. And the boys loved you even more.
Faustus: There’s one girl in the class. Everybody else is a boy.
Pause.
E.S.: I absolutely forbid you to teach this class. You have to drop it.
Faustus: It’s okay. The boys are more your type than mine anyway.
E.S.: What, no tall blond Australians?
Faustus: If there were, do you really think I’d be here right now?

Just to be clear: as far as Johnny Depp’s Willy Wonka goes, it’s not so much the chocolate-making genius to which I relate as the tendency to cringe in fear and discomfort at all human contact.

Today this man and I went to see the remake of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and I loved it far more than I had imagined possible, because I am Willy Wonka as interpreted by Johnny Depp.

At least on the inside I am.

Minus, alas, the cheekbones.

Spring semester of my senior year of college, MIT’s Noam Chomsky, not only a brilliant political mind but also the father of modern linguistics (my field of study), decided to offer an undergraduate class. He had never done so before and he has never done so again. The class was open to students from other universities, so I decided to try it out. There were a dozen students there every Tuesday afternoon, listening to the man who had invented the field and who continued to be one of its chief innovators and pioneers. It was like hearing Darwin lecture, or Shakespeare. Every word out of his mouth was an epiphany.

But that was the semester I’d worked my schedule so that I only had class on Monday afternoon, so I had to drop the course.

This morning I actually said to a friend of mine–I still can’t quite believe that these words passed my lips–“I’m so depressed that William Rehnquist is dead.”

I just can’t wait to see what horror is visited upon us in his place.

Oh, well. At least he suffered.

Okay, I was totally lying. I didn’t catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. The instant I put the cap on, I actually ran to the mirror to see how I looked.

Which was, as I have said, stunningly cute.

Two days ago, I jokingly grabbed E.S.’s baseball cap and put it backwards on my own head.

Then I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and was stunned by how cute I looked.

I have not taken the cap off since then.

I feel so old-school.

Wait, I don’t even know what that means.

E.S.’s birthday is this Sunday, and I have been secretly planning to take him on a picnic. It should be taken as a measure of my dedication to this man that I have intended this picnic to take place in Brooklyn.

However, E.S. revealed to me today that his parents are coming into town for his birthday and will be taking us out to their favorite Turkish restaurant. “I wish you’d told me,” I said crossly.

“What do you mean?” he said. “I was talking to them on the phone about it two days ago right in front of you.”

“Oh, was that when you were shrieking at the top of your lungs while I was trying to catch up on back episodes of Six Feet Under?”

I told him about the picnic, and we decided to have it on Monday instead. “The one problem,” I pointed out, “is that the cupcakes I was going to get Saturday night from Sweet Sugar Sunshine would be dry and crusty by Monday. So we can’t have cupcakes.”

E.S. looked disappointed. “We can’t get them Monday morning?”

“Closed for Labor Day.”

His face brightened. “Maybe I could get a sexy redhead to bake me some cupcakes for my birthday.”

I was already going to go to Brooklyn; I wasn’t about to bake cupcakes too. “Where are you going to find somebody like that?” I asked, one eyebrow raised in scorn.

He looked at me as if this were the stupidest question on earth. “Duh. On the internet, of course.”

“Fine,” I snapped. “I’ll be celebrating your birthday with Trainer Bob.”

Then we went back to his place and looked at apartments to rent together.

Today, in what will certainly be a vain effort to vary my workout routine, I joined PUSH, a service that sends its members workout videos customized to their needs (as expressed in a series of questionnaires on the site). I signed up because one of the people doing the videos is the love of my life, Trainer Bob from The Biggest Loser. The monthly fee seemed quite low, especially in exchange for regular deliveries of DVDs on which Trainer Bob will undoubtedly say things like, “Faustus, I love you and can’t live without you” and “Faustus, give me three more crunches and I will fuck you silly.”

The PUSH multiple-choice questionnaires were remarkably detailed and surprisingly interesting, if less than perfectly grammatical. Naturally, they asked about height, weight, and current level of activity, but there were also questions like, “Love Life: Hitched/Separated/Divorced/Just Dating/Other” and “How would you describe your sense of humor? Good Clean Fun. Rated G./Clever bodily-function jokes=good./More mature.Risque is OK if smart./No holds Barred. NC-17.” Among the options for “What cardio do you already do?” were “Sex with people I know” and “Sex with people I don’t know.” I answered all the questions as if I were not in a relationship, because of course the most important quality in a trainer is that he make me think I can sleep with him if I work hard enough, and if Trainer Bob knows I have a boyfriend he will quash that fantasy as quickly as possible. He’s too honorable by half, but I don’t mind. It’s part of why he is my soul mate.

E.S., by the way, hates my crush on Trainer Bob. It became a bone of contention between us near the end of last season. Trainer Bob would appear on screen and I would say things like, “Trainer Bob is so great,” my voice full of love, and E.S. would huff, “What are you doing here, then? Go marry Trainer Bob.”

When I finished the questionnaires today, I got to the “My PUSHTrainer” section, in which I was asked if I wanted PUSH to assign me a trainer based on my profile or if I wanted to pick my own. The options were “Bob–tough love,” “Jon–sweet and funny,” and “Kristin–cute with no…”. I was unable to manipulate the screen to reveal what it was Kristin had none of, though in my fantasy she is “Kristin–cute with nosferatu,” but it didn’t matter because I knew I was going to get Bob. I indicated that PUSH should assign me a trainer, supremely confident in the result.

And I got Jon.

I was appalled. I went to the “trainers” page on the site and clicked “to see Jon in Action!” He certainly seemed like a competent trainer, but he is not the love of my life. What if PUSH is right, though, and Trainer Bob and I are not truly suited for each other? I do not want videos on which Jon says things like, “Faustus, I love you and can’t live without you” and “Faustus, give me three more crunches and I will fuck you silly,” but that seems to be what I’m in for. I went back and unchecked “Sex with people I don’t know,” thinking that maybe Trainer Bob goes for the wholesome type, but it didn’t make any difference. I even changed my sense of humor from “No holds Barred” to “Good Clean Fun,” on the theory that perhaps Trainer Bob is a humorless romantic, which would be sad but tolerable given his abs. No dice.

I’ve decided to go with Jon for the first month and see what happens. Who knows? He might awaken fantasies in me I wasn’t even aware I had, and prove to be my true love more thoroughly than Trainer Bob ever could. I could respond to his voice in ways my body wasn’t even aware existed, and we could live together in blissful happiness for the rest of our days.

Except he’s obviously a bottom.

I’m totally demanding Bob.

Here is a stained-glass window I made for E.S. at Camp Camp.

Clearly I need to quit my day job and go work for Tiffany.