Author Archives: Joel Derfner

If you are going to be in New York next weekend, you should come to my show, Blood and Other Humours, with music by me and book and lyrics by my brilliant collaborator L.N. (as opposed to my other brilliant collaborator N.F.). The show is being produced by the NYU Department of Vocal Performance with three terrific actors.

Performances are at the Provincetown Playhouse, 133 MacDougal Street (between 3rd and 4th), Thursday the 25th at 8:00, Friday the 26th at 8:00, Saturday the 27th at 3:00 and 8:00, and Sunday the 28th at 3:00.

If you want to come, call 212.998.5281 to get a $10 ticket ($5 with NYU ID). If you want to come but can’t swing the ticket price, e-mail me and I’ll see what I can do.

I should clarify, by the way, that the attack of generalized fear and panic and self-loathing I referred to two days ago lasted about an afternoon, and now I’m over it. In fact, in my saner hours (which are in the majority most times) I understand exactly why he’s with me: I’m fabulous.

But it’s good to know E.S. recognizes that fact in moments when I can’t, and responds brilliantly.

One of the most important features of my apartment is that there is a Vitamin Shoppe across the street. Since I have body image issues like nobody’s business, it is vital to me that I have ready access to a source of protein bars, loathsome sugar-free chocolate, and the like.

More than its proximity, however, what makes this Vitamin Shoppe so attractive is that the assistant manager has a big crush on me. He knows I have a boyfriend, and besides, though he’s cute as a button, he isn’t really my type, so it’s not so much the romantic potential that makes this so wonderful.

No, it’s the fact that he gives me free stuff whenever I buy anything.

When I arrive home after making purchases, I always find an extra or three of whatever it is that I’ve bought. Or I’ll look at the receipt and realize he’s given me a huge discount. At the end of last year, he manipulated my member account so that it seemed as if I’d bought a great deal more than I actually had during the year; this led to my receiving a certificate for $290 worth of goods (instead of the $50 or so to which I was entitled).

As you can imagine, I understand fully the value of this treasure. However, a few months ago I made the mistake of telling E.S. about it, and he instantly got jealous. He knew that the assistant manager of the Vitamin Shoppe was no threat to him; nevertheless, it clearly rankled.

So yesterday, after I suggested going to the Vitamin Shoppe to get some loathsome sugar-free chocolate and E.S. said something about seeing my boyfriend while I was there, I decided to put his concerns to rest and show him that he had nothing to worry about. The assistant manager already knew I had a boyfriend, so I figured no harm would be done.

Oh, how wrong I was.

As soon as we walked in the door, the assistant manager’s face darkened to the emotional shade of a tsunami. The glare he threw at E.S. would have killed a lab rat or possibly a guinea pig; I’m surprised, in fact, that the digestive enzymes on the shelf behind him didn’t burst unaided into flames. The “hi” he spit at me brought the temperature of the room down to about 0 Kelvin, and, as E.S. pointed out afterwards, if he could have peed on the loathsome sugar-free chocolate we bought before handing it to us, he would have. E.S. and I left, thankful to have escaped unscathed.

But now I have a big problem.

It’s not so much that the encounter itself unnerved me, though it did, at least slightly.

It’s just that I’m clearly never going to get free stuff from the Vitamin Shoppe ever again.

Yesterday afternoon, I had an attack of generalized fear and panic and self-loathing unmatched in recent memory. E.S. and I had the following exchange:

FAUSTUS (in tears): I don’t understand why you’re with me.
E.S.: You don’t need to understand.

Then we watched four episodes of Six Feet Under on HBO on Demand.

What on earth could I have done in a former life to deserve such a man in this one?

If you have never experienced the Chick Tracts before, you must go here at once.

If you enjoy that sample, you can go here for a list of all of them. Here are some more of my favorites. Talk about hours and hours of fun.

And it’s cheaper than a ticket to The Passion of the Christ.

It is I, Faustus. I have “finished” the show I was writing that opens in three weeks. (“Finished” is in quotes because it’s a lie.) However, I couldn’t let David solidify his position in my empire any further, so I figured it was time to come back.

Last night, for reasons passing understanding, my Tivo failed to record Angel. After troubling deaf heaven with my bootless cries (though if heaven is deaf, I suppose it doesn’t really matter whether one’s cries are bootful or not), I sat on the couch, defeated, watching Law & Order with my brother’s girlfriend L.G. During a commercial break we had the following conversation.

FAUSTUS: [Sigh.]
L.G.: Are you coming down from your rage?
FAUSTUS: It’s more like sinking into a pit of despair.

Pause.

L.G.: That’s probably an improvement.

This is David. I am still here. Actually, I am not still here, but I am here enough.

Today, I got into a conversation with a man who was concerned about the widespread problem of hooligans stealing metal objects from public places and selling them for scrap. Trash bins, owl roosts, street signs: nothing is safe. Also, someone in his dorm stole a headstone from a graveyard once.

I sat there and made clucking noises he may have interpreted as disgust that people would do such things, but I was really thinking about going to pick up my new eyeglasses, which I promptly did.

Hey, everyone, I got new eyeglasses!

I hope no one steals them and sells them for scrap.

David here still. I am not actually certain for how long I agreed to do this, but I am getting comfortable, so Faustus may have to pry me out with a crowbar.

Today, I did the unthinkable. Note that what I consider unthinkable may not run parallel to the opinions of the rest of the world, for my transgression was to sneak away from my work and down to Starbucks to read a couple of chapters of a novel and consume a chocolate chunk cookie.

My hideously long to-do list and the South Beach Diet have conspired to transform an event that was once commonplace in my life into a guilty pleasure.

Anyway, I did not begin this story to berate myself (too much). I wanted to mention something I saw.

As I sat reading, one of those middle-aged couples that could only exist in New York City came in. You know the sort: they looked like they had just escaped either from a Star Trek convention or a mental institution, sort of funny-looking and not all there. The thing was, they were so deliriously happy, I could not help but observe them.

It is still I, David, proprietor of Upside-down Hippopotamus. The Upside-down Hippopotamus that is currently squatting over The Search for Love in Manhattan. I am not sure one can squat while one is upside-down, but the hippopotamus part provides for delectable imagery. Faustus is still off doing whatever it is he does, and although I cannot hope to fill but one of his shoes (and perhaps a mitten), I shall labor to keep his place alive and kicking.

And perhaps I will even turn it over to him when he comes back.

Yesterday, I wrote about a new computer game I have bought: Lux. Though an avalanche of work hangs over my head like the Sword of Damocles (put those metaphors in a blender and hit puree!), I have devoted a significant amount of time over the past two days to playing with people over the Internet.

The problem is that I suck at it, or at least, I am on an extended learning curve. But I am getting better, and it is actually teaching me a lot about my real life. In Lux (which is almost identical to Risk, if you are familiar with that war game), the results of one

Greetings, my little chickadees. It is I, David, the deposed blog emperor of The Search for Love in Manhattan, who never stopped scheming and plotting a triumphant return from exile. As usual, you are all commanded to visit (and link to) my own web log, Upside-down Hippopotamus. Or else.

Oh yes, or else.

The topic of the day is, appropriately, war. It is everywhere: hostilities in the Middle East are far from over, Haiti is a nightmare, and the upcoming elections promise to be a bloodbath of figurative but epic proportions.

On the homefront, I have not only taken over Faustus